“Goddamn,” he said, splayed on the concrete. “Look here, somebody left a puck on the court.”
Bud Schwartz said, “It’s not a puck. Pucks are for hockey.”
Danny Pogue held the plastic disk like a Danish. “Then what do you call it?”
“I don’t know what you call it,” said Bud Schwartz, “but people are staring, so why don’t you get up before some fucking Good Samaritan calls 911.”
“I ought to sue the assholes for leaving this damn thing lying around.”
“Good idea, Danny. We’ll go see a lawyer first thing in the morning. We’ll sue the bastards for a jillion trillion dollars. Then we’ll retire down to Club Med.” With great effort, Bud Schwartz helped Danny Pogue off the cement and steadied him on the crutches.
“So who’s watching us?”
“There.” Bud Schwartz raised his eyes toward a third-floor balcony, where three women stood and peered, arms on their hips, like cranky old cormorants drying their wings.
“Hey!” Danny Pogue yelled. “Get a life!”
The women retreated into the apartment, and Danny Pogue laughed. Bud Schwartz didn’t think it was all that funny; he’d been in a rotten frame of mind ever since Molly McNamara had shot him in the hand.
As they approached the gatehouse, Danny Pogue said, “So where’s the taxi?”
“First things first,” said Bud Schwartz. Then, in a whisper: “Remember what we talked about. The girl’s name is Annie. Annie Lefkowitz.”
He had met her that afternoon by the swimming pool and gotten nowhere—but that’s who they were visiting, if anybody asked. No way would they mention Molly McNamara; never heard of her.
A rent-a-cop came out of the gatehouse and nodded neutrally at the two men. He was a young muscular black man with a freshly pressed uniform and shiny shoes. Over his left breast pocket was a patch that said, in navy-blue stitching: “Eagle Ridge Security.” Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz were surprised to see what appeared to be a real Smith & Wesson on his hip.
The rent-a-cop said: “Looks like you guys had a rough night.”
“Barbecue blew up,” said Bud Schwartz. “Ribs all over the place.”
Danny Pogue extended his wounded foot, as if offering it for examination. “Burns is all,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”
The rent-a-cop didn’t seem in a hurry to move out of the way. He asked for their names, and Bud Schwartz made up a couple of beauts. Ron Smith and Dick Jones.
“Where are you staying?” the rent-a-cop said. “Which building?”
“With Amy Leibowitz,” answered Danny Pogue. “Lefkowitz,” said Bud Schwartz, grinding his molars. “Annie Lefkowitz. Building K.”
“Which unit?” asked the rent-a-cop.
“We’re visiting from up North,” said Bud Schwartz. “We’re not related or anything. She’s just a friend, if you know what I mean.”
“But which unit?”
Bud Schwartz made a sheepish face. “You know, I don’t even remember. But her last name’s Lefkowitz, you can look it up.”
The rent-a-cop said: “There are four different Lefkowitzes that live here. Hold tight, I’ll be right back.”
The guard went back inside, and Danny Pogue leaned closer to his partner. The gatehouse cast just enough light to reveal a change in Bud Schwartz’s expression.
“So help me God,” said Danny Pogue, “if you leave me here, I’ll go to the cops.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’re gonna run, goddamn you.”
“No, I’m not,” said Bud Schwartz, although that was precisely what he was considering. He had spotted the yellow taxi, parked near a mailbox across the street.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Danny Pogue. “You’re still on probation.”
“And you’re on parole,” Bud Schwartz snapped. Then he thought: Hell, what are we worried about? We’re not even arrested. And this jerk-off’s not even a real cop.
“This guy, he can’t stop us from leaving,” said Bud Schwartz. “He can stop us from trying to get in, but he can’t stop us from getting out.”
Danny Pogue thought about this. “You’re right,” he said. “Why don’t we just take off?”
“Taking off is not how I’d describe it, considering the shape we’re in. Limping off is more like it.”
“I wonder if that gun’s loaded,” said Danny Pogue. “Or if he’s allowed to use it.”
Bud Schwartz told him not to worry, they could still talk their way out of it. When the rent-a-cop came out of the gatehouse, he held a clipboard in one hand and a big ugly Maglite in the other.
“Miss Lefkowitz says she’s had no visitors.”
Bud Schwartz looked stunned. “Annie? Are you sure you got the right one?” He stuck with it, digging them in even deeper. “She’s probably just pissed off ’cause we’re leaving, that’s all. Got a good taste and doesn’t want to let go.”
The rent-a-cop pointed the white beam of the Maglite at Bud Schwartz’s face and said, “Why don’t you fuckheads come with me.”
Danny Pogue retreated a couple of steps. “We didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“You lied,” said the rent-a-cop. “That’s wrong.”
Half-blind from the flashlight, Bud Schwartz shielded his eyes and said, “Look, I can explain about Annie.” He was ummming and awwwwing, trying to come up with something, when he heard a shuffling noise off to his left. The rent-a-cop aimed the flashlight toward Danny Pogue, but Danny Pogue was gone.
Bud Schwartz said, “I’m not believing this.”
The rent-a-cop seemed mildly annoyed. They could hear the frantic thwuck-thwuck of the crutches, heading down the unlit road.
“Bastard,” said Bud Schwartz. He felt sharp fingers—impressively strong—seize the loose span of flesh where his neck met his shoulder.
“Before I go get the gimper,” said the rent-a-cop, pinching harder, “how about you telling me some portion of the truth.”
“Really I can’t,” said Bud Schwartz. “I’d like to, but it’s just not possible.”
Then the Maglite came down against the top of his forehead, and the shutters of his brain slammed all at once, leaving the interior of his skull very cool, black, empty.
Joe Winder parked at the end of the gravel road and changed out of his work clothes. The necktie was the first thing to come off. He put on a pair of cutoffs, slipped into some toeless sneakers, slathered on some Cutter’s and grabbed his spinning rod out of the car. He found the path through the mangroves—his path, to the water’s edge. He came here almost every day after work, depending on how badly the wind was blowing. Sometimes he fished, sometimes he sat and watched.
Today he made his way quickly, worried about missing the best of the tide. When he got to the shoreline, he put on the Polaroids and swept the shallow flats with his eyes. He spotted a school of small bonefish working against the current, puffing mud about forty yards out. He grinned and waded out purposefully, sliding his feet silently across the marly bottom. A small plane flew over and the rumble of the engine flushed the fish. Joe Winder cursed, but kept his gaze on the nervous wake, just in case. Sure enough, the bonefish settled down and started feeding again. As he edged closer, he counted five in all, small black torpedoes.
As Joe Winder lifted his arm to cast, he heard a woman call out his name. The distraction was sufficient to ruin his aim; the small pink jig landed smack in the middle of the school, causing the fish to depart at breakneck speed for Andros Island and beyond. An absolutely terrible cast.
He turned and saw Nina waving from the shore. She was climbing out of her blue jeans, which was no easy task.
“I’m coming out,” she called.
“I can see that.”
And out she came, in an aqua T-shirt, an orange Dolphins cap, black panties and white Keds. Under these circumstances, it was impossible for Joe Winder to stay angry about the bonefish.
Nina was laughing like a child when she reached him. “The water??
?s so warm,” she said. “Makes me want to dive in.”
He gave her a left-handed hug. “Did you put on some bug spray?” he asked.
“Designer goo,” said Nina. “Some sort of weird enzyme. The bugs gag on it.”
Joe Winder pointed with the tip of the fishing rod. “See that? They’re mocking me.” Another school of bonefish cavorted, tails flashing, far out of human casting range.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Nina, squinting. “Joe, what’d you do to your hair?”
“Cut it.”
“With what?”
“A steak knife. I couldn’t find the scissors.”
Nina reached up and touched what was left. “For God’s sake, why?”
“Chelsea said I looked like one of the Manson family.”
Nina frowned. “Since when do you give a hoot what Charlie Chelsea thinks.”
“It’s part of the damn dress code. Kingsbury’s cracking down, or so Charlie says. I was trying to be a team player, like you wanted.” Joe Winder spotted a small bonnet shark cruising the shallows, and cast the jig for the hell of it. The shark took one look and swam away arrogantly.
Joe Winder said, “So now I look like a Nazi.”
“No,” said Nina, “the Nazis had combs.”
“How’s the new routine coming? I assume that’s why you’re here.” It was the time of the week when the girls on the sex-phone line had to update their shtick.
“Tell me what you think.” Nina reached into the breast pocket of the T-shirt and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. Carefully she unfolded it. “Now be honest,” she said to Winder.
“Always.”
“’Kay, here goes.” She cleared her throat. “You say, ‘Hello.’”
“Hello!” Joe Winder sang out.
“Hi, there,” said Nina, reading. “I was just thinking about you. I was thinking it would be so nice to go on a train, just you and me. A long, romantic train ride. I love the way trains rock back and forth. At first they start out so slow and hard, but then”—here Nina had scripted a pause—“but then they get faster and stronger. I love the motion of a big locomotive, it gets me so hot.”
“Gets me going,” suggested Joe Winder. “Hot is a cliché.”
Nina nodded in agreement. “That’s better, yeah. I love the motion of a big locomotive, it really gets me going.”
Joe Winder noticed that the tide was slowing. These fish would be gone soon.
But there was Nina in her black panties. Knee deep in the Atlantic. Blond hair tied back under her cap with a pink ribbon. Reading some damn nonsense about sex on the Amtrak, in that killer voice of hers. The words didn’t matter, it was all music to Joe Winder; he was stirred by the sight of her in the water with the sun dropping behind the Keys. At times like this he sure loved Florida.
Nina told him to quit staring at her all sappy and listen, so he did.
“Sometimes, late at night, I dream that you’re a locomotive. And I’m riding you on top, stretched out with my legs around your middle. First we go uphill, real slow and hard and rough. Then all of a sudden I’m riding the engine down, faster and harder and hotter until …”
“Until what?” Joe Winder said.
“Until whatever,” said Nina with a shrug. “I figure I’d just leave the rest to their imagination.”
“No,” said Winder. “A metaphor like that, you need a big ending.” He slapped a mosquito that had penetrated the sheen of Cutter’s on his neck. “How about: We’re going downhill, out of control, faster and hotter. I scream for you to stop but you keep pumping and pumping until I explode, melting against you.”
From someplace—her bra?—Nina produced a ballpoint pen and began to scribble. “The pumping business is a bit much,” she said, “but I like the melting part. That’s good imagery, Joe, thanks.”
“Any time.”
“Miriam’s writing up another hot-tub blowjob.”
“Not again,” said Joe Winder.
“She says it’s going to be a series.” Nina folded the notebook paper and slipped it back in the pocket of her shirt. “I’m going to be late to work if I don’t get a move on. You coming in?”
“No, there’s another school working that deep edge. I’m gonna try not to brain ’em with this feather.”
Nina said good luck and sloshed back toward shore. Halfway there, she turned and said, “My God, I almost forgot. I got one of those phone calls at home.”
Winder stopped tracking the fish. He closed the bail on his spinning reel, and tucked the rod in the crook of an elbow. “Was it Koocher?” he asked, across the flat.
Nina shook her head. “It was a different voice from last time.” She took a half-dozen splashy steps toward him, so she wouldn’t have to yell so far. “But that’s what I wanted to tell you. The guy today said he was Dr. Koocher, only he wasn’t. It was the wrong voice from before.”
Joe Winder said, “You’re sure?”
“It’s my business, Joe. It’s what I do all night, listen to grown men lie.”
“What exactly did he say, Nina? The guy who called. Besides that he was Koocher.”
“He said all hell was breaking loose at the park.”
“All hell,” repeated Winder.
“And he said he wanted to meet you tonight at the Card Sound Bridge.”
“When?”
“Midnight sharp.” Nina shifted her weight from one leg to the other, rippling the water. “You’re not going,” she said. “Please?”
Joe Winder looked back across the flats, lifeless in the empty auburn dusk. “No sign of those fish,” he said. “I believe this tide is officially dead.”
8
Bud Schwartz didn’t have to open his eyes to know where he was; the scent of jasmine room freshener assailed his nostrils. He was in Molly McNamara’s place, lying on the living-room sofa. He could feel her stare, unblinking, like a stuffed owl.
“I know you’re awake,” she said.
He elected not to open his eyes right away.
“Son, I know you’re there.”
It was the same tone she had used the first time they met, at one of the low points in Bud Schwartz’s burglary career; he had been arrested after his 1979 Chrysler Cordoba stalled in the middle of 163rd Street, less than a block from the duplex apartment he had just burglarized with his new partner, Danny Pogue. The victim of the crime had been driving home when he saw the stalled car, stopped to help and immediately recognized the Sony television, Panasonic clock radio, Amana microwave and Tandy laptop computer stacked neatly in the Cordoba’s back seat. The reason the stuff was lying in the back seat was because the trunk was full of stolen Neil Diamond cassettes that the burglars could not, literally, give away.
Bud Schwartz had been smoking in a holding cell of the Dade County Jail when Molly McNamara arrived. At the time, she was a volunteer worker for Jackson Memorial Hospital and the University of Miami Medical School; her job was recruiting jail inmates as subjects for medical testing, a task that suited her talent for maternal prodding. She had entered the holding cell wearing white rubber-soled shoes, a polyester nurse’s uniform and latex gloves.
“I’m insulted,” Bud Schwartz had said.
Molly McNamara had eyed him over the top of her glasses and said, “I understand you’re looking at eighteen months.”
“Twelve, tops,” Bud Schwartz had said.
“Well, I’m here to offer you a splendid opportunity.”
“And I’m here to listen.”
Molly had asked if Bud Schwartz was interested in testing a new ulcer drug for the medical school. “I don’t have no ulcers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Molly had said. “You’d be in the control group.” A pill a day for three months, she had explained. Sign up now, the prosecutor asks the judge to chop your time in half.
“Your friend’s already agreed to it.”
“That figures,” Bud Schwartz had said. “I end up with ulcers, he’ll be the cause of it.”
&nb
sp; When he’d asked about possible side effects, Molly read from a printed page: headaches, high blood pressure, urinary-tract infections.
“Run that last one by me again.”
“It’s unlikely you’ll experience any problems,” Molly had assured him. “They’ve been testing this medication for almost two years.”
“Thanks, just the same.”
“I know you’re smarter than this,” Molly had told him in a chiding tone.
“If I was really smart,” Bud Schwartz had said, “I’d a put new plugs in the car.”
A week later she had returned, this time without the rubber gloves. Pulled his rap sheet out of her purse, held it up like the Dead Sea Scrolls.
“I’ve been looking for a burglar,” she had said.
“What for?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Very funny,” Bud Schwartz had said.
“Call me when you get out. You and your friend.”
“You serious?”
“It’s not what you think,” Molly had said.
“I can’t think of anything. Except maybe you’re some kinda snitch for the cops.”
“Be serious, young man.” Again with the needle in her voice, worse than his mother. “Don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Who the hell would believe it? Ten grand, I swear.”
“Call me when you get out.”
“Be a while,” he said. “Hey, is it too late to get me in on that ulcer deal?”
That was six months ago.
Bud Schwartz touched the place on his brow where the rent-a-cop’s flashlight had clobbered him. He could feel a scabby eruption the size of a golf ball. “Damn,” he said, opening his eyes slowly.
Molly McNamara moved closer and stood over him. She was wearing her reading glasses with the pink roses on the frames. She said, “Your friend is in the bedroom.”
“Danny’s back?”
“I was on my way here when I spotted him at the Farm Stores. He tried to get away, but—”
“You didn’t shoot him again?” Bud Schwartz was asking more out of curiosity than concern.