Sinatra sang about it being "a very good year."
Dancers from some strip club in town seconded that thought as they cavorted naked in the big Olympic-sized pool. I met a few politicians from Haven Park and Fleetwood. They all seemed like slimy assholes.
Sinatra sang "The Fable of the Rose."
Rick Ross was there. He didn't speak to me, but I saw him with three strippers in the cabana cutting up a line of coke. Great. Just what I wanted to see. Let's hear it for Ricky's rehab.
I spent ten minutes talking about police work with Harry Eastwood, who looked ridiculous in white pants and an iridescent blue shirt. His swayback and potbelly did nothing for the outfit.
I saw the mayors assistant, Carlos Real, whom Alonzo had pointed out to me at A Fuego. I'd asked around and found out he was really just a political bagman. I watched him talking to some seedy Hispanics in suits by the Jacuzzi. All of them needed haircuts. Carlos never stopped moving, shifting his weight, waving his hands around. A kinetic man. Mercury on glass.
I was congratulated by half a dozen Haven Park cops for not puking or browning my pants like shit-stain Larry Miller. They all said I had balls.
I walked around greeting guys. Two topless dancers wanted to take me into the changing room and give me a party, but I managed to escape that indignity.
Then someone introduced me to Oscar Juarez. He was a well-built, clean-cut guy, about twenty-three, with a baby face and chocolate-brown eyes.
"Somebody just told me this party is in your honor," Oscar said, smiling. "So whats the deal with that?"
As I was trying to figure out that remark, I wondered if he'd also passed the orange grove test. But if he had, shouldn't he know the reason I was being honored? He looked very young and innocent. It was hard for me to picture him mixed up in this.
"I guess you know what I just went through," I said, watching his dark eyes carefully, looking for any sign.
"I'm sorry?" he said, perplexed.
"The orange grove?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
I should have been relieved, but his answer presented me with a new dilemma. Was he really the only street cop in Haven Park who wasn't on the grind, or was he playing me, trying to get me to confide in him so I'd give myself up? Was I still under suspicion? Was my entire orange grove loyalty test just an elaborate head feint? When you're working undercover, you tend to overthink everything.
Rick Ross, who was currently twenty yards away inside the cabana doing a line of blow, had been the one who suggested Oscar might be okay. Did I really want to take his word for anything? I decided I'd better not trust Officer Juarez either. I moved on.
Cecil Bratano had a six-car garage and an hour later I was down there with five or so guests I didn't know, admiring the mayor s impressive car collection. All the garage doors were open and each space contained a beautifully maintained, sixties sports car. He had a Porsche 356B, two Austin Healys, and a classic MGB-GT in mint condition. But the star of his collection was a perfectly restored turquoise-and-white 196 °Cadillac El Dorado convertible. It sat on a pristine concrete floor, its chrome and big fins glittering impressively.
An elderly Hispanic man with silver hair who looked dapper in a dark suit informed me that he took care of the collection and that the Shelby was worth over two hundred thousand. He told me proudly that Cecil had paid cash for all of them. Not bad for an elementary school dropout.
At about eleven-thirty, Talbot Jones found me in the garage. "Follow me," he said. "The man wants to see you now."