Act of Betrayal Read Free Page A

that landed at the Bay of Pigs in 1961, he is now a highly successful businessman and a behind-the-scenes political power. I had to persuade a receptionist and then a secretary to be put through to him.
    â€œHis voice will be missed,” Reyes said with resonance. “I did not always agree with Alex—but many voices are what makes this country great.”
    â€œA warrior, who died for his beliefs!” boomed Jorge Bravo. “Another martyr killed by assassins while trying to free Cuba from the tyrant’s grip!” Bravo, an aging freedom fighter, had never stopped launching clandestine missions to liberate his homeland.
    Recently he had been fighting not only Castro, but the FBI as well. Agents were constantly on his case for violations of the U.& Neutrality Act, which prohibits military expeditions from U.S. soil against countries not at war with the United States.
    The cops had trucked the shattered Mustang to the medical examiners office, where Alex’s body could be removed and the car examined in air-conditioned comfort, under high-intensity lights, away from prying eyes, crowds, and cameras. They said the bomber had apparently planted his deadly device beneath the hood in broad daylight in the station parking lot. Yet no one reported seeing a thing.
    At sunset, I raced down to Dinner Key where Miami Fire was fighting a huge blaze that burned a forty-five-foot commercial fishing vessel down to the waterline. It was late when I finished the story, but I had promised to meet Lottie for a drink and a bite to eat at the South Pointe Seafood House. My appetite had died in the parking lot with Alex Aguirre and I was weary, but Lottie had stuck by me when I was in trouble and I had to be there for her.
    Her troubles were not as frightening as mine had been. Hers, as usual, involved a man, or the absence of one.
    I found her waiting behind the Seafood House, sitting cross-legged on one of the rocks overlooking the waters of Government Cut. She was stirring a frozen margarita and wearing a T-shirt that said SOUTH BEACH, WHERE THE WOMEN ARE STRONG AND THE MEN ARE PRETTY .
    â€œWhat do you hear from Stosh, the Polish Prince?” I asked, joining her.
    Stosh Gorski is a lawyer she had met in court while shooting pictures during a high-profile murder trial. His client was charged with fatally battering his wife and his mother-in-law with a ballpeen hammer. The jury didn’t believe the defendant, and I suspected that his lawyer wasn’t exactly credible either.
    Lottie, long divorced and childless, yearns for a family. An award-winning photographer, she has worked all the hot spots of the world and shot history in the making. She has dodged bombs and bullets and fended off passes from lecherous foreign dictators.
    Now she wants to settle down and play house, but the Polish Prince has problems committing and showing up when promised.
    â€œHasn’t called me since last Friday,” she said miserably. Out in the midnight-blue waters of the cut, the lights of a freighter moved east toward the Gulf Stream and ports unknown. “Last time we talked he said he was gonna break off with someone he had been seeing before me, said he had to let her down easy.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said.
    She sipped her margarita, gazing at me balefully over the rim of her glass. “He’s letting her down so easy that they spent the weekend at Sugar Loaf Key.”
    â€œThat’s bad. You sure?”
    She nodded and got to her feet. “He wasn’t home all day Saturday, or Saturday night, so I called his condo down there,” she explained, as we wandered inside and found a small table. “A woman answered and I hung up.”
    â€œOh, Lottie. I’m sorry. Maybe it was the cleaning lady.”
    She stared at me. “I heard Julio Iglesias in the background. Stosh’s version of music for lovers only. He played the same CD on our big night, a real mountaintop experience,