“He’s tailing you to find out.”
“All he has to do is ask.”
“What would you tell him?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Wait—whose is it?”
“I told you, collection money. Numbers, sports bets, card games—all illegal, the sources.”
Linda said, “Wow,” her voice hushed. “But you can’t keep it. Can you?”
“Why not? I turn it in the state keeps it, or it goes in the Police Recreational Fund. But they’re not gonna return it, we know that. And we know Ricky’s not gonna go to the cops and file a complaint. So . . .”
“What’re you going to do with it?”
“I’ve got an idea . . . But you can have some if you want.”
“Jesus, Vincent—”
He got his key out, opened the door, touched Linda to go in ahead of him. He closed the door, double-locked it. When he turned Linda was close enough to touch, her coat off her shoulders, holding it, looking at the polished stainless-steel urn standing on the dresser.
She said, “Is it going to bother you?”
“What?”
“Iris being here.”
His hands moved over her shoulders to take her coat, get it out from between them.
“I’ll put Iris in a drawer.”
Teddy opened his eyes, saw the roof interior right there over him and thought he was in Monroe Ritchie’s bunk. Nope, he was parked down at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, the windshield, the first floor lit up, the two upper floors dark except for a couple of windows. The Datsun was still parked in front. It was ten past three by the luminous dial in the dashboard. His mom had probably got up to make wee-wee and looked in his room. He’d have to have a story for her. How about—“See, I had to wait till this fella was asleep before I went up to his room and shot him.” And his mom would say, “Oh, you.” But there was the idea, the way it came to him just waking up, and he thought, You could look into it. You been fooling around all this time, you gonna do it or not? The woman could be there with him or she went home, took a cab. Would it matter? No, he didn’t think it would. She could watch. Jesus. That idea excited him a little—the woman laying there naked, watching—the way the idea of pushing Iris naked off the balcony had excited him. Yes, he was getting excited; he could feel it.
He opened his camera case, got the Colt automatic but didn’t stick it in his pants till he was out of the car. Nice evening. Morning now. Should he lock the doors? No—what if he had to leave in a hurry? Should he have the motor running then? No—what if somebody stole the car while he was in there? There was a lot to think about in a deal like this; you didn’t just walk in and shoot somebody. He smoothed down his suede jacket over his gun and approached the hotel. The bar looked busy. He entered the lobby. Nobody around. And you couldn’t see into the bar from here, there was a partition.
Up to this point he believed he was going to knock on the cop’s door, say “Bellboy,” if he had to and stick the .38 in the cop’s face when he opened the door. Not foolproof at all. What was he delivering, flowers? A message that could be stuck under the door?
But wait just a minute here—looking around the empty lobby, looking at the desk and the room mailboxes behind it, nobody anywhere around. There you go. Teddy got a key to 310 and headed for the stairs.
A light, over the parking lot across the street, showed the window, the wall where the dresser stood; it revealed the foot of the bed, the spread hanging off, and reached almost to the door. In the silence she kissed his chest, came to his beard and whispered, “Where’s your mouth? There it is, right . . . there.” Whispering, “I love your mouth. I can kiss your mouth, Vincent, and know it’s you.” Whispering, “You lied to me, Vincent, but it’s all right. I still love your mouth.”
“When did I lie to you?”
“You don’t have a violent nature. You have a nice one. But that’s all I know about you.”
“I’m rich. You know that much.”
“That’s right, I forgot.”
“I’m conservative.”
“I might’ve been wrong.” She said, “I won’t ask if you’re married.”
“Okay.”
“Are you married?”
“I was . . . My wife died.”
She said, “Oh,” and was silent.
He told her he was here now, right here, nowhere else. Touching her, aware of an intense feeling of tenderness, he believed he was falling in love—not unlike the way he had fallen in love with Ginny, the nurse who removed his catheter. He told Linda he had never made love to a piano player before.
She said, good, and moved her hand over his shoulder, his chest, fingers moving lightly over his ribs, feeling each one, down to his hip, feeling him, finding out things about him, touching smooth scar tissue. Whispering, “I could play you, Vincent. Very slow . . . funky . . . bluesy. Stretch the note till you think it’s going to break . . . Stretch it some more.” Whispering, as her hand moved to his groin, “Ah, there it is, my instrument.”
“Play it,” Vincent said, “you’ll get a standing ovation.”
“What would you like to hear?”
He didn’t answer. She seemed to feel his body tense slightly and raised her head. His finger, one finger, came to her mouth and touched it. They moved apart. She watched him roll to his stomach and reach over the side of the bed to the floor. His hand came up holding a gun, then went down and came up again, his white jockey briefs hanging from the barrel.
Teddy’s hand came away from the door to 310. He’d turned the knob both ways as quietly as he could, checking; it was locked. As he got the key out of his jacket he realized it was going to take two hands: insert the key with one, turn the knob with the other. Shit—he had to stick his gun in his belt. He looked down the length of the hall toward the stairs, a long haul if you had to get there in a hurry. Then the other way, about thirty feet to the dead end of the hall and the EXIT sign lit up over the door to the back stairs.
He wished he knew which way to turn the key. He wished he knew if there was a second lock inside, a deadbolt, the kind you set at night. Would a cop use it? He didn’t even know if the cop had a gun or not.
The palms of his hands were moist. Well sure. He’d knock on a door and say he was with International Surveys and his palms would be like this. It was part of it, always a little scary.
Teddy slipped the key into the lock, turned it easily with just a tiny click of a sound. He put his other hand on the knob. Okay, he’d open the door just barely, pull his Colt, bang in there . . . In this moment, right in front of him, so close, he heard the deadbolt released and felt the knob turn in his hand—turned by somebody right there on the other side of the door—Christ, and felt goosebumps as he jumped back, brought up the Colt with his arm extended straight out . . .
The way Linda saw it, from the offside of the bed, where Vincent had motioned her to get over there and get down:
She saw him in his undershorts with the gun held close to his shoulder, jockeys snug and compact against dark skin, a white band below his hips, sexy, really nice buns. It amazed her to think that, the way her heart was beating. He stood against the wall next to the door, reached over to slip the deadbolt, took the knob in his hand to yank the door open . . . God, and the sound was deafening, the gunshots, three in quick succession and the sound of glass breaking as the window shattered. There was an aftersound in the silence, a ringing in her ears, and she was aware of running steps in the hall and a door banging. Vincent moved into the doorway, careful rather than hesitant, the way he looked out. She heard his steps then, lighter, barefoot. By the time Linda got to the doorway and took a look, Vincent was at the end of the hall. He pushed open the EXIT door very carefully, paused to listen a moment and was gone. She looked down the hall in the other direction. It was quiet. Not a sound, not a single door opened.
Linda came back in the room, put on her coat and hugged it to her, shivering, telling herself there was nothing t
o be afraid of. But it was so quiet now. She stood close to the broken window to look down at the street, the light reflecting on wet pavement.
A car door slammed shut. An engine came to life, its revs increasing to a high whine, a sound of panic, and now a light-colored two-door appeared out of the dark end of the street, lights off, and shot past the hotel toward Pacific Avenue. She saw Vincent now, Vincent without a doubt: a figure in the street light in white skivvies, holding something in his hand, extending his arm . . . Then lowered it as the sound of the car faded. He walked toward the hotel. A much darker figure appeared, a man who had come out of the hotel. The man stood waiting, watched Vincent approach and spoke to him as he walked past. Vincent, coming toward the entrance now, looked back to say something, then was out of view.
Linda got back in bed, pulled the covers up against the chill in the room and watched the crack of light along the edge of the partly open door. She tried to guess what he would do. Phone someone, the police. Get dressed. Pack his bag . . .
He came in and got in bed with her making sounds to let her know he was cold, shivering, making his teeth chatter, overdoing it. She pressed her body against his, a leg between his legs and moved her hand over him. He was cold, his nipple hard, but he felt good. She knew his body in one night, the familiar parts. She wanted to ask him questions. She heard his voice low, close to her:
“A drunk comes out of the hotel, he sees this guy in his underwear with a gun. What does he say?”
She said, “Wait, let me think.” But she couldn’t wait and she couldn’t think. She said, “Quit trying to be cool. Who was it? Did you see him?”
“It wasn’t Ricky. Maybe a friend of his, but I don’t know . . . I don’t think so. The guy didn’t do it right.”
She said, “Vincent, somebody tries to kill you—you don’t know who it is?” He didn’t answer. “Did you talk to anybody? I mean from the hotel, the manager?” He told her no, only the drunk, outside. She said, “I can’t believe it. All that noise, nobody even looked out in the hall.”
They were silent, holding each other. Maybe both with the same thoughts, Linda wasn’t sure. Close to her Vincent said, “A drunk comes out of the hotel and sees this guy in his underwear with a gun . . .”
18
* * *
THE MOOSE, DELEON JOHNSON, would say, uh-huh; say, unh-unh; say, umh-humh; nod, nod some more. While Jackie Garbo walked back and forth in front of his desk, fat little curly-haired Hymie pleading his case.
“What’s happening to me? I been paying attention. Haven’t I been paying attention? I don’t get out a bed in the morning I know what I got on for the day. I got the fucking printout next to my bed, I open my eyes I know whose ass I’m gonna kiss, exactly what it looks like. I know the guy’s credit line to the dollar, what kind a scotch he drinks. I know if he wants one a the showgirls or he wants a midget with big tits, I know his taste. You pick me up, I come out a the house, what’ve I got in my hand? I got the fucking printout in my hand, right? I’m not paying attention? I grew up doing this. I can do it no-handed with my eyes closed. Our first year we’re gonna gross two hundred fifty million, I guarantee—highest gross per square foot of any casino in town outside a Resorts and maybe the Nugget, this cunt infers I’m drinking I don’t know what’s going on. ‘Oh, is that a martini?’ No, it’s a cream soda with a fucking olive in it. Twenty-five years I’m in Vegas, right? I think it was Johnny Carson, very dear friend of mine. He says, ‘You ever drive in Vegas? It’s terrible, it’s unbelievable.’ He says, ‘I put my hand out to make a turn and somebody grabbed my martini, took it right out a my hand.’ I could tell her that one she’d go, ‘Yeah?’ waiting for the punch line. You know what I’m saying? It’s a gag, but it’s Vegas. She doesn’t comprehend that. Tommy, he doesn’t know Come from Don’t Come. He starts talking, using words, not knowing shit and walks right into it. Pow, she lets him have it. She’s right, he’s in the fucking bag half the time. I don’t know for the life of me how he ever got where he is. Comes out a Fordham Law, the guy, I think what he is he’s a real estate salesman happen to be at the right place the right time. He’s not on the juice he can bullshit his way right into your heart, right? He sold me. I thought, fuck, the guy’s a natural. He must a sold her too, Nancy. But now she sees, Christ, he doesn’t know half a what she does. What’s she need this asshole for? So she’s swiping at his balls with anything she can lay her hands on”—DeLeon nodding, yeah, that’s right, yeah—“and I’m standing next to the schmuck, I could lose mine in the same swipe. For what? Do I need this shit?”
“You’re the man here,” DeLeon said. “They don’t have but a hotel, some restaurants without you.”
“We’re in the deli—listen to this.”
DeLeon, on the couch, glanced away from Jackie to Rosemary, Jackie’s secretary, fine red-headed woman, standing in the doorway waiting to cut in.
“We’re in there having a quick sandwich, I’m telling him all the heat I’m getting outside, these guinea fucks want a bring all their pals in here, let us comp ’em, we don’t even break even. The manager, listen to this, the manager happens to stroll by, Tommy says, ‘Irv, I notice those salamis hanging over there behind the counter’re wrinkled.’ He’s serious. Irv goes, ‘Yeah? Those’re aged, Mr. Donovan, that’s how they look.’ I’m telling him about a situation could put him out a business, he’s worried about the fucking salami. You want a hear some more?”
DeLeon held up his hand, nodded toward the doorway.
“There’s a gentleman in the lobby, Mr. Vincent Mora,” Rosemary said. “You want to see him?”
Jackie looked at DeLeon. “What’d I tell you? They put him off on me.” He said to Rosemary, “Sure, I’m not doing nothing. Bring him in, see if he wants a drink.”
DeLeon waited; Rosemary left and he said, “You want me here or where I can be reached?”
“I’ll see him alone,” Jackie said. “I buzz, you come in, quick. I nod, don’t be polite, I want him carried out.”
They shook hands. Mr. Garbo? Yeah. Mr. Mora? Standing, facing each other across the desk, Vincent with the blue canvas carry-on bag hanging from his shoulder. Drink? No thanks. Please, sit down. What can I do for you? Pleasant, to this point.
Vincent got comfortable, placed the canvas bag next to his chair. He said, “Let’s talk about Iris Ruiz.”
Now Jackie got comfortable, sat back in his leather chair.
“We could,” Jackie said. “Except I don’t see where I have to say one fucking word, sitting here in Atlantic City, to a cop twelve hundred miles out of his jurisdiction. Which happens to be Miami Beach. Gotcha.” Jackie grinned. “Twenty-five years looking at stone-faced dealers I see just a twitch, a blink, I can tell when I caught ’em by surprise. Are we straight so far? You’re a dick, or I understand you say you are, and you’re a friend of Iris or you know her. Okay, and then I say I don’t give a fuck who you are or what you want. Though I got a good idea what it is. What else?”
Vincent liked the way Jackie came right at him. Fat little guy with his pinky ring, his pictures of stars—wanting to sound tough, hip—with lifts in his alligator shoes. He made assumptions and liked to talk. And Vincent liked to listen. He had known many Jackie Garbos in Miami Beach; they were fun. You could act just a little naive and they’d perform for you.
He said, “The way I understand it, you were with Iris the night before.”
“The night before what?”
“She died. There was also a guy there by the name of”—Vincent dug into his jacket for a slip of notepaper, opened it—“is it Benavides?”
“You asking me or telling me?”
“It looks like Benavides,” Vincent said. “Anyway, he was there too. I think he stayed at this hotel.”
“You’re not sure?” Jackie came forward in his chair, reached for the phone. “You want to call Reservations and check? Come on, what kind a shit is this?”
“You flew him to Miami yesterday and he went out of there on Avianca
, flight seven to Bogotá.”
“Wait a minute,” Jackie said. “You Drug Enforcement?”
Vincent shook his head. “I know some DEA guys though.” He looked at the sheet of notepaper. “Also present was DeLeon Johnson, formerly of the Miami Dolphins.”
“And still mean and aggressive,” Jackie said. “You want to meet him?”
“I understand he works for you?”
“Guards my body, does whatever he’s told. Who else you got? Let’s see where we’re going here.”
Vincent said, “I’ve got a LaDonna Padgett?”
“Very dear friend of mine.”
“How about Frank Cingoro? Is he a friend too?”
Jackie didn’t answer. His eyelids seemed heavier as he stared at Vincent. He brought his hands slowly from the desk to his lap.
Vincent said, “Frank Cingoro . . . No comment? How about Ricky Catalina? Ricky a friend or just one of the many assholes you associate with?”
“Maybe I been misinformed,” Jackie said. “You’re with the Miami Beach Police . . .”
“You asking me or telling me?” Vincent waited a moment, then smiled.
So did Jackie. “You’re not here in any official capacity.”
“You mean, like I’m on loan to the police here?” Vincent shook his head. “Hardly ever happens.”
“So you’re on your own. Is that correct?”
“You could say that.”
“Okay, you come here, you’re a city cop, you know your way around. Am I correct? Back home you got a car and a boat, nice house. Find it tough to send the kids to college? On a cop’s pay . . .”
Vincent shrugged.
“It’s funny,” Jackie said, “I first saw you I put you down as a narc, the beard, the grubby raincoat. Now, you look very presentable. You don’t look like a narc at all. You look like a blackjack counter, fucking math teacher from Minneapolis. I get ’em coming from every direction, all the hotshots think they can beat the house, make a fortune. I get the card counters, all kinds a cheats, guys that stick wires down the slots. Or they try and run a con on me, which sounds like what you’re doing, my friend. All the dope traffic in Miami, you don’t score enough off a that? You got to come and lean on me, for Christ sake?” Jackie placed his elbow on the desk, raised a limp hand, diamond winking, and pointed a finger at Vincent. “Lemme see if I can make the connection, okay? You got time? I’m not keeping you from any skim deals you got going?”