Split Images

  They sat in the rented Buick and watched the yellow van pull out onto Federal Highway followed by the squad car. Angela let her breath out in a sigh.

  Bryan lighted a cigarette and handed it to her.

  She said, "You called Gary?"

  "I had him radioed--talking fast." He said, "Did you learn anything?"

  "I'm shaking.""But did you learn anything?"

  She said, "For a quiet evening, go out with cops."

  He said, "I didn't bring them. When you ask questions about people in that business they want to know who you are, look you over."

  That brought her eyes open wide. "Those two work for Chichi?"

  "Or somebody close to him," Bryan said. He started the car. "If it was me I'd fire them, get somebody can do the job."

  In the night she said, "Does everybody have another person inside them?"

  They had both been awake for some time, though not speaking. He said, "What if you saw me shoot someone?" And turned to see her staring at a shape on the ceiling, a reflection of the window.

  "I've pictured that. I can understand that. Having to shoot somebody," Angela said. She was silent then.

  He said, "But hitting the Miami cowboys seemed what? Vicious, unnecessary."

  She remained silent.

  He said, "Maybe it wasn't necessary. But I thought it was. I had to give them a reason to stay away from you while I'm gone." He felt her turn to him. "I want them to think about it and take theirtime and by then I'll be back. Unless you want to go with me."

  Her head turned on the pillow, looking at him.

  "You have to go home?"

  "Annie called today. They've got a witness in the Curtis Moore shooting, but the guy's holding back, won't tell everything he knows."

  "When're you going?"

  "Tomorrow sometime. I want to talk to Walter first, if I can. Walter could be the key to the whole thing." There was a silence again. He felt alone: the same feeling he'd had when she told him she was going to Tucson, the feeling of losing her. He wished she would say something without having to ask her a question first.

  He said, "With the two cowboys--maybe I was showing off a little, too."

  After a few moments she said, "Maybe I can help you with Walter." Giving him something, but not as much as he wanted.

  WHEN BRYAN CALLED Walter's wife in West Palm, Irene Kouza said, "Walter? Walter who? I don't know anybody by that name."

  Bryan said, "Mrs. Kouza, we met at Lieutenant Daugherty's retirement dinner at Carl's about three years ago."

  She asked him if he was down here on vacation.

  He said yes. Was he having a good time? Yes, a very nice time. She said, then what did he want to talk to Walter for and spoil it? She was way ahead of him and it took Bryan the first couple of minutes to realize it.

  Bryan said, while he was down here he was hoping he could stop in and see Walter, say hello. Irene Kouza said both their daughters were down with their husbands on vacation and Mr. Big Shot hadn't even bothered to call yet, her dry tone becoming abrasively cute. Anybody who wanted to talk to Mr. Big Shot had to call over there to the beach and leave their name. She began telling Bryan the costof lawn service for the tiny yard they had, seventyfive dollars to trim a hedge because Mr. Big Shot didn't have time no more, he was too busy--and Bryan got off the line as quickly as he could without sounding rude, feeling like he'd made an escape.

  The idea had been to catch Walter at home or arrange to meet him there: try to pry open the old Walter in a familiar setting. But Walter was staying clear of West Palm. Bryan had seen it before. A man able to kill other men, but scared to death of his wife.

  Angela said, "Let me try something."

  She called Walter at the Daniels place and invited him to lunch. She needed a little help with the piece she was doing on Robbie Daniels, an insider's view of how rich people lived. Walter said, certainly.

  She said to Bryan, "Charley's Crab at noon. See?

  You need me."

  That was all it took. He felt inspired again.

  A light blue suit coat straining, stretched across heavy shoulders--there he was, hunched over the bar with his shot and a beer and a pack of Camels.

  Bryan said, "Like getting ready for the second shift, Dodge Main."

  Walter turned to him, pompadour rising. "The fuck you want?"

  "Angela's gonna be a little late. I told her I'd buyyou a drink." It was ten to twelve. Bryan watched the bartender, good-looking young guy, serving customers on the other side of the bar pen, giving them draft beers to go with buckets of clams. The hostess was seating others in the near room among planters and plain-wood decor where young girls in black vests took over with smiles. Everything nice on a sunny day in season.

  "Walter, what's he want to shoot somebody for?"

  "You talking about?"

  "He gave me the same routine he gave you. He shows me the guns, he says Walter took one look--he goes, 'What're you gonna do, invade Cuba?' "

  "Guy's a collector, he likes guns," Walter finished the bottom of his shot and picked up the glass of beer. He said to the bartender, "Hey, buddy, do it again."

  Bryan ordered a draft. He waited for it to be placed in front of him, gave Walter time to pick up the new shot and sip off half of it.

  "He's got some beauties. His gun collection."

  Walter salted his beer and pushed the shaker toward Bryan.

  "He showed me the Python he used on the guy that broke in." Walter didn't comment. "What I can't figure out," Bryan said, "is how you can have all that money, can do anything you want and stillbe bored. Christ, we'd think of something to do with it. You imagine?"

  "Who says he's bored?"

  "He did. He told me. What's he, a little fucked up?"

  "He's a very educated man," Walter said. "Guy reads all the time."

  "Yeah, but what does he read? All his books're about the same thing. People getting taken out. He says to me, 'Who would you pick? Some universal asshole who deserves to die.' "

  Walter said, "What's hard about that? Christ, the way the world is today? Take your fucking pick. There's Castro. You got any number of dictators, shit. You got your PLO assholes, fucking Arabs. Your Cubans, your Haitians coming in, taking over. Go out to Belle Glade and warm up.

  'Cause pretty soon everybody's gonna be packing.

  You won't have no choice, you want to stay alive you better fucking know how to shoot."

  There were more sounds in the restaurant now, Palm Beachers coming in for lunch, though most of the places on this side of the bar remained empty.

  "I talked to Irene this morning."

  "Jesus Christ." Walter came around on his stool.

  "The hell you trying to do?"

  "I was looking for you, I thought you might be home. Then Angela said she was gonna see you . . ."Walter stared at him before turning back to his beer. He shook more salt into the glass and watched the dissolving crystals rise like foam.

  "She says you don't cut the grass anymore."

  "Three bills a week I give her, she can have it done."

  "She says you've changed."

  "Cut the shit, okay?"

  Bryan sipped his beer. "She says if I see you, remind you your daughters're down for a visit."

  Walter said, "Look, I don't ask you if you're fucking that girl writer. Mind your own fucking business, okay?"

  "Okay," Bryan said, "I was just telling you what Irene said." He took another sip of beer, nursing it along. "So, I gather you like your job. Seeing how the other half lives . . . I wondered how much dough he's got in that gun collection."

  "Don't worry about it," Walter said. "Guy can pay fifteen bills for a Mickey Mouse piece, he's not worrying about it, so don't you."

  Fifteen hundred.

  "What, a shotgun?"

  Walter looked at him again. "I thought he showed you his collection."

  "We didn't get into prices." Bryan waited. "I didn't see the High Standard. The one he had in his office."


  Walter remained hunched over the bar on hisarms. He pulled out a cigarette without picking up the pack and lighted it.

  "I wonder where he keeps it," Bryan said.

  Walter exhaled smoke, staring across the bar. He said, "You know who that is over there? The grayhaired gentleman, combed back?"

  "Who is it?"

  "That's Tony Marvin," Walter said. "He's down the beach at the Hilton. Has a show there."

  "Tony Martin, the singer?"

  "Tony Marvin. Marvin. Used to be with Arthur Godfrey. He was the good-looking dark-haired guy."

  "Oh," Bryan said, "the announcer. With the voice."

  "Yeah, Tony Marvin," Walter said. "I see him quite a bit, different places."

  Bryan said, "Walter, get me that High Standard.

  For one day."

  Walter said, "You're outta your fucking mind."

  "One day," Bryan said.

  "I should've known," Walter said. "All the chitchat, bunch of bullshit."

  "Walter, you were a cop for twenty-one years."

  He came off the stool brushing past Bryan, pushed his way between an elderly couple coming in the door and was gone.

  The bartender said, "Your friend left his cigarettes."Bryan paid for the rounds. Waiting for his change he put the half-pack of Camels in his pocket.

  The routine was established. Robbie would sit back with his drink and his peanuts. Sometimes he'd say, "It's showtime." Sometimes he'd say, "Roll it."

  And Walter would drop the cassette into the recorder and turn on the TV console.

  "Okay, boat coming along the Intracoastal.

  Okay, the patio. I'm waiting for somebody to come out." Slow minutes of stationary shots followed by abrupt jumps to something else, sky, trees, lots of trees, then back to the waiting shot of nothing. Like an Andy Warhol film.

  Robbie said, "It reminds me--you've seen those security guards looking at their monitors, a whole row of TV screens. Looking at the lobby. Looking at any empty hallway. Looking at the parking lot . . . And nothing ever happens." He was bored.

  "Here she comes now," Walter said.

  "Little T and A for our viewing pleasure . . .

  You're good whenever Dorie shows up, Walter. Old steady-hands . . . What's this?"

  "I hear a car," Walter said, "so I go back the road to check. It was the guy. You'll see him in a minute."

  "Jesus, I almost forgot," Robbie said. "Guess what washed in out of the ocean? I found it thismorning on the beach. A whole bale of grass. Goddamn thing must weigh two hundred pounds."

  "Waterlogged," Walter said. "Yeah, there's a lot of that. When I was with the cops here we'd find it up and down the beach. The stuff they throw over the side when the Coast Guard's bearing down on 'em. So, you want to use it?"

  "Why not? Then we won't have to wait for somebody to make a delivery. I'd rather catch him with coke, but pot's okay."

  "What'd you do with it?"

  "I had the gardener put it in the garage."

  "The gard ener?"

  "I told him I'd talk to the police about it . . .

  Well, look at old Cheech."

  "Looks like the fucking Shah of Iran," Walter said, "with the robe."

  "Gold lame," Robbie said. "They going swimming?"

  "Skinny-dipping," Walter said. "You leave that stuff in the garage, somebody's gonna say something. The help could cop on you, that fucking cook you got."

  "After we're finished here, put it in the Mercedes," Robbie said. "If you can lift it."

  "What, two hundred pounds? I can lift more'n that."

  "Even if it's half water," Robbie said, "dry it outyou'd have, say, a hundred pounds of good Colombian worth on the street about . . . four sixes're twenty-four, four ones're four, carry the two, sixtyfour, that's six hundred and forty times a hundred . . . say it's worth sixty grand at least.

  That should be plenty. You find that in a guy's house, he's a dealer . . . Where are they?"

  "See their heads? They're out'n the ocean."

  "Frolicking," Robbie said. "I never thought of Cheech as a frolicker."

  "I'd frolick her," Walter said.

  "Like a shot at that, huh?"

  "They're coming out now. Fucking Adam and Eve."

  "You zoom in?"

  "Zoom in for what? They're coming out. Little grab-ass on the way. The guy knows how to live, I'll say that for him. Plays golf, goes swimming.

  Never has to work . . ."

  Robbie leaned forward in his chair, toward the television set. "He's not hung at all." Sounding surprised. "I thought he was supposed to be hung."

  "The guy just come out of the fucking ocean,"

  Walter said. "What do you expect?"

  Robbie was squinting at the set. "He's got one of those brown ones. But there's nothing unusual about it. Would you call that a big shlong?"

  "I never measured any," Walter said. "That whatyou guys do, compare 'em? Maybe when I was about eight years old we did that, but not since then . . . Okay, grab their robes, go in the house."

  "What's this?"

  "I'm moving up on the house around the side.

  See if I can get a shot through a window."

  "Nothing's happening."

  "I left the camera, went up to check it out, but it was too dark. I'd have to use some lights."

  "You need a gaffer," Robbie said.

  "The fuck's a gaffer?"

  Robbie was staring at the house on the screen.

  "Did you see anything?"

  "You mean when I looked in? Yeah, Jesus, they were going at it. On the floor. They got this thick white carpeting."

  "What were they doing?"

  "They were doing it," Walter said.

  "I mean how were they doing it?"

  "Like you do it," Walter said. "You mean how were they doing it? Don't you know how to do it?"

  "I mean were they just . . . doing it?"

  "I'll tell you something," Walter said. "All the things you hear these days--I been wondering whatever happened to just plain fucking. Well, that's what they were doing."

  "Amazing," Robbie said.

  As far as Bryan was concerned it rained and turned dark at the wrong time. If it had rained and turned dark right after they came up from the beach and were alone in the room, then they could have used the mood of the rain and the dark and they would have gone to bed. By the time they got out of bed they'd be back together and doubts would have vanished. But when they came up from the beach it was still bright hot and he could hear kids playing in the swimming pool and a couple of the maids arguing in Spanish outside Number 15. When Angela was silent, Bryan was silent. He said, what's the matter?

  And she said, nothing. They could do that forever.

  In the car going to the airport he began with, "You're different." She said, "No, I'm not." And he felt dumb, awkward. He said, "Why're you so quiet?"

  She said, "I'm trying to figure out what to do with Robbie. I can't make it just another dopey interview. Not if he's got all those guns and he seriously intends to use them . . ."

  A Mickey Mouse piece--it went through Bryan's mind, words without anything to picture-- a weapon worth fifteen hundred dollars.

  "Can I? I don't want to throw away what I have," Angela said, "so maybe I begin like it's another dopey interview, then throw Chichi at him and see what happens. But I know I have to talk to Chichi if I want any kind of emotional angle, apoint of view, because Robbie's such a cold fish. He thinks he's Mr. Personality, but he's basically a very dull person. Do you see my problem?"

  "Is that what you've been thinking about?"

  "It's what I do, Bryan."

  It got dark and began to rain as they drove through West Palm.

  She said, "I'm not moody. When I'm in my head I'm working. I don't stew. If something bothers me I tell you." Her tone softened. "And then you straighten me out. Right?"

  He said, "I never worried before this. I'm thinking too much because I don't want anything to happen to us."

&nb
sp; She said, "Bryan, I think you're the niftiest guy I've ever known. I love you and all I see are good things happening."

  She said it so easily.

  He said, "I love you, too."

  It hung there inside the car with the sound of the windshield wipers going and the windows steaming over. He felt her hand touch his face, the tips of her fingers gently stroking. He heard her say, "Bryan, don't worry about us, we can't lose."

  When they were inside the garage Daniels said, there it is. The bale of marijuana was wrapped in a big gunnysack and stood chest-high on Walter. Daniels told him to put it in the "boot" of the Mercedes.

  The boot. T and A. Gaffer. Another one he used, "dailies," referring to the videotapes. The guy loved to use words nobody knew what they meant.

  The guy had a lot of show-off in him and maybe he should have been an actor, as someone had suggested one time. The guy didn't even help him.

  Walter struggled with the load himself and got the front of his shirt and pants messed up. He patted his pocket for a cigarette and remembered leaving them on the bar at Charley's Crab.

  "I saw Hurd today," Walter said. "He told me you showed him your guns."

  "Some of them," Robbie said. He brought the trunk lid down firmly, pushed on it again to be sure it locked and remained bent over, looking down.

  "What's that?"

  "Where?" Walter said.

  "It's a bumper sticker."

  Walter looked at it now. The bumper sticker said, Real Americans Buy American Cars.

  "That's been on there. Probably somebody in Detroit put it on."

  "Christ," Robbie said. "Well, get it off."

  "When I'm on surveillance or when I'm showing you movies?" Walter said. "Or when you're showing your guns to a police lieutenant investigating a homicide you happened to have committed?""I thought they'd gone," Robbie said. "I called the Holiday Inn the other day, they'd checked out."

  "Well, he was still here today. He said you give him the same routine you used on me. Like he knew all about it."

  "Sounds like he was fishing," Robbie said. "No, I was very careful, gave him only hypothetical situations. I was playing with him, Walter, that's all."

  "I think he makes you nervous," Walter said. "I think you don't know whether to try and buy him off or take a crack at him, which'd make you feel better."

  "That's your expert analysis?"