Page 101 of Nobody's Fool

In sum, I had to be careful that the money didn’t cloud my vision.

A young man sees me staring at the club entrance. He walks past me without so much as a nod and starts to unlock the door.

“Buenos días,” I say.

I speak fluent Spanish. Not as well as Osorio speaks English, but pretty close. I took it in high school like a lot of American youth and learned very little. But after my experience here, after Anna, I developed a sudden desire to master Spanish. You’d probably attribute this to some kind of perverse reaction to trauma, offer up some sort of pat psychological explanation for my need to learn the language of the country that had caused me such angst. You’d be right. It’s pretty much that simple, I guess. Or maybe a part of me knew that I would one day return to find the answer.

I’m getting very deep today.

The young man—I would say he’s somewhere between twenty and twenty-five—nods.

“I used to come here,” I say in Spanish. “When I visited here twenty-two years ago.”

He does not look impressed.

“Do you know if anyone is still around from those days?” I ask.

“My grandfather maybe.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“The Santa Maria cemetery in Mijas,” the young man says. He shakes his head. “Twenty-two years ago.” He chuckles. “Didn’t Franco rule this country then?”

Great. I spent years mastering Spanish so I could understand all the nuance of a sarcastic kid.

I try to find the old apartment building where it all went down. It’s gone now, along with all the others, replaced with newer high-rises. Good riddance, I guess, though part of me hoped that it wasstill there and I could convince Osorio to get his lab guys in there and swab every bit of it in search of… well, now I know it wasn’t blood, so what’s the point?

I head back to the beach and look for some place that doesn’t look too touristy. I order two dishes—the lightly breaded boquerones with tomatoes and the house paella, which is unlike anything we peasant Americans think of as paella. I probably shouldn’t, but it would be almost criminal to enjoy these delicacies without a glass of Rioja Blanco from the Viura grape. So I order one of those too.

I call Molly. She answers in a singsong voice. Again it’s not just that we are staying in a five-star hotel in Spain. It’s the money.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“On the Balinese bed.”

“The same one?”

“We haven’t moved much.”

“How’s Henry?”

“He’s napping. Or should I say, he’s having a siesta.”

“It’s like you’re half Spanish already.”

“I know, right? I’m also drinking something called a Tinto de Verano.”

“What’s that?”

“Heaven.”

A call breaks in. I explain to Molly that it’s Osorio and switch over.

“Come back,” Osorio says.

I pay the check and hurry toward the station. Osorio brings me to a room that they probably use for interrogations. Thick binders are piled on the table. Lots of them. On the cover are the wordsFOTOS DE DETENIDOS. I don’t need my Spanish mastery to figure out what that means.

“How are they categorized?” I ask.

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