* * *
AFTER PRIETO HAD told Lourdes and his ex-wife and the family, he was chomping at the bit to do this presser. He’d been nervous, of course, but excited to be done with this chapter of his life. Olga, however, knew it wasn’t quite that simple. After so many years with Prieto in their back pocket, she didn’t think the Selbys would let him go that easily.
“I’ve got nothing to hide anymore, hermana! ?Nada!” he said with joy.
Pendejo, she thought to herself. She was surprised he hadn’t been blackmailed by more people.
“Really, Prieto? Because the last time I checked your mother was a fugitive plotting the rebellion of an American colony, and the only reason that hasn’t derailed your career thus far is because our electoral system is so wack, you’ve been uncontested in every election you’ve run in.”
“You always gotta be a wet rag.”
“I’m trying to be pragmatic. Gay. AIDS. Drug-using dad. Fine. News gets out that your mom is a nutjob anarchist, it starts to feel like too much. Who else knows about Mami?”
“My man Bonilla at the FBI is the one who showed me her file. If he knew about the Pa?uelos, he’d have told me. Besides, he’s a friend. He’s one of us.”
“Alejandro García Padilla is one of us, too. Doesn’t mean he didn’t sell us out. We should assume the Selbys know everything that Bonilla knows.” He looked dejected, but Olga pressed on. “Remember when you were on City Council? How everyone was on their payroll?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think it’s the same way in Congress?”
* * *
AND SO IT was that question that Olga brought to a journalist she was friendly with at New York magazine over a delightful lunch at DUMBO House. Olga’s treat, of course. The young woman, Olga knew, was bored with churning out Lifestyle content and eager to cut her teeth on something more relevant. The City Council story broke in a matter of days; the paper trail tying Selby money to the councilmembers had been hidden in plain sight since 9/11. Almost immediately the New York AG opened an investigation into both Nick and Arthur Selby, as well as several current and former city councilmen and women. （The national story—the one that would eventually entangle nearly twenty congressmen on both sides of the aisle from New York, New Jersey, Georgia, California, and Florida—was slower to percolate, with new bits coming up week by week.） And while Olga and her brother knew the Selbys’ influence was hardly crushed, the so-called Selby scandal seemed enough of a distraction to get Prieto out of their crosshairs. At least for now.
* * *
WHEN THE PRESSER was over, after her brother had answered all the questions, shaken all the hands of any constituents who had shown up, and seen all their family off to start their days, it was Olga and her brother left at the top of the hill in Sunset Park, on a brisk and clear November day. He was beaming.
“Papi’d be proud,” she said as they made their way over to a park bench.
“Remember when we were real little and he’d take us here? We’d come to the pool and then he’d make us just sit here, quiet, and look at the water?”
“Of course. He told us to tell the Statue of Liberty our dreams.”
“Yeah. I know we were supposed to be dreaming of, you know, world liberation and shit, but you know what I used to think about? Finding somebody to love as much as Papi and Mami loved each other then.”
“You know what’s funny?” Olga asked. “Me, too.”
“ADESTE, FIDELES”
When it was dark and Olga saw a light go on in Matteo’s window, she crossed the street and pulled his spare key out from under his neighbor’s doormat. When he first revealed this hiding place to her—the night of Mabel’s wedding, when he was too drunk to figure out which key was his—she could tell he’d thought himself quite clever, and remembering his self-satisfaction made her laugh. She had not seen his face in nearly a month and the prospect both unnerved and excited her.
She had known Mabel was right. This was too important to throw away. She had to push past her fear and tell him what happened. But the full truth wasn’t immediately ready. It was Mabel who convinced her to at least send him a message. To at least let him know that it wasn’t him. To stop, in the active sense, torturing him. （“Pero, every day you don’t follow up, that’s mad hurtful. You know that, right?” And she did. Of course she did.） Still, it took her time to reach out. To push past the part of her who felt, on some level, that deprivation of love was something she deserved.