Nolen was getting up, hands on his thighs like an old man. “You’re a cute little girl,” he said to Loret, taking her by the arm, leading her to the bedroom, “but you talk too much. Stay in there and be quiet.” He pushed her into the room and closed the door. When she pounded on it and began yelling in Spanish Nolen opened the door a few inches and pointed a finger inside. “I said be quiet, you hear? Or I’ll have to get rough with you and I don’t want to do that.” He closed the door again and went back to the sofa. Easing himself down he said to Rafi, “I recited that line every night for two and a half months. ‘Be quiet now, you hear? Or I’ll have to get rough with you . . . ‘ Oh my, where were we? That’s right, we haven’t started yet, have we?”
Rafi sat quietly in a straight chair turned away from the desk. He seemed drained of energy after his ordeal, his hair still wet, flat to his skull, his body wrapped in the comfort of a brown velour robe.
“First, you didn’t do it right,” Nolen said. “You come rolling in like a medicine show, got your little helper with you. Fine, except every guy to her’s a trick. You see it in her eyes, she can’t wait to get your fly open. Second, you picked the wrong guy. I don’t mean because he doesn’t have any money, I’m not talking about money. And I don’t mean he’s the wrong guy in that you ever leaned on him seriously, spoke right out and tried to blackmail him, he’d beat the shit out of you. That’s nothing. You’ve been cut, you know what I mean. You get over it. No, I’m talking about you picked the wrong guy from the standpoint you didn’t pick the right one. Are you following me?”
Rafi was moving his tongue over his teeth or touching his mouth gently with the tips of his fingers.
“You paying attention?”
Rafi didn’t say. He seemed to nod.
“I’m not telling you this,” Nolen said, “because I think you need counseling. You’re no more fucked up than the rest of the pimps trying to get by, but you’re not a pimp.”
“I was never a pimp,” Rafi said, as indignant as he could sound with a sore mouth.
“I mean you don’t have the right stuff to be a good pimp,” Nolen said. “You’re not only about thirty years behind in your style you’re playing the wrong part. You come on like a young Fernando Lamas when another type entirely, today, is selling tickets.”
Rafi said, “What tickets?”
“Just listen,” Nolen said. “What’s going down in the Caribbean, in Central America, El Salvador now, ever since Cuba? Revolutions, man. They’ve always been big down there, but now they’re getting more notice because they seem closer to home. Only an hour, two hours across the friendly skies and it scares the shit out of people. It’s going on right in Miami with the Cubans, the Haitians, Colombians that come to visit—you got dope and international politics all mixed up with terrorists that use pipe bombs and automatic weapons, man, it’s real and it’s right here. You understand what I’m saying to you? You want to score today you got to get into the action that’s going down, you got to spread a little terror.”
Rafi was listening. He said, “Yes? How do I do that?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Nolen said. “You’ve got the background, the hot blood, all that shit. I think with a little direction, a good slogan, you could make a pretty fair revolutionary. Viva Libertad—you know, get excited.”
Rafi frowned. “You want to start a revolution?”
“No, you do,” Nolen said. “You want to make it look like you’re part of a wild-ass revolutionary movement. You’re an ace terrorist come here to do a job. You’re a fanatic, man, you can’t wait to blow somebody away. But, you want him to know it first. You want to make him believe he’s got this fucking movement coming down on him, not just some muggers—you know what I mean?—some real gung-hoers, man, fire-eaters.”
Rafi said, “What guy?”
“I thought so,” Nolen said. “Right there in front of you and you don’t even see it. You go after Moran and his girlfriend . . . what about the girl-friend’s husband? He’s the guy with the prize, not Moran. Moran’s one of the good guys.”
“Wait,” Rafi said. “You have to explain this to me.”
“In time,” Nolen said. “First we got to think of a good slogan, something to get the guy squirming—he doesn’t know what’s going on, where it’s coming from, but it looks like some pretty heavy shit coming down.”
“An eslogan? . . .”
“Not a slogan—how do you say it?—a grito de combate. A battle cry.”
“Yes? To say what?”
“How about Muerte a de Boya?” Nolen said. “That’s got a pretty nice ring.”
Rafi had stopped touching his sore mouth. He stared at Nolen, interested but uncertain, trying to put it together in his mind.
“You asking me to kill?”
“Would you like to?”
Rafi didn’t answer.
“I want you to think about it,” Nolen said, “get a feel for the part. You’re Rafi Amado, the man from Santo Domingo, a no-shit revolutionary full of zeal, revenge, whatever revolutionaries are full of. You understand what I mean? Get in the mood and we’ll talk about it some more.”
12
* * *
JERRY WAS READING the Sun-Sentinel. He held it up as Moran came in the office.
“You see this? Right up at Hillsboro. Guy walks out of his condo, he’s taking his morning exercise, look what he finds right out in front of his place.” The headline of the newspaper read:
33 HAITIANS DROWN IN HILLSBORO SURF;
SURVIVOR’S STORY DOUBTED BY OFFICIALS
The photograph that ran the full width of the page and was about five inches deep showed four naked swollen bodies lying on the hard-pack sand at the edge of the surf in early morning light. A Coast Guard helicopter hovered about twenty yards offshore.
“I’m telling you,” Jerry said, “it’s getting out of hand. People up there, they invest a lot of money in their retirement homes—this’s what they got to put up with.”
“What’s the story the officials don’t believe?”
“That they came all the way from Haiti in this rickety boat, sixty-something people. If they’re not coming from Cuba it’s Haiti now, we don’t have enough Latins here, we got all this extra welfare money laying around. Oh . . . there was a phone call for you. You know how many Cubans they got in Miami now?”
“Who was it called?”
“Two hundred thousand. Over half the population. Some woman . . . she didn’t leave her name. Plus a hundred and twenty-five thousand boat people, for Christ sake, half of them out of the Havana jails and insane asylums. They send ’em here for us to take care of . . . Here’s the number.”
It was Mary’s.
“When’d she call?”
“Few minutes ago. We’re different, we got us a couple Dominican freeloaders. Where you going? You just got here.”
“I’ll be back.”
Moran shoved the slip of notepaper into his jeans and walked out into the sunlight, back toward his house. He was anxious.
Nolen, coming out of Number Five, stopped him.
“George, can I talk to you?”
“I got to make a phone call.”
“Just take a minute.” Nolen, his shirt open and hanging out of his pants, got to Moran at the shallow end of the pool. “I got a request. How about letting your buddy from the D.R. stay a couple more days? He’s afraid to talk to you.”
“I hope so,” Moran said.
“He’s sorry. He said he made a mistake.”
“I made the mistake,” Moran said, “ever talking to him.” He started to move away.
“George, he can’t hurt you. Let him stay a while.”
Moran stopped. “Why?”
“Why not? He’s all right, just a little fucked up. He’s an interesting type, I can study him.”
“I know what you want to study,” Moran said.
Nolen shrugged. “I think I can get a freebee, a libretito.” His hair hung oily looking, he needed a shave, h
e looked terrible, forlorn, standing barefoot with his hands in his pockets. “She wants me to show her Miami Beach, all the beeg ‘otels.”
“Good,” Moran said. “You take her down there we’ll probably never see her again. Look, I don’t have time right now. Tell her to clean up the kitchen before you go and tell Rafi he’d better stay away from me, not that I’m pissed off or anything.”
“I’ll keep ’em in line,” Nolen said, “no problem.” He watched Moran hurrying away. “Hey, one other thing . . .”
“Later,” Moran said. He ran inside his house and locked the door.
Moran waited. As soon as he heard her voice on the phone he said, “What happened?”
“He’s still here but he’s leaving. Going out on the boat.”
“Should I call back?”
“No, it’s okay, he’s outside. I can see him.”
“What’s the matter?”
“He told me this morning he doesn’t want me to drive anymore. I can’t go anywhere alone in the car. If I go out, Corky’s supposed to drive me.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows. Or he thinks he does—it’s the same thing.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said he wants me to take the goddamn limousine, but if I insist on using my own car Corky’s still going with me.”
“I mean what reason did he give?”
“Crime in the streets, the high incidence of muggings and holdups. It’s for my own safety. I told him there aren’t any muggings at Leucadendra or the Dadeland shopping mall, but you don’t argue with him. I told you, he’s a rock.”
“Can he order you like that?”
“If I get in the car, Corky gets in with me. That’s it, or stay home. What’re we gonna do?”
“You got to get out of there, that’s all.”
There was a pause. “I had sort of a talk with him.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Not much. I’ll tell you about it some other time, not now,” Mary said. “God, I’m dying to see you.”
“I’ll be over in a little while.”
“You can’t come here.”
“I’ve got an excuse. I’m gonna return something.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll be there in about an hour. Why don’t you invite me to lunch?”
“God, Moran—hurry.”
Nolen caught him again, coming out of the laundry room holding a grocery sack, the top rolled tightly closed. Moran was wearing a sport coat and good pants. Nolen looked him up and down.
“The casual Holiday Inn attire?”
“There times you can say anything you want,” Moran said. “This isn’t one of ’em. I’m in a hurry.”
“Jiggs wants to talk to you.”
“You told me.”
“Give him the courtesy—what’ve you got to lose?”
“My good name, being seen with a kneecapper. There isn’t anything he can tell me I need to know.”
“I’m not asking you to go out of your way.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m not suppose to say anything,” Nolen said, “but I’ll give you a hint. It’s got to do with freedom of choice and self-respect. Like not having to sneak in the Holiday Inn anymore.”
“What I have to say to that,” Moran said, “has to do with self-control. How I’m learning to stay calm, not pop anybody in the mouth, dump ’em in the swimming pool every time I get a little irritated. But it’s hard.”
“I know, stay out of your personal affairs,” Nolen said. “But I feel I owe you something. You’ve been a buddy to me, even after we tried to blow you away with a one-oh-six. I mean it might’ve been me, though I hate to say it.”
“Let’s let bygones be bygones,” Moran said. “Long as you pay your rent on time. I’ll see you.”
Nolen said, “Hey, George?” And waited for him to stop a few feet away and look back. “You’re a beautiful guy. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Moran said, “leave me alone.”
“Only three nights I got to recite that line,” Nolen said. “You can see why the fucker closed.”
He liked the trees in this south end of Coral Gables, the quiet gloom of the streets; the trees belonged and were more than ornamental. It was old Florida, the way he felt Florida should still look. No way for a one-time cement-finisher to think, or a man partly responsible for a half-dozen king-size condominiums with majestic names. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe he simply liked a tangle of ripe tropical vegetation. What was wrong with that? He told himself not to argue with himself; he was one of the few friends he had. He didn’t care for what he was doing right now. It was like going to the dentist when you were in love with his nurse, but it was still going to the dentist. He turned off Arvida Parkway into the drive marked 700 on a cement column and this time followed its curve up to the house.
Mary was waiting outside. She brought him past the three members of the home guard who stood in the driveway and seemed disappointed. Moran recognized the one with the mustache. Corky. The one trying to look mean.
From the front steps Moran said, “Keep an eye on my car, okay?”
Mary took him by the arm. “Get in here.” And closed the door. “What’s in the bag?”
Moran opened it and brought out a pink negligee. “You like it? Anita de Boya’s playsuit. She left it.”
“He’s not gonna believe that’s why you came,” Mary said. “Anita lives in Bal Harbor.”
“Do you want me to care what he believes?”
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” Mary said. Tense today, inside herself.
She led him from the hallway that was like an arboretum of exotic plants and trees, past an almost bare living room that resembled a modern-art gallery, through a more lived-in-looking room done in rattan and off-white fabrics and out to the sundeck with its several-million-dollar view of Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, what Miami money was all about.
Moran was impressed; but he could be impressed by all kinds of things and not have a desire to own them; he considered himself lucky. He took in the sights, the empty boat dock, the stand of acacia trees, then back again, across the sweep of lawn to the swimming pool, designed to resemble a tropical lagoon set among palm trees and terraced flower gardens. Clean that setup every day, he thought. But said, “I like it.”
“I don’t,” Mary said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
She stood at the rail with him, wearing sunglasses now, looking out at the water. When she turned away he followed her to a half-circle of chairs with bright yellow cushions. On the low table in the center was a white telephone and the morning paper headlining the dead Haitians.
“Why don’t you leave now? With me,” Moran said. He sat down. Mary remained standing, tan in her white sundress, silent, her slim legs somewhat apart, folding her arms now; protective or defiant, Moran wasn’t sure.
She said, finally, “Rafi was here yesterday.”
“I know, I had a talk with him,” Moran said. “If that’s what’s got you clutched up, don’t worry about it. Rafi comes on strong, but he’s a twink at heart, he caves in.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s not our problem. There’s a guy that works for your husband on and off, Jiggs Scully. You know him?”
“I know who he is.”
“He’s been following you. He knows what we’re doing and wants to talk to me.”
“Oh, God—”
“Wait. Nolen Tyner—I told you about him. He says Jiggs doesn’t have his hand out, he wants to discuss something else entirely, but I don’t see any reason to talk to him. Do you?”
“I don’t know.” Mary was wide-eyed now, gathering it all in. “If he saw us together and he works for Andres . . .”
“Nolen says he hasn’t told Andres. You know why?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t like him. I feel like we’re back in the eighth grade. Here’s a gu
y—” Moran stopped. “Well, that’s beside the point. What Jiggs and Nolen are up to’s none of our business. I hope. But I don’t want to see us get dragged into it. We got enough going as it is.”
“Dragged into what?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got to have something to do with your husband and they either want to use me—I’m guessing now, you understand—or they want some information from me, or they want me to get it from you.”
“Oh—”
The way she said it, like an intake of breath, surprised him. She was thoughtful now, staring. Then took several steps without purpose, moving idly, though he could see she was concentrating, looking down at the boards as she paced toward the railing, aimless, and came back. As she turned again he stopped her.
“You have an idea what it might be?”
Mary sat down now. She eased back into the chair next to him.
“Money. What else?”
“I had that in mind,” Moran said. “But what kind of money? How do you rip off a guy like your husband? I mean it’s not like going to the bank, make a withdrawal. How do you get it? Extortion? They have something on Andres? It’s a feeling I’ve got more than anything else. I think Nolen and this guy Jiggs are putting something together. But it wouldn’t be a holdup, anything as simple as that. Nolen’s not, well, he’s a little shifty, but he’s not an armed robber. I don’t think he’d have the nerve to walk in with a gun. So it would have to be something he thinks is clever or he wouldn’t be doing it. If they’ve got some kind of scheme in mind.”
“There’s money in the house,” Mary said.
Moran waited a moment. “Is that right?” He waited again and was aware of the silence. “You mean a lot of money, huh?”
“Quite a lot,” Mary said.
Moran looked out at the bay, at the dark shape of Key Biscayne lying five miles off, on the horizon.
“Is it money he has to hide? I mean, did he get it illegally?”
“I assume it’s from his business. Andres’s investments net, before taxes, three to four million a year.”