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# 14-00000waiter, "W, will you have?" he asks gracion-ry.se reporters had figurel breakfast was probably a ruse, so they think about found for the first time. It is a struggle. Rothchild's stomach is filled with embalming fluid. He feels queasy looking at the mene, branch asks only for coffee and an order of toast, Roth-child follows suit, Morales looks disap poisted and urges them to eat more heartily fuckin orders eggs and Morales looks pleased. He orders a sump-tuous breakfast for himself. It arrives promptly."Well," he asks grandly, "who do you think will win your election, Carter or Ford?"The reporters exchange the look, familjar by now, that signals their agreement that absurdity has reached new heights. They mumble offhand an-swers as Morales listens intently."You don't really have much choice, do you? he asks. "I mean, you have two guys who don't have any ideas and don't have any backbone, right? And neither one of them can command any-thing or step anything, so it doesn't make any difference, right? At least that's what I get from Time maga-zine."Inclán tries to change the subject. She asks Morales about his position in the DISIP and gets no response. She mentions Morales' nephew, whom she knows in Miami, and Morales parries the remark. Suddenly a cloud comes acros3 his face."What's the inatter with you?" he demands. "Why aren't you eating?" Ife peints down at the dry toast, which Branch and Rothchild have been pick-ing at like wafilers at Communion. "Aren't you hungry?"Branch neds yes; Rothchild nods no. "You told me you hadn't gotten any breakfast, so I give you breakfast," Morales declares angrily, waving his arms. "If you are not hungry, you are liars! What's the matter with you?"The reporters are exasperated. "We are afraid and confused," says Inclán, "because nobody will tell us why this is happening to us. I am a reporter like all the other reporters down here. I want to interview Orlando Bosch like I did once before..." :.."Never heard of him," interrupts Morales. He gives us an exaggerated sirug and a quizzical look.Inclán shakes her head in despair. "Oh, come on. You testified against hina eight years ago in Miami and now he's the most famous prisoner in Latin America. He's in your jail.""Did he make Time magazine?" asks Morales."Yes," says Branch."I guess I missed it," says Morales, He pauses, then turns to Inclan. "You should not be running around asking so many questions," he says sternly. "You are a woman, Women should be at home having babies and making their men happy. Nothing else."(Inclán is rutled. "I can work as well as most other reporters," she says.Morales shakes his head vigorously. "No you can't. You are a hundred miles aw from reality." He looks off and again."s don't think so," says Inclán. "I think you are.""No," says Morales, "You are a hun-dred miles from reality, and I am a hundred years from reality. You under-stand the difference?"."I don't know what I understand," says Inclán, "I know something about you. Taylor says he talked to you about your background in Miami and you talked to him like a friend. He says you were nice and now you are...""I am not nice," snaps Morales. "You know what I used to do in Cuba when I was a kid? I sent anonymous death wreaths to my friends. All the time. Is that nice?"Branch does not like this subject or the faintly homicidal look he sees be-an-fore him. He decides to make another stab at levity. "Look, Ricardo," he says, "I'm upset that you and your men have kept me from seeing anything about the last game of the World Series last night.""The World Series," he says, his eyes opening wide. "Let me tell you about the World Series. It is just like the world everywhere: the Reds are win-ing and the Yanks are losing!" Morales breaks into laughter. Something snaps in the reporters and they laugh, too, uncontrollably. Fear floats out of their mouths and they feel better.Branch wades in to reestablish con-tact. "Look, Ricardo," he says gamely, "I can't help thinking this is some kind of mistake. I want to be straight with you. All I'm interested in is the mur.der of Orlando Letelier. That's what I came down here for, and I want...""He's the guy who got blown up in Washington, right?" Morales breaks in, "I think I saw that in Time.""That's right. He was blown up right around the corner from my apart.ment.""Wel" what are you doing in Veno-zuela i was killed in Washington!" Morales demands."Because I think the people who conspired to Lill him are here. That's what my sources say, and it has even been in some of the Venezuelan news. papers."Morales looks disgusted. "You shouldn't read the newspapers," he says. tightly. "They lie. And you should in-vestigate that murder in Washington instead of coming halfway around the world."Branch tries another tack. "I don't. understand what's behind this, Ricardo. You aren't like you were the last time I saw you, in 1974. Don't you remem-ber? It was at night in Miami Beach, and you brought your girl friend over to the house I was staying in. And Fotingo Silva was there. And Tamayo was there. We talked almost all night about the Congo. Why have you changed? Is there something."Branch stops because of what he sees on Morales' face."You are lying!" he explodes. "I have never heard of Ricardo Morales! This is the first time I have ever met you, and it is the first time you have met mel Understand? I have never seen you before in my life! If you say dif-ferent you are lying! And bad things happen to liars!"Inclán comes to Branch's rescue. "I have seen your picture," she says, "and I'm sure who you are. If you're not Morales, then what is your name?""I don't answer personal questions," Morales says, smiling, trying to look shy."I think maybe you figure there's a little spy conspiracy here," Branch ob-serves, stabbing in the dark. "But there isn't. John and nd I are old friends, but we just met Hilda yesterday. She is interested in Bosch and his friends be-cause of the bombings in Miami and the Cuban plane. We are interested in them because of Letelier. The three of us just happened to come down here on the same plane.""Oh, really?" says Morales dubious-ly. "I guess you are good friends now.""I guess we've gone through some-thing together," says Rothchild."Now you have something in com-mon," he nods, feigning tenderness, "Let's see, what else is there? Have you all been married?" The reporters nod. "How about divorced?" The re-porters nod again. "Once?" They nod again.Morales holds up three fingers. "I have been divorced' three times," he says, "after four kids. I haven't seen them in seven years." This hangs in the air."Do you miss them?" asks Inclán."Not the children," Morales says softly. "Just the wives sometimes. I don't miss much. You know I haven't slept in two years." The reporters give each other significant looks, like shrinks attending a primal-therapy session."If you are going to kick us out of the country, you should at least let us call our families," Inclán saya. "My editors are going to be worried. We8