Half the Day Is Night by Maureen F. McHugh Page A

not a very good part of the city. This way we can address two problems at the same time, the need to educate young people and provide jobs, and a way to increase health care.”
    Politician talk. She dropped the chip into her reader and looked at the figures. She could structure a loan proposal, it wasn’t even a very complicated loan. “I don’t foresee any problems,” she said. There was no reason for Polly to send her this loan, it was a nothing loan.
    There was nothing to be understood from Saad-rhymes-with-odd Shamsi, either. He was about her age. He spoke impeccable English, sounded North American rather than Caribbean. Maybe slightly British in his diction but it was hard to say. His suit was appropriate, that kind of neutral gold color that meant he could have bought the suit yesterday or five days ago. Not too expensive, so if he was skimming, he wasn’t making big money, or at least not spending it on clothes. Not flashy.
    â€œIt looks straightforward,” she said.
    â€œGood,” he said. “I mean, I didn’t expect much problem.”
    â€œSo why are you working with me?” she asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    She shrugged. “Anyone could do this loan.”
    â€œMr. Navarro suggested you,” Saad said. He was not evasive. He looked at her clear-eyed, his face open.
    Maybe Polly really did just want to send some business First Hawaiian’s way. This was a token, easy enough.
    â€œWho knows why Mr. Navarro does anything,” Saad said. “He sits in the middle of his web and pulls us all together.” He shook his head. “Have you spent much time in Marincite?”
    â€œBusiness trips,” she said.
    â€œMaybe I could take all of you around the city some evening?”
    Then it will come, Mayla thought, whatever the secret cost of this loan would be. A loan for his mother at low interest. Financing something. “That would be wonderful,” she said.
    â€œDo you like jai alai?”
    Tim loved jai alai. Terrific, Saad would get some tickets and they would go see some jai alai.
    *   *   *
    Saad Shamsi collected the three of them that evening after dinner. He didn’t seem put off by having to take her security, seemed in fact to get on very well with Tim. He had tickets for good seats, although Mayla didn’t know, she had never been to a jai alai match.
    Jai alai players leaped, arms top-heavy with cestas like flamingo beaks whipping the ball. The games were fast, the slap of feet against the floor, an explosion and a yell. The odds changed constantly and she didn’t understand the betting. A player leaped, flicking the ball across the court. His gear was brilliant red and he looked like a barbarian in armor covered at the vulnerable points: head, knees and elbows. He had silver streamers like tinsel tied around his biceps on his cesta arm. She wondered if that meant something, but not enough to ask.
    It was hard to concentrate on the game. She didn’t feel tired, not physically; fatigued, maybe. Eventually he would ask for it: a loan for a company run by a friend or that the administration of the monies for the construction work be handled by another company—selling the loan to him so he made half a percentage point a year.
    If he’d just get it over with, then she could be done with this nonsense of jai alai and evenings of entertainment and get on with the MaTE loan. More meetings with Polly Navarro.
    She wanted to see him again, wanted to talk to him, the way he had started to talk at the funeral. About terrorists. About security. What would it be like to work for Polly Navarro?
    The red player with the silver streamers scooped the ball, whirled and fired it, streamers tracing a fluid arc. Tim went to his feet, he had money on the game.
    She felt out of touch. She thought of La Mano de Diós and suddenly she could not manage to care about the jai alai game or about Polly Navarro or