“What did you do to him?”

“The maricуn had a shack on a pork farm outside of Havana, where he brought little Cuban boys to corrupt them. I found him there with another maricуn and murdered them with my machete. I stole all the pigs’ food from their troughs and left the door of the shack open. You see, I had read in the National Geographic that starving pigs found decomposing human flesh irresistible.”

Pete said, “Fulo, I like you.”

“Please reserve judgment. I can be volatile where the enemies of Jesus Christ and Fidel Castro are concerned.”

Pete stified a yuk. “Did one of Jimmy’s guys leave an envelope for me?’

Fulo forked it over. Pete ripped it open, itchy to roll.

Nice-a simple note and a photo.

“Anton Gretzler, 114 Hibiscus, Lake Weir, Fla. (near Sun Valley). 014-8812.” The pic showed a tall guy almost too fat to live.

Pete said, “Jimmy must trust you.”

“He does. He sponsored my green card, so he knows that I will remain loyal.”

“What’s this Sun Valley place?”

“It is what I think is called a ‘sub-division.’ Jimmy is selling lots to Teamster members.”

Pete said, “So who do you think’s got more juice these days- Jesus or Castro?”

“I would say it is currently a toss-up.”

o o o

Pete checked in at the Eden Roc and buzzed Anton Gretzler from a pay phone. The fat man agreed to a meet: 3:00, outside Sun Valley.

Pete took a snooze and drove out early. Sun Valley was the shits: three dirt roads gouged from swampland forty yards off the Interstate.

It was “sub-divided”-into matchbook-size lots piled with junk siding. Marshland formed the perimeter-Pete saw gators out sunning.

It was hot and humid. A wicked sun cooked greenery dry brown.

Pete leaned against the car and stretched some kinks out. A truck crawled down the highway belching steam; the man in the passenger seat waved for help. Pete turned his back and let the geeks pass by.