David de la Villa.
The guy had to be Da-veed, the Cuban busboy from Chuck and Harold's Renee had said weeks ago was about to be discovered. Coming back now with another canvas . . .
About five nine and weighed maybe one thirty in his black T-shirt and skinny black jeans.
Max said, "You're David, huh?" with the right pronunciation. "I was wondering what this's supposed to be." Looking at the painting in front of him.
The Cuban busboy said, "It's what it is, not what it's supposed to be." He opened a drawer in the table, brought out sheets of paper with DAVID DE LA VILLA
bold across the top, and handed one to Max. A press release. Name, born 1965 in Hialeah . . . He said, "If you don't know anything, read the part what the newspaper says, The Post. "
Max found it, a quote underlined. He read aloud, " '. . . de la Villa has rendered a vivid collage of his life, albeit in metaphor . . . he paints with a wry and youthful gallantry.'" Max looked at the painting again. "Yeah, now I see the youthful gallantry. I wouldn't say it's especially wry though. What do you paint with, a shovel?"
"I see you don't know shit," the Cuban busboy said.
Max might admit that, but not today, pretty sure now why the busboy looked familiar. The diamond stud in his ear, his hair, his attitude, his little pussy mustache. Max said, "Those are people in there?"
"From my life," the busboy said, "looking for ways to escape."
Max moved in closer. "You have something pasted on there, huh? I thought it was all paint, it looks like leaves."
"From the sugar cane. I show life as a cane field that has trapped us and we have to break out." "There's no cane in Hialeah I know of. If this is your life," Max said, looking from the canvas to the busboy, "how come I don't see anything about breaking in? Didn't I write you a bond a few years ago? You were up on a burglary charge?"
"You crazy."
"Aren't you David Ortega?"
"You see my name there, read it."
"What, de la Villa? That's your artsy name. You were David Ortega when I knew you. You copped to possession of stolen property and did about six months."
David Ortega de la Villa turned, started walking away.
Max said after him, "You sell any of this shit?"
The busboy stopped and turned around. "Now I see why she leave you."
"You selling or not? I'd like to know how my wife's doing, if anything."
"Now I see why she don't talk to you. Already she sell five in like two weeks. Treinta-thirty-five hundred each one."
"You're kidding. What's Renee get?"
"That's her business, not yours."
Max kept his mouth shut. Her business but his money going into it to pay the rent, the phone-at least he hadn't paid for the olive jars, three-foot iron ashtrays it would take two guys to lift and empty. He wanted her to walk in right now with Da-veed's lunch-he'd march her into the office and tell her that was it, no more, she was on her own. He was quitting the bail-bond business and filing for divorce. He looked at the painting in front of him.
Maybe not spring the divorce on her just yet.
But definitely tell her he wasn't paying any more of her bills.
Da-veed, the home-invading artist, said, "You see this one?" coming over to a canvas. "Look at it good. Tell me is someone in there you know."
"I don't see anybody in there."
"In this part, right here."
Max stared and a figure began to appear. A boy? He moved closer, squinting. A boy's short hair but a woman, dots to indicate her exposed breasts, a tiny dark smudge that might be her bush. A pale-green woman in the dark-green leaves pasted down and painted over.
"Is that supposed to be Renee?"
"Man, you don't reco'nize your own wife? Yeah, she pose for me naked like that all the time."
It was hard to imagine. Renee used to go in the closet to put her nightgown on. How could this little asshole get her to take her clothes off? But wait a minute . . . Max said, "What's Renee doing in a cane field?"
"The field is a symbol of her oppression, what she desires to escape," the busboy said. "Her years of bondage to you. No life of her own."
Max said, "Bondage?"
And stopped. What was he going to do, rehash twenty-seven years of married life with this kid? He had a better idea and said, "Do me a favor, will you?"
The busboy said, "What?" suspicious.
"Put me in there, coming out of the cane."
Ordell loved this mall, the biggest, jazziest one he'd ever been in, done all modern with trees, with fountains, skylight domes way up there, the best stores. . . . They had Saks Fifth Avenue, where Ordell liked to buy his clothes; Macy's; Bloomie's; Burdine's; Sears, where Louis should go. They had up on the second level all different ethnic cafe counters where you ordered your food and brought it out to an area where you could sit down if you could find a place. Crowded every day now in the season. Jackie said it might be the place to make the delivery. Maybe even make the switch and the delivery right there; it was busy and confusing enough the way the area was laid out, Jackie said like a maze.
She was still at the table having some kind of Greek shit in that pita bread. He hadn't seen anything he wanted to eat and they'd finished their business, so he was leaving-once he called the hospital, i learn how Cujo was doing. The boy didn't have a phone in his room, you had to ask about him and get somebody to tell you. The man that came on the phone yesterday kept wanting to know who this was calling; so he'd tried again last night and the nurse said Hulon was doing fine-who?-and going home, it looked like, in a few days. She said "home" but meant jail, or else didn't know any better. In the paper it said Hulon Miller, Jr., had "gunned down" the FDLE officer before he was "shot and apprehended" by a federal agent. The time and location told Ordell they were on his ass and now he'd have another one could be telling stories on him, Cujo looking to cop. What he needed to do was speak to Cujo before they rode him out to Gun Club. Make a visit to the hospital.
Ordell had a mall guide with a map in it that showed telephones on the lower level, back in a corner by Burdine's. He started across the big open area in the center of the mall, where you had a view of the fountain and the pools, headed for the down escalator, and stopped. Ordell turned around quick and crossed back to duck inside Barnie's Coffee & Tea Company.
Who was that coming off the up escalator but the bail bondsman, Max Cherry, Max heading toward the food counters now.
Ordell, watching from Barnie's, began to think: Wait now. Why had he ducked in here to hide from Max? It wasn't until this moment, stopping to look at what he was doing, he thought of the Rolex watchthat was it-and the possibility Max had found out what it was worth. It was instinct had made him duck in here. Something watching over his ass while his head was someplace else. He said to himself, You see that? Man, you have a gift.
Max walked past the food counters lined with customers: Olympus, Cafe Manet, Nate's Deli, China Town, the Italian Eatery, wondering which one would appeal to Renee, always a finicky eater. Didn't like anything to touch on her plate, not even peas and mashed potatoes. Chick-fil-A, Gourmet Grill, Nacos Tacos . . . that could be it, something spicy for the busboy. But she wasn't at Nacos Tacos or at Stuff 'N Turkey, not at any of the counters. Max turned to the eating area in the semicircle of cafes: rings of tables around and beneath an eight-pillared gazebo the size of a house with a fountain in the center. Areas were sectioned off by dividers and planters; aisles seemed to go around in circles. He moved a few steps in and began looking at one section at a time, his gaze inching along, thinking it was too crowded to pick anyone out. . . .
And saw her within a few seconds.
Renee sitting by herself: that skullcap of dark hair, turquoise loop earrings, a dark blue dress off one shoulder, Renee picking at a salad, taking dainty bites, a carryout container on the table . . .
Close by, almost next to him, a woman's voice said, "Max?" and he knew it was Jackie before he turned and saw her looking up at him,
Jackie with her cigarette and a cup of coffee, finished with her lunch. She said, "What're you up to?" with that kind of shy smile.
"I walked right past you."
"1 know," Jackie said, "ignoring me. You were looking for someone."
Not anymore. He did glance over as he sat down and moved plastic lunch dishes aside to lean over his arms on the table, Max out of Renee's line of sight if she happened to look this way. He said, "You clean your plate," and watched her raise her cigarette.
"How're you doing?"
"Not bad."
Moving her shoulders in the light cotton sweater she wore without a blouse, the sleeves pushed up. "What're you, a bag lady?"
On the bench next to her she had what looked like an assortment of shopping bags folded and stuffed inside a black Saks Fifth Avenue bag.
She said, "I go back to work tomorrow," as if that explained the bags.
It didn't matter. He said, "You talked them into it."
"They seem to like the idea."
"Bring the money in and they follow it?"
"Yeah, but I'm going to dress it up. Put the money in a shopping bag and hand it to someone I meet here."
"You don't actually do it that way?"
"He always picked it up at my place," Jackie said. "But now with ATF involved I want to stage it, you know, make it look more intriguing, like we know what we're doing. Then it's up to Ray to follow the shopping bag. Nicolet, the ATF guy."
"Make the delivery," Max said, "somewhere in the mall?"
"I think right around here."
"Sit down, leave the bag under the table?"
"Something like that."
"Will Ordell go for it?"
"I'm helping him bring his money in," Jackie said. "He loves the idea."
With that gleam. Serious business but having fun. It was strange, both of them smiling a little, treating it lightly until Max said, "I heard about Tyler," and her expression changed. "I saw it in the paper and called a guy I know in the State Attorney's Office. He said he's gonna be okay."
"Yeah, Tyler's not a bad guy, I like him," Jackie said. "Only now I'm dealing strictly with Nicolet. He likes the idea of picking up the money, but says he has to get Ordell with guns."
"I won't say I told you," Max said.
"He says he doesn't care about the money, but I think he likes it more than he lets on-if you know what I mean."
He watched Jackie draw on her cigarette and let out a slow stream of smoke. As she raised her coffee cup Max leaned back to check on Renee-still there, nibbling-and came forward again to the table.
Jackie was watching him.
"You're meeting someone." Max shook his head. "My wife's sitting over there."
"You were looking for her."
"Yeah, but I hadn't made plans to meet her." Jackie leaned back against the bench, looking that way.
"Where is she?"
"Three tables over, in the blue dress."
He watched Jackie looking at his wife.
"She's quite petite."
"Yes, she is."
"Don't you want to talk to her?"
"It can wait." Jackie was looking at him again and he said, "I called you last night."
"I know, I got your message. Ray wanted to have dinner, to talk about the sting we're plotting. That's what he calls it, a sting. He's being nice to me," Jackie said, leaning in now to rest her arms on the table. "I can't help wondering if he's interested in the money for himself."
"Because he's nice to you?"
"Setting me up to make a proposition."
"Has he hinted around?"
"Not really."
"Then why do you think he might want it?"
"I knew a narcotics cop one time," Jackie said. "He told me that in a raid, 'the whole package never gets back to the station.' His exact words."
"You know some interesting people," Max said. "I believe him, because later on he was suspended and forced to retire."
"Has Nicolet told you any stories like that?"
She shook her head.
"He tries to act cool." "There's no harm in that. He's a young guy, having fun being a cop. He might cut a few corners to get a conviction-from what I've heard about him-but I can't see him walking off with that kind of money, it's evidence."
She said, "What about you, Max, if you had the chance?"
"If I was in Nicolet's place?"
She might've meant that and changed her mind, shaking her head. "No, I mean you, right now. Not if you were someone else."
"If I saw a way to walk off with a shopping bag full of money, would I take it?"
She said, "You know where it came from. It's not like it's someone's life savings. It wouldn't even be missed."
Watching him, waiting for an answer. She was serious.
"I might be tempted," Max said. "Especially now, since I'm getting out of the bail-bond business." That stopped her, no question about it.
"I have to stand behind all my active bonds, but I'm not writing any new ones."
She eased back against the bench. "Why?"
"I'm tired of doing it. . . . I'm in a bad situation with the insurance company I represent. The only way to get out of it is quit the business."
"When did you decide?"
"It's been coming. I finally made up my mind-I guess it was Thursday."
"The day you got me out of jail."
"That night I went to pick up a guy. Sat there in the dark with a stun gun, the place smelling of mildew . . ."
"After we were together," Jackie said.
Max paused. "Yeah . . . I thought, What am I doing here? Nineteen years of this. I made up my mind to quit the business. And while I was at it, file for divorce."
She was staring at him but didn't seem surprised now.
"All of a sudden, after twenty-seven years?"
"You look back," Max said, "you can't believe that much time went by. You look ahead and you think, shit, if it goes that fast I better do something with it." "Have you told Renee?"
"That's why I came here."
Jackie looked over that way. "She's leaving."
"I'll get to it," Max said. He saw Renee in her offone-shoulder dark blue gown that reached almost to the floor standing by the table, picking up her bag and the carryout container for the busboy.
"She looks good," Jackie said.
"How old is she?"
"Fifty-three."
"Stays in shape."
"She's her main concern," Max said.
"Seems very confident. The way she walks, holds her head."
"Is she gone?"
Jackie turned to him again, nodding. "You're afraid of her, aren't you?"
"I think it's more, I never really got to know her. We didn't talk much, all those years. You know when you're with someone and you have to try and think of something to say?" Jackie was nodding. "That's how it was. What she's doing now, age fifty-three, Renee poses nude for a Cuban busboy who paints cane fields and she sells them for thirty-five hundred a copy. So she's all set."
"Which bothers you more," Jackie said, "her posing nude or making money?"
"The guy bothers me, the painter," Max said. "He irritates the hell out of me, but so what? I outweigh him fifty pounds, I hit him it's assault with intent, a three-thousand-dollar bond. Renee, what she's doing I think is great. She's finally got something going and I don't have to feel guilty trying to understand her." "You don't have to support her either," Jackie said. "There's that too. She's working and I'm not." "Then why don't you sound happy about it?" "Right now I'm relieved, that's enough."
Jackie lit a cigarette before she looked at him again. "I'm not sure you answered my question."
"Which one?"
"If you had the chance, unemployed now, to walk off with a half million plus, would you do it?"
"I said I'd be tempted." She kept staring at him and he said, "You know I was kidding."
"Were you?"
Max said, "Don't even think about it, okay? You could get
killed, you could get sent to prison. . . ." He stopped because she had that look in her eyes again, that gleam with the smile in it that turned him on.
She said, "But what if there was a way to do it?"
They had told Ordell on the phone, third floor east wing and the room number. Half-past eleven Sunday night, all he had to do was wait in the stairwell for the deputy to get tired sitting by himself in the hall and go up to the nurse's counter to stretch his legs and visit. That's how easy it was to get to see Cujo. Ordell walked into the semidark room wearing a dark suit and necktie, carrying a box of peanut brittle he set on the bedside stand. He pulled the pillow out from under Cujo's head, not wasting any time.
Cujo said, "Hey, shit," coming awake cranky and with bad breath.
Ordell said, "Hey, my man," laying the pillow on Cujo's chest, "how you doing? You making it? They treating you all right?"
Cujo said, "What you want?" squinting and scowling at him, mean and grouchy waking up from his sleep.
Ordell said, "Man, they ought to give you something for your breath," moving the pillow up to Cujo's chin. "Close your eyes, I be out of here in a minute." Ordell took a good hold on the pillow with both hands, started to lift it, and the overhead light came on in the room.
Now a fat nurse helper was right there at the foot of the bed saying, "What're you doing in here?" Ordell glanced around to see the deputy in here too, an older guy but big, with a belly on him.
"I was fixing his pillow," Ordell said, "fluffin' it for him so he be comfortable. Turning it to the cool side."
The fat nurse helper said, "You're not supposed to be in here. It's way past visiting hours." The fat deputy next to her now, watching him with that dumbeyed no-shit deputy look.
Ordell held his hands out to the sides, resigned. "I told his mama I'd come visit. She use to keep house for my mama 'fore my mama passed on. But see, I'm Seven-Day Adventis' and I was out door-todoor collecting for the church all day. You know, for the poor people ain't got nothing to eat?"
The fat nurse helper said, "Well, you're not suppose to be in here."
And the fat deputy said, "Get your ass out, now." So Ordell wasn't able to settle his mind about Cujo. Shit. He left knowing he had a problem on his hands.
Chapter 16
Sunday evening, early, Ordell had brought Louis to his house on 30th Street in West Palm, introduced him to Simone, telling her to take good care of Louis, he would be staying here a few days. Ordell showed Louis the guest room, the Beretta nine in the bureau drawer he was to bring along tomorrow, and left saying he had to visit a friend in the hospital, "See you in the morning."