An Absence of Light

“Dropped out of sight, didn’t I?” He pulled on the cigarette again, looking across the concrete dance floor washed in patches of soft colors. “I overplayed my hand a little on that last one, Graver. It was time for a sabbatical. Went to Oaxaca first. Got back into the exporting business. But it wasn’t what it used to be. I’d heard there was a new market opening up in Hispanic colonial documents. I checked into it; it was indeed a coming field. I moved to Madrid and spent a year combing the archives there. Fantastic archives. God, cavern-sized museums and extensive private collections. Some of the museums don’t even know what they’ve got. Hell, some of those places don’t even know how much they’ve got, let alone the value of it. Wonderful places.”

He paused and polished off his beer. He held the bottle up and waved it at the crooked waiter across the patio. The waiter held up two fingers with a questioning look, but Graver shook his head.

Last ground out his cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. The muggy night was stifling now in the early hours of the morning and beads of perspiration began to show up on Last’s forehead and upper lip. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his face, at his upper lip.

“Was in Spain, what, almost two years,” Last continued, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, deftly leaving a puff of it showing. “Made a bit of money, some good contacts. But all in all I preferred dear old Mexico. It’s got a more ‘entrepreneurial’ quality about it” He smiled. “So back I came. Mexico City. I started working with private photographic archives. Surprisingly lots of them there. You know, all that European influence during the Porfiriato, before the Revolution. Some of the older families who have these big mansions in the grand parts of the city, they’ve got all kinds of things stuck away in those dowdy old places.”

The crooked waiter brought Last’s beer and took away their empty bottles. Last picked it up, the cold amber bottle already beaded with condensation, and held it to his forehead and temples. Then he took several big swigs.

“I got into some trouble in Mexico City,” he continued. “They have finicky laws there about archives and things… historical artifacts… I don’t particularly have anything against their legal system… you know, based on the Napoleonic Code… but you add to that all the corruption and it’s hard to make a buck down there. Legitimately.” He shrugged, looked at the people around the patio. “Even so, I kept at it for a couple of years.”

He reached into the side pocket of his jacket again and took out another cigarette and lighted it He tilted his head back and blew the smoke up into the still night.

“About six months ago,” he said, “I went to Veracruz looking for some colonial maritime documents that were rumored to be in the possession of a family whose ancestors had been dockmasters in the port there during the Spanish viceroyalty. I was flush then, having just made a good deal on the sale of a collection of Mexican Revolution photographs, so I treated myself by staying at a very expensive little inn not far from the beach. I met a Houston couple, and during the next three or four days we became acquaintances. About a month after returning to Mexico City, I got an invitation to attend a party at their house in Houston.”

Last took another drink of beer, and while he was savoring it, his pale eyes stayed on Graver. He was getting to the point of whatever it was.

“At the party, I met two other couples who interested me. One fellow owned an art gallery, and another was a businessman. Owned a huge business of a certain kind. I know nothing about this kind of business-it’s an innocuous business-so I was just asking questions and this fellow grew very wary, suddenly evasive with his answers. Now this was curious to me because this was like asking questions of a grocer. I mean, it was an innocuous occupation.”

Last smoked his cigarette.

“Now, before I go any further than this, let me ask you something.”

Graver nodded.

“Have you had any inkling”-Last clenched his teeth and softly sucked air through them-”any inkling of police corruption?” He held up his hand with the cigarette. “On the detective level, I mean.”

Graver felt his stomach tighten. “In what division?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know I wouldn’t tell you something like that. Victor.”

Last nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I know.” He smoked his cigarette and tapped the amber bottle with one of his fingers. He made a face, one of indecision, not knowing what to do.

“Do you know something?” Graver asked.

“No,” Last said quickly. “No, I don’t. It’s only a suspicion at something I overheard. I didn’t understand what I was hearing and this was one of the possibilities. There are other possibilities.”

“And where did you overhear this something?”

“Here in Houston. At a tony party about three months ago.”

“Three months?”