Page 39 of In a Far-Off Land
Oscar squared his shoulders. “I need to talk to Max Clark. I know he’s in there.”
The narrow mustache quivered. “We don’t generally disturb our guests when—”
Oscar leaned a few inches closer and had the satisfaction of seeing the little man swallow hard and his eyes widen. “Disturb him.”
The crowd around Oscar had gone silent. Watching him. That wasn’t going to stop him. He would see Max or know the reason why.
The fancy doorman scurried away, then came back quick, looking relieved. “Mr. Clark is waiting for you, Mr.... ah...” He cleared his throat. “Please, follow me.”
Oscar followed him up marble stairs and into a room too opulent to be believed. An orchestra played to couples taking turns on a parquet floor. Crystal sparkled and silver gleamed on tables laden with food. This was the life Max had left them for. This was what he did while Oscar and his brothers labored in the hot sun. His neck heated as he wove through a sea of white linen tables, silk dresses, and theamericanoswho turned to watch him. He looked like he’d just jumped off the day-workers truck, but he pulled back his shoulders and raised his chin. He wouldn’t let Max see him ashamed.
Max sat in a corner beside a window, his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, and he wasn’t alone. The woman, the one he had thought so fragile—the one who’d maybe killed Roy Lester—was sitting across from him.
When she saw him, her mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide. Good. She should be afraid. Whatever she’d done, it had landed him in plenty of trouble.
The little man pulled out the chair opposite Max. Oscar remained standing. He wasn’t here for a tea party.
Max took the cigarette from his lips. “Thanks, Al.”
He looked so smug, so cool sitting there, with no decency.Oscar’s anger boiled over. “When were you going to tell me?” he said in Spanish. He didn’t give a darn if the whole rotten place heard.
Max straightened a little, surprise in his eyes, and held up a hand. “Listen, Oscar—”
“Did you try to kill him? With the drink?” Oscar interrupted. He laid his hands on the white cloth and leaned over the table. Max’s coffee cup jittered on the saucer. The couple at the next table stopped eating. “Tell me the truth or by God I’ll—”
“Oscar. Sit down, for heaven’s sake,” Max snapped in their mother tongue, looking around.
Every eye was on them. The hum of conversation and tinkle of crystal and silver had hushed; even the band faltered their tune. Oscar clenched his jaw and sat down.
Max took a deep breath and switched to English. “Mina, I believe you’ve met my cousin Oscar Garcia.” He tapped his cigarette on the edge of a crystal ashtray. “Oscar, this is Miss Minerva Sinclaire.”
The girl stared at him and fumbled, “Y-your cousin?”
Oscar didn’t spare her a glance. His business was with Max.
A white-coated waiter appeared at Oscar’s elbow. Max raised his brows in question. “You want a steak? It’s on me.”
Oscar shook his head. He hadn’t eaten this morning, and the smell of the food had started his stomach growling, but he’d take charity from Max Clark when hell froze over.
Max held his smoke and leaned back. “Just coffee, Frankie. Cream and sugar.” The waiter drifted away. Max fixed Oscar with a look and spoke in Spanish. “I should have figured Lupita would tell you.”
Oscar waited. Could he even believe a word this stranger said?
The waiter reappeared with a bone china cup, a tiny pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. He poured the coffee, added a splash of cream and two sugar cubes with a pair of silver tongs.Caramba, he even stirred it for him.
Max looked down at his own coffee, still speaking in Spanish. “I was just trying to knock him out, that’s all.”
Understanding dawned. The girl. The argument in the courtyard. “So you tried to poison Lester so he couldn’t—”
“Not poison, Oscar.” Max frowned. “It was just Seconal.”
“Where did you get it?” he asked Max suddenly. “The Seconal.”
“Victoria keeps some in her room.” Max looked away.
The girl’s gaze went back and forth between them, her face bewildered.
Alonso had seen him upstairs, he said. Oscar didn’t want to know how Max knew what was in Señora Lester’s bedroom. Besides, he had other questions that needed answers. Before he could ask them, the tuxedoed doorman was back, hovering next to Max with a worried look.
