Free Lonesome Point by Ian Vasquez Page A

something to eat, please. The food here is too exceptional to pass up and I’m paying, so eat.”
    Patrick waved the invitation away. “I’m not hungry. I’ll need another drink now, though, that’s for sure.”
    One martini later, Oscar had polished his plate and they went for a walk along the concourse of the strip mall. Oscar lit a Montecristo, admiring the smoke rings he sent up into the air. “This is some heat for February, eh?”
    “Unseasonable.” Patrick walked, hands in pocket.
    “What will the hurricane season bring, I wonder? News this morning said fourteen named storms this season. Four will be major hurricanes, but you know how that goes, those forecasts, always inaccurate. I remember in ’92, right before Andrew, I told my wife, ‘This heat, it must mean something’s cooking.’ Then, boom, next day the birds begin to fly off, my cat starts to behave strangely, and the next thing, I’m driving to the office and on the radio they’re saying the hurricane will hit, the hurricane will hit, landfall expected in two days.”
    Patrick said, “I’m beginning to feel a different kind of heat at the moment. Oscar, about Freddy Robinson … Massani?”
    “We are tracking that storm named Massani, don’t you worry. As of today, he is merely hovering offshore. Let me tell you, though, your secretary that left, what’s-her-name Morales?”
    “Gloria Morales.”
    “Mrs. Morales is under investigation by the election commission. This we know for sure.”
    “So it’s official now. Still, we shouldn’t have anything to fear. She has no reason to talk. If she talks, she doesn’t get her next severance check, she knows that.”
    “They’re turning the screws on her. They must know she was only a small part. She’s naming names. Already they’re threatening to interview some of your campaign staff.” Oscar motioned for them to veer left, into a breezeway. “We’ll go around to the back. I want to show you the barbershop.”
    Patrick stopped, looked at Oscar nonchalantly puffing his cigar. “How come it’s only now I’m hearing about all this? About Massani and the extent of this fucking Morales investigation?”
    Oscar turned, lowering the cigar. All traces of good humor gone. “Listen to me. Will you listen to me?”
    “I’m listening, Oscar, but you’re truly not telling me squat.”
    Patrick started walking again. Oscar touched him on the shoulder. “Do not worry. We are on the case.”
    “You’ve been keeping me in the dark. I don’t appreciate that. When did you find out the probe went south?”
    “A few days ago. But I’m on the case, mi amigo , believe me.”
    “I need to know absolutely everything about my campaign so I don’t feel blindsided, which is what’s happening now. If you knew about this Morales thing days ago, why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Would have served no purpose to worry you, especially since, and I keep saying this, Patrick, I’m working to resolve this thing.”
    “Yeah? But you still haven’t told me just who the hell Massani is.”
    They passed a nail salon, a shoe store, a liquor store, came out the other end of the breezeway, and turned left, storefronts on one side, parking lot on the other.
    “All right, here it is,” Oscar said, and they stopped, faced each other. “Gloria Morales was the campaign office contact and Herman Massani was our man in the field. He works in the barbershop and people come to him when they need something done. Like I said, Massani knows everybody, county and city commissioners, school board members, the mayor, you name it. He helps clients sometimes as a favor, most times for a fee. The man knows people, and because he knows all types of people, we hired him. We need votes, he finds voters. If they’re not in the city, say for instance they live in Hialeah? He finds a city residence, like Little Havana, the heart of your old district. On paper, that is. All this, only on paper. You know that game, Patrick. If we