Glitz. Part 17

Teddy's hand came away from the door to 310. He'd turned the k.n.o.b 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 k.n.o.b with the other. s.h.i.+t-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 click of a sound. He put his other hand on the k.n.o.b. 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 k.n.o.b turn in his hand-turned by somebody right there on the other side of the door-Christ, and felt goose-b.u.mps as he jumped back, brought up the Colt with his arm extended straight out . . . of a sound. He put his other hand on the k.n.o.b. 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 k.n.o.b turn in his hand-turned by somebody right there on the other side of the door-Christ, and felt goose-b.u.mps 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, s.e.xy, 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 dead-bolt, took the k.n.o.b in his hand to yank the door open ...G.o.d, and the sound was deafening, the gunshots, three in quick succession and the sound of gla.s.s 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, s.h.i.+vering, telling herself there was nothing to 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, s.h.i.+vering, 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 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: 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, n.o.body 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 f.u.c.king printout next to my bed, I open my eyes I know whose a.s.s 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 t.i.ts, I know his taste. You pick me up, I come out a the house, what've I got in my hand? I got the f.u.c.king 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 c.u.n.t 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 f.u.c.king 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 Vegas. She doesn't comprehend that. Tommy, he doesn't know Come from Don't Come. He starts talking, using words, not knowing s.h.i.+t and walks right into it. Pow, she lets him have it. She's right, he's in the f.u.c.king 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 bulls.h.i.+t his way right into your heart, right? He sold me me. I thought, f.u.c.k, 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 a.s.shole for? So she's swiping at his b.a.l.l.s 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 s.h.i.+t?"

"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 redheaded 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 f.u.c.ks 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 d.i.c.k, 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 f.u.c.k 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 a.s.sumptions 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 s.h.i.+t is this?"

"You flew him to Miami yesterday and he went out of there on Avianca, flight seven to Bogota."

"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 a.s.sholes you a.s.sociate 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, f.u.c.king 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?"

Vincent said, "Go ahead."

"You know Mrs. Donovan."

"I met her once."

"Made a point to meet her. Maybe score, catch her on an off day she forgot to tie her knees together. This's in San Juan. Our story has taken us down to sunny Puerto Rico. True?"

Vincent nodded. It was moving right along.

"You're there on a medical leave. Some d.i.n.k shot you on the street."

It was moving faster than expected. "How'd you know that?"

"Hey, I know what you prob'ly had for breakfast. Couple beers. You kidding me? I could see you coming all the way down the f.u.c.king street. Let's get back to San Juan. You must have some cop friends there. Not incidentally the PR cops being world-cla.s.s shakedown artists. You guys exchange notes? How to make it on the side? You could book Spade's Isla Verde, hold a convention, bring in cops from all over . . . So what happened, let's say the cops here notified the PR cops about little Iris, how she took the dive eighteen floors down to the street. Jesus. They're looking for next-a-kin and they tell you about it down there and you say to yourself, hey, somebody f.u.c.ked up. Since you prob'ly knew the type of work Iris was into ...How'm I doing so far?"

"Not bad."

"Not bad, your a.s.s. That's exactly how you got onto it. They put you in touch with some PRs up here, guys that know Atlantic City, how it works, what goes on in the dead a night. You get some names, some of the bad guys. You get lucky, see Benavides hanging around and you check him out with Miami. They give you his flight home, read his sheet to you-one of your pals in the DEA. You make a few a.s.sumptions and come running into my office, see if you can make out."

Vincent listened, nodding, entertained and amazed; the guy talking about making a.s.sumptions.

"So what'd you put together?"

"You were at the apartment," Vincent said. "With Iris."

"When? Come on, gimme a date."

"The night before she was killed."

"The night before? before?" Jackie frowned. "I don't get it."

"You were there. So were these other people."

"Yeah, but how's that worth anything? The night before may as well be the year before. What's the difference? I mean even if there was a connection who're you gonna get to say we were there?"

Vincent didn't answer.

"Whoever was with her the night she was killed, that's the guy you want to shake down, for Christ sake."

"Who do you think it was?"

Jackie took a moment. He said, "I don't believe this. What do you do down in Miami, you raid bingo parties? You been at this long, or what? You come in here to rip me off, now you're asking my advice. As my dear friend Joan Rivers says, 'Can we talk?' I'll give you the word, hotshot, tell you exactly where you stand here. You f.u.c.k with any those guys on your list you may as well kiss your a.s.s goodbye, you're done. You f.u.c.k with me-watch, I got this magic act I put on. You watching?"

Vincent nodded. The guy looked so small, his round shoulders hunched behind the big desk, his array of stars smiling down at him.

"I rub my b.a.l.l.s and say the magic words, 'Abracadabra, send in Jabara.' And who appears?" Jackie looked toward the door to his office. "None other than Moosleh Hajim himself. Known to all his many fans as the Moose."

Vincent turned in his chair, starting to rise. He recognized DeLeon Johnson from newspaper photos, television interviews, saw the smile coming toward him, the Moose much bigger in real life, looking seven feet tall today in his nifty light-tan suit. Vincent was standing, ready to offer his hand. He saw the smile. He saw the forearm coming at him and was able to turn his head but that was all, it came at him so fast. That forearm slammed into him and he saw pink lights popping, went over the chair to land on his hands and knees, head ringing, stunned. He heard Jackie say, "Get him out a here...Hey, his bag too. Throw him out'n the street." Vincent felt himself lifted, held upright. In a few moments he was able to walk. They went through the outer office to the hall and toward the bank of gold elevators by the reception desk, the Moose holding the canvas bag in one hand, Vincent in the other.

As they waited for an elevator Vincent said, "I'm glad I'm not a quarterback," closing and opening his eyes, trying to focus on the door's bas-relief: a gold sunburst with a face in it. He said, "That's what it's like to get sacked, uh?"

DeLeon said, "I wouldn't know. I never been the sackee."

"Five times una.s.sisted against the Lions, Eric Hipple. I was at that game."

DeLeon turned his head without moving his body, looked down his shoulder at Vincent, but didn't say anything. A gold door opened. DeLeon looked at him again as they got on the elevator and Vincent said, "If there was a ref in there you would've gotten fifteen yards. You know that, don't you?" Going down in the elevator Vincent asked him how his knee was. DeLeon said it was pretty good. He said, "I can't kick." Vincent said, "Good."

During his career in the NFL, defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, there were some quarterbacks DeLeon Johnson helped up after dumping them on their a.s.s and there were some he left stretched out on the turf. The ones he helped up, some would give him a sad look as he pulled them to their feet, or shake their heads like to say, s.h.i.+t, why you picking on me today? There were one or two might comment with a straight face, ask him why he didn't stay in Africa, man, play with real lions. This man, Vincent Mora, was like that. In the elevator he said he never missed a Dolphin home game. It seemed he didn't take getting decked personally. They got to the lobby he said, "You know, what I planned to do was check in. But I never got to mention it."

"This hotel, you mean?"

"Yeah, do some gambling."

Right here DeLeon saw Mrs. Donovan across the lobby by the gift shop, talking to a security man with a walkie.

DeLeon said to Vincent, "Got a stake, huh? How much, twenty-five dollars?"

"Let me have the bag," Vincent said.

"You keep all your spending money in this?"

Vincent said, "Over here," going to the bell captain's counter, n.o.body there at the moment.

Mrs. Donovan was coming this way now and not, DeLeon believed, by chance. The executive-floor receptionist had picked up her phone as they got to the elevators; would have called somebody who got hold of the lobby security man who then told Mrs. Donovan, her network keeping her informed. Was anything she didn't know, it would surprise DeLeon.

Here he was a witness, being sure of this fact, and she walked up and surprised the h.e.l.l out of him. Not when she said, "Can I be of help?" But when this man Vincent gave her a big grin and she said, "Well, how are you? It's so good to see you again." Meaning it. She didn't just know him; there was more to it: Vincent telling her, "I've been looking for you. I drove down to your house yesterday."

She telling him, "Yeah, Dominga said you stopped by. I'm sorry we missed you." Then telling him she was terribly sorry about his friend, Iris. That was awful. Telling him she and Tommy had both spoken to the police several times and that the police didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

The man Vincent said, "I talked to them too."