The Sparrow Read Free Page B

"Deadly."

    A T SIX THAT evening, Jimmy started down through the karst hills and forest surrounding the Arecibo telescope site to the coastal city of the same name, and from there drove eastward along the coast road to San Juan. It was twenty after eight before he found a parking spot within sight of El Morro, a huge stone fortress built in the sixteenth century, reinforced later with the massive city wall that surrounded Old San Juan. Then, as now, the wall left the slum of La Perla unprotected, clinging to a strip of beach.
    La Perla didn’t look too bad when you were standing on the city wall. The houses, tumbling down six or seven levels from the heights to the sea, appeared substantial and fairly large until you knew that, inside, they were all cut into several apartments. Anglos with any kind of sense stayed out of La Perla but Jimmy was big and competent and known to be Emilio’s friend, and he was gratified to be greeted now and then as he jogged down the cascade of stairways toward Claudio’s tavern.
    Sandoz was sitting in the far corner of the bar, nursing a beer. The priest was easy to pick out of a crowd, even when he wasn’t in clericals. Conquistador beard, coppery skin, straight black hair that parted naturally in the center and fell over high, wide cheekbones, which narrowed to a surprisingly delicate chin. Small-boned but nicely made. If Sandoz had been assigned to Jimmy Quinn’s old parish in South Boston, his exotic looks would surely have drawn the traditional title bestowed on attractive celibates by generations of Catholic girls: Father What-A-Waste.
    Jimmy waved to Emilio and then to the bartender, who said hi and sent Rosa over with another beer. Picking up the heavy wooden chair opposite Sandoz and rotating it one-handed, Jimmy sat wrong-way around and folded his arms on the chair back. He smiled up at Rosa as she handed him the beer mug and then pulled a long swallow, Sandoz watching him peaceably from across the table.
    "You look tired," Jimmy remarked.
    Sandoz shrugged expressively, momentarily a Jewish grandmother. "So what else is new?"
    "You don’t eat enough," Jimmy said. This was an old routine.
    "Yes, Mama," Sandoz acknowledged obediently.
    "Claudio," Jimmy yelled to the barkeeper, "get this man a sandwich." Rosa was already on her way from the kitchen with plates of food for both of them.
    "So. You have come all this way to feed me sandwiches?" Sandoz asked. Actually, it was Jimmy who always got tuna sandwiches, bizarrely combined with a double side order of
bacalaitos fritos
and a half guava in the shell. Rosa knew that the priest preferred beans in
sofrito
, spooned over rice.
    "Somebody’s got to do it. Listen, I got a problem."
    "Don’t worry, Sparky. I hear you can get shots for it in Lubbock."
    "De Niro," Jimmy said, wolfing a bite. Emilio made a sound like a game-show buzzer. "Shit. Not De Niro? Wait. Nicholson! I always get those two guys mixed up." Emilio never got anybody mixed up. He knew every actor and all the dialogue from every movie since
Horse Feathers
. "Okay. Be serious for ten seconds. You ever heard of a vulture?"
    Sandoz sat up straight, fork in midair. Professorial now: "I presume you do not refer to the carrion-eating bird. Yes. I have even worked with one."
    "No kidding," Quinn said, around his food. "I didn’t know that."
    "There’s a lot you don’t know, kid," Sandoz drawled. It was John Wayne, marred only by the barely perceptible Spanish accent that persisted during the quicksilver transformations.
    Jimmy, who mostly ignored Sandoz’s private games with language, continued to chew. "You gonna finish that?" he asked, after they’d eaten in silence for a little while. Sandoz swapped his plate for Jimmy’s empty one and slumped against the wall again. "So what was it like?" Jimmy asked. "Working with the vulture, I mean. They assigned me one at the dish. Do you think I should cooperate? Peggy will have my guts