Free An Absence of Light by David Lindsey Page B

death. It was approaching one o’clock. It occurred to him that he might not answer it, though there was never really any possibility that he wouldn’t. But he did let it ring six times. Still holding the dish towel in one hand, he reluctantly picked up the receiver with his other.
    “Hello.”
    “Marcus?”
    It was a woman’s voice, not Dore’s, not instantly recognizable. His mind began reeling through an inventory of voices.
    “Yes,” he said, waiting for another audible clue. And then immediately he was cautious, even suspicious, afraid she might disconnect without speaking again.
    The next voice was a man’s. “Graver, this is Victor Last.”
    Graver recognized this voice immediately, even though he didn’t think he had heard it in eight years. Last’s voice was distinctive for its softness, even kindness, and its peculiar accent Last was the son of British parents who owned a shipping business in Veracruz, Mexico, where Last was raised. His pronunciation was a wonderful amalgam of several languages.
    “Well, this is a surprise, Victor,” Graver said. He was wary.
    “Yeah, well, I’m in the city now,” Last said. “Thought I ought to check in with you.”
    Graver could hear the hollow, rushing-air sound of Last attempting to cover the mouthpiece while he spoke to someone with him, probably the woman who had been on the telephone when Graver answered it.
    “Uh, look,” Last said, coming back on the line, “I’d, uh, I’d like to talk to you. Could we get together for a drink?”
    “Victor, you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ve got a lot of fires to put out at—”
    “It actually would be best tonight,” Last interrupted. His voice was calm and natural, agreeable, as though Graver had called
him
to ask for a meeting at Last’s convenience.
    This polite disconnect with the reality of their situation put Graver on guard even more. Graver looked at the dish towel in his hand. Shit.
    “Okay. Where are you? North? South?”
    “The best place, I think, would be where we used to meet,” Last said casually. Graver noted that he had avoided saying the name.
    “Is it still there?”
    “Sure.”
    “It’s late. It’ll be closed.”
    “I checked it out,” Last said. “It’ll be open.”
    “Fine,” Graver said in resignation. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    “Twenty minutes,” Last said, and the line went dead.
     
     
     

Chapter 9
     
     
    The small La Cita Cafe was only a block from the ship channel, near the neck of the turning basin in a barrio that never changed. Two languid Guadalupe palms still flanked the dirty, mandarin red front door, their huge, rough trunks rooted on the little spit of dirt and weeds between the buckled sidewalk and the rock building. A single strand of flamingo pink neon light still bordered the two horizontally rectangular front windows with their rounded corners, and the porthole in the front door still allowed a glimpse of the murky interior before you entered.
    Graver parked across the street and waited a moment. He surveyed the neighborhood of small bungalows tucked back under old trees, their dim interiors glimpsed through the cinnamon vines that laded the dilapidated fences of thin wire and wood and the banana plants that lent a cool grace to the graceless, bare yards. He saw no cars parked along the street that seemed out of place.
    He got out of the car, locked it, and walked across to the cafe. The neighborhood night smelled of the ship channel, a mixture of bayou and bay water, of diesel engines and foreign ports, of neighborhood kitchens and other-country foods. Graver inhaled deeply of the smells and let them carry him back eight years.
    He pushed open the door and stepped inside. La Cita had never been much of a place, but it had been a good cafe. Now the once warmly lighted interior that had smelled of Greek and Mexican food was a gloomy twilight of neon beer signs, and the air was a bad breath of stale bodies, dead cigarettes, and