“Like Michael Landon.”
“That’s not funny, Mel.”
“No, it isn’t,” Landeta said. “But we sure the hell are. Are you listening to us? Mormons, cults, werewolves.”
Louis nodded. “How in the hell are we going to tell Horton this?”
Landeta was silent for a moment. “We can’t. We don’t have one shred of anything real to go on here. We can’t even prove Frank Woods was once a part of the del Bosque family. Case closed, just like Horton said.”
The waiter came to the table, bringing their lunches. It was one of the older men this time.
Louis studied the man’s face. He had Frank’s square jaw and wide forehead, but his face was more lined and sunken, like he had been living outdoors all his life —- like Frank had looked on the autopsy table.
The man sensed Louis’s stare and took a step back. “Do you need anything else?” he asked.
Louis shook his head and the man walked away, disappearing behind the bar.
“Eat your lunch,” Landeta said quietly.
They ate in silence, uncomfortable under the weight of dark eyes and whispered conversations. The boy Roberto was nowhere to be seen.
When they were finished, Landeta drew his wrist close and peered at his watch, a white wide dial with large black numbers.
“Let’s go outside. I need a smoke.”
Louis followed Landeta back out to the porch, and down the steps. They stood on the dirt path while Landeta lit a cigarette. The ferry sat at the dock, the captain busying himself on deck for the return trip. Louis put on his sunglasses and looked out over Pine Island Sound. The nearest island was just a distant clump of green, too far away to even gauge the distance.
“Damn, it’s hot,” Landeta said.
“Let’s go sit by the water,” Louis said. “There’s a bench there.”
“I saw it,” Landeta said, heading toward it.
Louis started to follow but the sound of a screen door slapping shut drew his attention to the restaurant. He saw Roberto lugging a trash can to the bin over by the fence.
Louis looked at Landeta, who had gone to sit on the bench, smoking his cigarette. Louis started over to the boy. As he neared, the boy lost his footing and the can tipped, spilling garbage onto the sand. Louis took off his sunglasses and drew up next to him.
“Can I help?” Louis asked.
Roberto looked up at him then shook his head quickly. “No, thanks.”
Louis squatted and started picking up the trash, tossing it in the can. “So, your family owns this place?”
Roberto didn’t answer, his hands working fast to get the trash up.
“This is a nice island,” Louis said. “Reminds me of Sereno Key, except there are no houses here.”
“Where’s Sereno Key?” Roberto asked.
“It’s an island just off Fort Myers.”
“Where’s Fort Myers?”
Louis hesitated. “It’s a city, over there.” He pointed vaguely out at the sound. “It’s a pretty big city. You’ve never been there?”
Roberto paused, thinking. He threw some napkins in the can. “I’ve never been anywhere. But Uncle Edmundo says I can go off the island with him when I’m sixteen,” Roberto said. “Maybe.”
“What’s your mother’s name?”
The trash was picked up, but Roberto didn’t seem in a big hurry to dump it. He squinted up at Louis, his brow wrinkled, a few dark curls stuck to his forehead. Louis thought again how much he resembled the young Frank Woods in the old photo.
“Her name was Mary. But she died.”
Louis felt his heart kick. “I’m sorry. Was it a long time ago?”
“Yeah, when I was real little.”
“Do you remember what your mother’s last name was?”
The boy frowned. “Del Bosque, like me.”
Louis stared at the boy. He hadn’t seen it the first time, but now he did: a faint but definite resemblance to the picture of Mary Rubio. It was there in the boy’s large dreamy eyes and his full lips. Louis could feel the back of his shirt growing damp with sweat, and the smell from the garbage was making him sick.
“What about your father? What’s his name?”
The boy was looking at Louis now as if he were crazy. “He’s a del Bosque, too. His name is Carlos.”
“Is he alive?”
Roberto started to nod, but the bang of the screen door again made him turn.
“That’s him,” Roberto said, pointing. “You want to talk to him, too?”
Carlos del Bosque reached them in three long steps. He was a big man, his arms straining the short sleeves of the white T-shirt. His dark eyes snapped beneath a tumble of black curls as he grabbed hold of Roberto’s T-shirt, and slung him toward the door.