"There's a woman in here asking for you," Lori said.

Her deep blue eyes expressed more than their usual mischief. An excitement tempered by a touch of craftiness. Her lips curled up slightly into a smile, yet there was a frown on her brow. Damn it, she was up to something.

I pushed my way into the crowded bar. The after work crowd packed the place. I strained my eyes to adjust to the dim orange light, given off by small candle-shaped bulbs attached to chandeliers. I heard shouts from the rear, the bang of liar's dice cups, the drone of ESPN coming from a pair of TVs, the murmur of a hundred voices. The pungent odor of garlic and mozzarella cheese wafted through the air.

I swung onto a stool and stared at a large oil painting of a gargantuan naked lady, boobs like two Goodyear blimps, thighs to rival sequoias. Big Emma. I said, "I don't have any time for seeing ladies today."

"I can see how busy you are," Lori said. "You've been hanging out here all week."

She placed before me a double Oban single malt neat. She wore a tan cashmere turtleneck sweater, a gold cross bouncing off her bosom, and tight black ski pants. She swung her naturally blond ponytail from side to side, dismissing my resistance. The corners of her mouth turned into a pout. And she had one hell of a persuasive pout. "You're going to see this woman, like it or not."

"No, I'm not." The lady wasn't going to boss me around. One reason why I stayed single, damn it.
"She says she's your mother."

"You're crazy. My mother's in Connecticut and she doesn't fly."

"Not that mother."

"Oh."

All these years as a PI, I could have found her. But I didn't want to. I didn't want to see her. And now she had found me. Why? If she had cared a damn about me when I was three she wouldn't have given me away. So why did she search me out now? She wanted something. What she wanted would cost me. Cost me a lot.

I hadn't seen her since she gave me away. And I have no memory of what she looked like then. All I knew about my birthmother is what my adopted mother told me. And that was not good. How could I be sure this woman was my mother?

"You going to just sit there and drink?" Lori's voice broke into my musings. I had no choice. I would have to meet with her.

"Fuck."

"That's all you got to say? Your birthmother searches you out and all you can say is fuck?"

I looked up at her. She must have seen the hurt in my eyes for she reached over the bar and squeezed my hand.

Lori said, "She must have hurt you something terrible when you were young. But you've got to see her now. Find out what she wants."

She was right as usual.

"Where is she?"

She gestured toward a woman sitting by herself in a booth in the rear. She was nursing a martini. Sixty something. Bottle blond hair, thin, frail. She hadn't spotted me. How could she after all these years? She looked furtively around the bar as she sipped. Frightened. Yes, she was definitely scared of something. But of what? Maybe just of meeting me. Maybe.

****

I dropped down into the seat opposite this woman who claimed to be my mother. She looked up from her drink but avoided my eyes. I searched her face. Yes, there was a resemblance. Narrow head, a strong chin, light blue eyes. Something else not so easy to describe. An ambience, the way she sat, the way her hands played with her martini glass, a sense of reserve, a wariness. But I was not sure. How could I be?

"You're Jim Wolf now," she said without emotion. "My son."

"So you told Lori."

"Pretty woman. Your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend. And who do you claim to be?"

She smiled. "Claim? I guess I deserve that. No way you would remember me. It was so long ago. Just as well."

"Just as well?"

"Let's just say I wasn't the greatest of mothers. I was very young, sixteen, when I had you."

"My mother told me your name is Janice Sutcliff."

"Your adopted mother was not supposed to know. Yes, that's my maiden name."

"How can I be sure that you're really my birthmother?"

She reached in her purse, removed two documents. The first was her birth certificate. The second a hospital admittance form reporting that Janice Sutcliff had entered Norwalk Hospital on May 15th, 1945 and was admitted into the maternity ward. I was born at Norwalk hospital the day she was admitted. Certainly not ironclad proof yet suggestive. Interesting that she had come prepared with documents. I handed them back to her.

"How did you find me?"

"Remember the Tanzis? Eugene and Mary. Your foster parents. They were present when you were adopted. Mary passed away some years back, but Eugene is still alive. I begged him for your new name. He couldn't refuse a mother. Then I typed your name into Google. I came up with your address in minutes. Just a box number down at the marina. I asked around. Told you hung out here."

Damn Google! Put us PIs out of work one of these days. I didn't remember the Tanzis. I had no images in my mind from that distant period. Only feelings. But my adopted mother had mentioned them. They were good to me. Yes, what she said did fit. Still.

I continued to stare at her and she continued to avoid my gaze. Her face was a maze of wrinkles. Not just age. The kind of damaged skin you find on women who live for years in sun-soaked Florida or California, not snow-belt Connecticut. She wore a skin-tight white blouse and a pleated gray short skirt. A garish bright yellow scarf covered with pink flamingos was wrapped around her rather long neck. She gave the impression of a cheerleader from the fifties who had refused to adjust to growing old. She had kept her figure. She must have been a knockout when she was younger.

"Why did you bother?" I asked.

"Because, I need your help."

Simple as that. This lady must have ice flowing in her veins. Hadn't seen me in over forty years but she now wanted a favor. I was no better. I had displayed no warmth toward her because I felt no warmth. Rather anger swelled up inside me, anger flowing from some emotional scar so deep and so far in the past that I no longer remembered its cause. I grew rigid and pulled away from her. She saw my reaction.

"I know I wasn't much of a mother back then. But I was only sixteen, alone in the world. I'm not saying I've been that great of a person ever since. Still, I am your mother. Blood matters. And I really need your help."

Blood? A lot blood mattered to her when I was three and she gave me away. Why in hell should it matter now? That argument wasn't going to work with me. But I was curious. Who was this woman? What had she done all those long years? And what kind of trouble was she in now? I knew she wasn't lying about needing help. I had to know more.

"I gather you're in some kind of trouble. Tell me your story."

She sighed, finished off her martini in one gulp, and plunged into her narrative.

* * *

"It's kind of complicated," she began.

I waved for Lori to bring another round of drinks. I sensed we would both need them. The place was packed that particular day with a raucous crowd. Two parties were going full swing in the back. A group of UPS drivers at the bar argued loudly about union politics.

I leaned forward in my seat. She had a soft voice with a cadence I hadn't heard in years, the accent of Western Connecticut. New York tinged with just a touch of Boston. The sounds of my childhood.

"You're a PI so maybe you will understand," she continued. "I've been living in Miami for some time. It's a special place, not like Connecticut. Dangerous unless you're connected."

"Connected to whom?"

"To everybody, to those that run the place and that means, one way or another, to the Cubans. I met one of them. Raphael Hernandez. Well connected. Maybe too well connected. He ran a travel agency with his brother Jaime in the heart of the Cuban community. I was having trouble getting a job, because I had a record…."

"A record?"

She shrugged her shoulders and looked over my head. Never, never into my eyes.

"A little misunderstanding. I'm a bookkeeper. But once something gets on your record, it's hard as hell to find a job."

"No doubt."

"Raphael didn't seem to care. Maybe that should have been a warning. Like he was looking for someone with a record. But I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Take your time."

Lori came, bringing our drinks. She had this ridiculous grin on her face. Like she was watching some damn soap with dutiful son listening to long missing mamma. Lori had no idea what this woman was telling me. A lot more than picket fences, bridge evenings, book clubs.

We both took deep sips of our drinks.

"He paid me well. Let me take off as much time as I liked. Got me box seats for Marlins games. A handsome man. Easy to like. Still it was all just a little too good. I mean, hardly any customers, yet very large sums of money flowed through the agency's accounts. I began asking around about him. I speak perfect Spanish. Nobody wanted to talk. And you know what that means in Miami."

No, I don't."

"He's still in play."

"In play?"

"Most Cubans have given up on the Castro thing. They don't like the guy, but figure he's not about to go soon. So they get on with their careers, their kids become real Americans. Every now and then they attend a rally and curse Castro. Like when Janet Reno took that little boy back. But some of the exiles conspire, wear camouflage, practice combat in isolated fields in the Everglades, prepare for another Bay of Pigs."

"So Raphael was a terrorist."

"They consider themselves patriots."

"So does Bin Laden."

She shrugged her shoulders again.

"I keep out of politics. But you need to know that Raphael was connected, very, very well connected. And in play. Therefore the money."

"I'm not sure I follow you completely."

"This little travel agency had over ten million dollars stashed away in bank accounts on the Cayman Islands."

"So the money was to finance an invasion."

"That's what Raphael said when I confronted him. It takes a lot of book cooking to hide ten million dollars."

"Where did they get the money? Are exiles that charitable?"

"You don't understand Miami. Cocaine, the Colombians, money laundering, politicians, cops, even the Federal Government. They are all connected. I figured Raphael's operation was laundering drug money. I made a lot of transfers to another travel agency in Bogota. I was instructed to keep ten per cent and send it to the Caymans.

"Recently Raphael spent less and less time in the office. I would see him down the street at a Cuban restaurant talking with Jaime, his brother. Jaime never came to the agency. Raphael said he was a silent partner. Investor only. Then, after the long Labor Day holiday I turned up at work to find a lock on the door, and a For Rent sign in the window. I peered inside. Nothing. Not even a desk had been left. And I was owed two week's salary.

"I asked around the neighborhood. All I learned was that a moving van had shown up on Sunday and emptied the place. Then I checked the phones. All disconnected. Office phone, Raphael's home phone, Jaime's home phone, both of their cells. I went around to the banks I normally dealt with. Accounts closed. Then I called the Caymans. I possessed the account code and could access whatever amount I chose. I figured I'd get my back wages and maybe a bonus as well. No luck. Closed out as well. So I was fucked. No job. Just some savings."

Bonus? I'd bet she planned to wipe them out.

"So you want me to find these guys? Miami is not my beat."

"No, I don't want you to go to Miami. Miami is coming to Oakland."

"What do you mean?"

"There's more to the story. Two days later there's a knock on my door. Two big guys walked in. I recognized them from the meetings Raphael and his brother used to have down the street. Must have been part of the underground Cuban group."

"What did they want from you?" I asked.

"Ten million dollars."

"Come on."

"They had discovered the Cayman Island money had disappeared. Only three people had access to that account. Raphael, Jaime and me. So they figured we were all in on it. I said I didn't know where the brothers were and had no money myself. They didn't believe me. Gave me two days to come up with ten million or else."

"Or else what?"

"I stop breathing."

"Why didn't you go to the cops?"

"Are you kidding? One of them was a cop. He showed me his badge."

"What do you expect me to do about this whole mess?"

"You don't get it. They're here or they will be soon. Then I'm dead. You've got to protect me."

"I'm not a bodyguard. Just a simple PI who works insurance cases."

For the first time since I sat down in front of her she made eye contact. A withering, commanding stare. More angry than frightened. She raised her voice to a shout.

"So you're going to let them kill me? Is that it?"

I said, "I have just one question for you. Why did you give me away?"

"What do you want from me? A confession? Genuflection? Blood?"

She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of manicure scissors. She placed one hand palm up on the table and jabbed the point of the scissors into her flesh. She didn't cry. Blood oozed out over the table. I couldn't move. I felt as if that point had stabbed deep into my own heart.

"There!" She stood, leaving a pool of blood and the scissors on the table, and began to run toward the door.

The UPS drivers turned around and stared at us. Lori shrieked and came running. Blood dripped down over Janice's dress. The crowd, cowed by the violent scene, parted to let her through. I pushed past Lori and ran after her.

A burly African-American UPS driver with a shaved head ran after me. He flung himself at me, tackling me around my feet. I fell crashing to the floor. He must have thought I had stabbed her.

"No," I said, "she stabbed herself. Got to stop her."

"That's right," Lori said. "I saw what happened."

He let me go and I rushed to the now closed door. I flung it open, but there was no one outside. Where had she gone? I stood for a moment trying to control my emotions, think of what next to do. I shivered. It was a cold moonless night. Wind swept candy wrappers and leaves around my feet. A storm was coming up.

I prepared to re-enter Big Emma's. Then, halfway down the block, I spotted her. Janice ducked out from an alleyway and stepped into a yellow convertible. She had wrapped her scarf around the injured hand. I dashed toward the car. The engine started up and swung out into the street. Florida plates. A brand new BMW. She'd hit sixty by the time the car got to the corner. Then she was gone.

I staggered back into Big Emma's.

* * *

I climbed on a stool at the end of the bar by the door. The place had returned to its normal chaotic self. No one seemed to remember the bloody scene that had taken place moments earlier. Or maybe they just didn't want to get involved.

"What was that all about?" Lori asked as she pushed a glass of Oban in my direction.

"I have one hell of a mother."

"You admit she's your birthmother?"

"She had proof. But there's more to it. That outburst. The blood. The way I felt when she stabbed herself. Yes, it's her."

"So now you remember her."

"No images or details. It was her fury. I will never forget the rage of my birthmother."

"She attacked you physically when you were a child?"

"I was placed in a foster home for some reason. Janice wasn't supposed to have me alone. My adopted mother said she… she was unstable."

I took a deep sip of my whiskey. I knew I was drinking too much. Getting a bit woozy. But I preferred a whiskey fog to the clarity of my mother's wrath.

"Why did she look you up after all these years?"

I told Lori her story.

"You believe her?"

"I believe some of it must be true. I believe she is in deep shit."

"So what are you going to do?"

"What can I do? She's gone. No address for her. Nothing but a yellow BMW with Florida plates."

"You're a detective. You can find her."

"Then what?"

"You'll think of something. You have no choice. She may not be perfect but she's your mother."

"Blood ties."

"Something like that."

"I don't believe in blood ties."

"It's not a matter of belief. It's the way it is."

I shrugged my shoulders, finished off my whiskey, and walked unsteadily out of Big Emma's and into a downpour.

* * *
I can handle a bit of drizzle. Cleans the air and is a welcome relief from months of good weather. But this rain, driven by wind, battered into me horizontally as if seeking to perforate my body and transform me into a sieve. I bent my head and plowed forward toward the marina, Misty, and dry clothes. I could see only a few feet ahead of me. No one else out. I passed the little hut with grass on its roof, a replica of the one Jack London inhabited in the Yukon. At least it wasn't snowing.

The rain washed the whiskey haze from my brain. I began to think somewhat more clearly about this birthmother of mine. I needed to find her, because I needed to understand her. That was the only way I would ever be able to understand myself. An emotional, bitter woman. What caused her rage? My adopted mother had told me how Janice had been born into poverty, abandoned by her own family, and deserted again by the father of her child. There were reasons.

Somehow this line of thought wasn't helping me. I still felt my rage against her rage. So I started to think about her story. Was she telling the truth? I didn't trust her. I was stuck with two emotions from my distant past: rage and distrust.

What about blood ties? Damn it. Lori was right. Blood mattered. Part of being human. I had a responsibility for this demented woman. Shit.

* * *
I stood by the railing of the promenade and looked out over the marina. The rain had subsided, becoming a persistent drizzle that was transforming me into a wet sponge. Yet, I stood there and looked out over the Alameda Estuary. A lone tug, with red and green running lights, made its slow way through the water. I could see inside the lit-up cockpit. A dark bent figure grasped the wheel. My only human contact since leaving Big Emma's. That's the way I liked my human beings - in the distance with me doing the watching. My terms. My space preserved.

* * *
Hands from two separate individuals grabbed my arms. Where the hell had they come from? The man on my left was thin, small mustache, dark complexion. A hulk held my other arm. Big enough to run for governor of Minnesota. Two Hispanics. Miami had arrived.

"Where the money?" the thin one asked.

"What money?"

"Don't play games. Janice told us you have it."

"And you are?"

"Her former employers, from whom she stole ten million dollars."

"Ah, Raphael and Jaime."

"We want the ten mil back," Jaime said. "It's not our money. It's for Cuba, for freedom."

Or did they want the money for themselves? I was having trouble picturing these two thugs as patriots.

"I haven't got it."

Jaime started to push me over the railing. He grabbed my legs and lowered me over the water. I tried to wiggle out of his grip. But Jaime was one huge powerful bastard.

"That's not a good answer," Raphael said, calmly.

"I really don't."

Jaime let go of my legs and I plunged down and smashed head first into a piling and then into freezing water. My head spun from the concussion. The cold numbed me. I opened my mouth and took in a gallon of seawater. I felt myself fading away into darkness.

I was not going to allow these Cuban thugs to end my life without one hell of a fight. I had to live. My mind cleared and with it came biting paralyzing cold, a splitting headache, and enormous painful pressure on that space inside my chest where my lungs were supposed to be. I kicked my feet but felt like some large octopus had wrapped itself around them and was pulling me down, down. I continued to struggle to reach the surface.

Then, as if by some miracle, my head broke through the water. I spit out salt water and gasped. Finally a painful breath, but a breath. I saw the marina floating dock bobbing in front of me. I swam toward it and grasped onto the side of the deck. Then I looked up. The two Miami bastards stared down at me.

"Where's the money?" Raphael asked.

"I don't know."

"Wrong answer," Jaime said.

He stepped on one of my hands. I screamed from the pain and pulled my hand out from under his foot. I held on to the float with my other hand. The bastard stomped on my remaining hand. But I knew if I let go I'd sink and not come up. Too weak to hold on. Hyperthermia setting in. Dizziness.

That's when I saw her. Janice stood behind them. She had no coat on. Her hair was matted with rain and rivulets of water, darkened by mascara, flowed down her face. She held a revolver. Her hardened eyes met mine for a second then returned to the backs of the Hernandez brothers. She fired. And fired. And fired. The two men jerked as each bullet hit them. They clawed at the air and then collapsed. Janice bent down, dragged each body to the edge of the float, and dumped them into the water. Like it was all in a day's work for her. Then she turned to me.

"Now get on up here."

"I…I can't."

"Well, I'm sure as shit not hauling you out. I just saved your life. The least you can do is crawl out of there."

This was one mother who didn't take no for an answer. I painfully pulled my aching body up on the deck as directed. Water poured out of my mouth. I vomited.

"Now take me to your boat. We have some talking to do."

* * *
We sat opposite each other, a folding table between us in the cabin of my boat. I had wrapped a blanket around my soaked body in a vain attempt to get warm. My teeth chattered. Mother Dear, however, didn't seem to notice my plight. She was fixated on keeping me covered with her revolver. I must say she looked as miserable as me, but more vital than she had in Big Emma's. Excited. She liked to be in command.

"You lied to me," I said.

"If I told you the whole truth you wouldn't have helped me."

"You used me."

"I saved your life."

"You told those two Cuban hoods I had the money. You set me up."

"What was I supposed to do? You refused to help me. I had counted on you protecting me. Instead I'm the one who had to kill 'em."

"That's all I meant to you. A way to get the Hernandez brothers off your back so you could take off with the ten mil."

"You always were a smart kid."

"Not smart enough or I wouldn't be sitting here facing your gun."

"You don't understand me. The shit I've gone through. The assholes I have had to put up with. I've been in trouble my whole life. Juv Hall. Prison three times. Four failed marriages. All alone. No friends. No family."

"So that's your excuse for cold-blooded murders?"

She jumped up from her seat, swung her gun and smashed me in the face. My head pounded from the pain. Just what I didn't need after the concussion from the piling. Damn her. Some goddamn mother. But I was no kid. I wasn't going to take it.

I struggled to rise. I'd get her. Strangle her. I didn't give a shit about her gun. I didn't care if I died. She would die first. Dizzy. So damn dizzy. She pushed me back into my seat and struck me with the gun again. I almost passed out. She began to shake from rage.

"You haven't changed. You used to defy me when you were a little baby. Refused to walk when I knew damned well you could. Cry for no reason. Fuck you." She became calm, and spoke quietly. "You don't matter. I've got ten million. The score of a lifetime."

"So what are you going to do now?" I asked.

"What are you going to do?"

"Take that gun away from you."

I reached for the revolver. She pulled back, stiffened and pointed the barrel right at my temple. She began to squeeze the trigger.

"You going to shoot your own son?"

"If I have to."

She would, damn it, she would. I swung my fist, knocking the weapon away, just as she fired. The bullet smashed the porthole window behind me. I grabbed the gun from her hand and turned it on her.

"Go ahead," she said. "Shoot me. I just don't give a shit."

She rose from her seat, turned her back on me, and made her way toward the companionway. She was gutsy, that mother of mine. She began to climb the ladder. She turned.

"What's holding you back?" she asked me.

"Blood ties."

She faced away from me, continued up the stairs, soon absorbed by darkness.