These thoughts clogged his mind as he sat in his Mustang, parked in the grass under the mossy arms of a ficus tree. Pincus squinted toward a bench on the other side of a city park. Every few minutes he would lift a small pair of Nikon binoculars to see better the face of Roberto Nelson as he tossed popcorn to a flock of brazen pigeons. This was the sort of idle nonsense at which men like Bobby Nelson would not be caught dead unless an important moment was at hand.
Pincus was distracted by a muffled voice behind him. Instinctively his eyes went to the rear-view mirror and his right hand crawled down his leg to an ankle holster that cuddled a small pistol. He saw two men on the ground behind his car.
“Come on, Johnny, let’s go into the toilet,” one said in a shy, low voice.
“Just do it here and get it over with,” said the other.
Pincus straightened up in the driver’s seat. He fiddled with the mirror until both men were in clear view, embracing clumsily under the shade tree.
“Fuck,” Pincus said. From where they reclined the men obviously could not see him in the car. Pincus was surprised they had not tried to break in and use the back seat. His first impulse was to storm out of the car and bust both of them for lewd-and-lascivious, but of course they would scream and fuss, and Roberto Nelson would get very curious about the racket across the park. Likewise if Pincus were to honk or start his engine. He decided he couldn’t afford to burn the surveillance, so he would be silent. He tried to tune out the sloppy moans and lifted his Nikon again.
He noticed that Roberto Nelson now had company on the bench. Pincus braced his elbows on the steering wheel to steady the binoculars. The other man was a skinny Latin with long, wavy hair and sunglasses; he waved his arms wildly at Roberto Nelson, as if agitated. Nelson appeared to respond coolly, touching his friend gently on the arm as if to calm him.
The two men rose and walked toward a parking lot where Pincus earlier had watched Nelson park the beige Mercedes-Benz. Halfway there, Skinny Friend stopped walking while Nelson continued to the car.
“Not too rough, Johnny. Easy! I’m getting blisters on these fuckin’ roots.”
Pincus winced at the noise behind him as Johnny’s friend started grunting. He could no longer see the two writhing lovers in the mirror and supposed their passion had carried them under his wheels.
Roberto Nelson and his friend were walking together again. Pincus saw that Skinny was carrying a denim beach bag now and that Roberto was toting a thin brown briefcase. They stopped in front of the bench, where Roberto grinned, slapped his customer amiably on the shoulder and walked way. Pincus lowered the binoculars. He had seen all he needed.
As soon as both men were gone, Pincus shoved the key into the ignition and stomped on the gas pedal. The Mustang growled and belched a faceful of blue fumes from the exhaust.
“Hey! Christ, watch out! Don’t back up, man,” the man named Johnny yelled from the ground.
Pincus slipped the transmission into reverse and eased off the clutch.
“I said no, fuckhead!”
Suddenly Johnny was on his feet, glaring through Seconal eyes into Pincus’s face. His friend, leaf-covered and sheepishly disheveled, scrambled behind the trunk of the big tree to zip up.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Johnny screamed. “You coulda killed us.”
Pincus put the car in neutral and took his foot off the accelerator. He reached up to the sun visor and pulled out a laminated police identification card. Johnny leaned forward tentatively to read the name.
“You boys shouldn’t fuck in the park,” Wilber Pincus said.
“Officer, we didn’t know there was anybody here, I swear.”
“What if this was a car full of Girl Scouts?” Pincus asked sternly. “What if I was your mother? Come to the park to feed the pigeons only to find my son boffing a wino under the ficus tree.”
“Jesus,” Johnny muttered.
Pincus replaced his ID in the visor. “Do you know what it sounds like? All the moaning and groaning and howling, I mean, how the hell am I supposed to enjoy my lunch with that kind of shit going on? I don’t ever want to see you here again.”
“Right,” Johnny said, backing away. “Yes, Officer. I’ve got to go now.”
“Good idea,” Pincus said sharply. “And find another place to fall in love. I’ll be back here tomorrow, me and the Girl Scouts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 18
MONEY WAS a big problem.
Christopher Meadows reasoned that Octavio Nelson or the Cuban goons were watching the bank and monitoring his checking account. He took no chances. On the day he decided to go underground Meadows visited four small shopping centers and, using his plastic bank card, collected a hundred dollars from each of the mindless automatic banking machines in the parking lot. It would take Nelson weeks to trace the withdrawals, and success would bring him no closer than a mall that was fifteen miles from Terry’s apartment. Meadows never visited the same machine twice.
He estimated his resources at approximately nineteen thousand dollars in two savings accounts and the checking account; he believed he could make all of it last a year if he had to, but that was only if he didn’t spend anything on cocaine. And Meadows was determined to pay whatever was necessary for as much as he could lay his hands on.
In Fort Lauderdale, Meadows opened a new checking account under the name Christopher Warren Carson and began depositing funds. For identification he obtained a Florida driver’s license under the same name; it took him only five minutes and a discreet twenty dollars to convince a sallow clerk at the Department of Motor Vehicles that he had lost the original on a snorkeling trip.
Meadows moved out of Terry’s apartment into a motel room about five blocks from the Fort Lauderdale beach. The distance insulated him—physically and psychologically—from Nelson and the dope lunatics in Miami. In Lauderdale Meadows felt he would also be less likely to encounter old friends—and freer to do the necessary socializing.
The first night out nearly ended in disaster.
He had chosen Tony’s, an after-midnight disco with a five-dollar cover and a snowy reputation. Meadows sat alone at the bar, spellbound by the young crowd but repelled by the jackhammer music. After an hour of gawking Meadows realized he was blending in about as smoothly as an anthropologist in the Amazon.
He tried to loosen up, finally striking up a flimsy conversation with a man named Guy, who had come to the disco with two women. After a few strong drinks Meadows found them both quite breathtaking, even the one who made popping sounds with gum in her mouth. Soon the architect began telling amusing stories; Guy and the girls were in hysterics. One of the women, a model for a men’s magazine, had stories, too.
“One time they were doing a photo layout on circuses, and they asked me to pose naked with these midgets. All of them were made up just like clowns, and we were standing in the big top with about ten thousand people screaming in the bleachers. And I was supposed to ride through the middle of them on a unicycle, with no clothes, remember. Now I don’t mind taking my clothes off, not for that kind of money, but I can’t ride a bicycle worth a damn. You can imagine what happened when I got on the unicycle.”
Meadows nodded sincerely.
“They are very hard to ride, especially naked. And the midgets were no help,” she related.
Meadows was afraid Guy was going to come in his pants.
“That’s nothing. Cindy, tell Christopher about the time in Las Vegas with the man from the United Nations,” Guy spluttered. “Honest to God, it was the ambassador to someplace, right, Cindy?”
Meadows was numb. After a few minutes Guy turned to him and asked, “You wanna do a couple lines?”
“You bet.” Meadows was drunk, and Guy’s words pinballed around his head. He followed him from the bar to the rest room, where Guy entered one of the stalls. Meadows stood in front of a urinal, leaning his forehead against the grimy tile to prop himself up.
“Hey, hurry up,”
Guy was saying. “Come here.”
Meadows splashed some water in his face. Guy pulled him into the stall and locked the door. “Sit, sit,” he whispered excitedly. Meadows slumped on the toilet seat and watched Guy take something out of a pocket and hold it up for self-approval. “Good stuff, buddy.”
Guy unraveled a packet no larger than a postage stamp. Meadows noticed it was a one-dollar bill, folded into a neat square carton. In the middle was a tiny mound of chalky powder. Guy tapped the crystals onto a small rectangular mirror. Then he reached under his shirt and came out with a gold razor blade on the end of a necklace. He used it to cut the cocaine into inch-long lines.
“Is that real gold?” Meadows asked.
“Twenty-four carat,” Guy replied. “Hold this.” He handed Meadows the mirror. “You got a C-note?”
Meadows shook his head. Guy fished in his pocket until he came out with a twenty-dollar bill, which he deftly rolled into a stiff green straw. “It’s all yours,” he announced.
“No, you go first,” Meadows said nervously.
Guy was hungry for the stuff. He touched the straw to the mirror, leaned over, placed one end up his right nostril and inhaled evenly, sliding the twenty-dollar bill down the mirror until one line of the powder vanished. Then he pressed a finger against the side of his nose, tossed his head back and sucked in deeply. Afterward he bent down and snorted another line the same way.
“Your turn,” he said to Meadows.
Meadows was burning up, and his shirt stuck like tape to his chest. Wordlessly he took the mirror and tried to imitate Guy. On his first snort Meadows faltered and sniffed only half the line up his nose. “Man! Don’t waste this shit,” Guy muttered. Meadows nodded and finished up the line. He offered the last one to his new friend, but Guy shook his head. Someone walked into the rest room, and Guy put his fingers to his lips. Meadows trembled; he pictured some vice cop peering under the stalls, spying two pairs of feet and kicking the door down with a fury.
Meadows heard the sound of a man urinating and relaxed. Quickly he lifted the mirror to his nose, lined up the straw and inhaled again. The performance was still something less than convincing. Guy snatched the mirror and sucked down a few errant crystals until the surface was clean. They waited until the other man left, and then Guy said: “Let’s go. I’ve got to give some of this to the girls or they’re going to be pissed. How do you feel?”
Meadows felt nothing. “Terrific,” he said anyway. They went back to the bar.
“It’s about time,” Cindy said with mock impatience. Guy handed her the cocaine in its snug currency purse. “Thank you,” she sang, swirling off to the ladies’ room with her friend.
Meadows ordered another whiskey. He noticed something sweet dripping from his sinuses into the back of his throat. Guy sat silently next to him, smiling and swaying slightly to the music. When the girls returned, they started chattering at once. Meadows didn’t think it was funny, but he found himself laughing at everything. He felt good. Very good. Cindy’s eyes glowed. She asked Meadows to tell another story.
He recounted the plight of a Colombian pickpocket, an unfortunate soul who had chosen as his victim one morning a very important gringo, the son of the United States ambassador. No sooner was the wallet out of the young man’s designer jeans than the bodyguards, his own countrymen, had seized the thief and by way of punishment amputated one of his hands for all to see on the streets of Bogotá.…
Cindy moved closer. “That… is amazing,” she said heavily. “When were you in South America?”
“Last year,” Meadows replied. “On a job.”
“You sell real estate in Colombia?”
“No, it was an architectural project.”
“But you said you were in real estate.”
Meadows was lost in her; he couldn’t stop himself now. “That was a lie. I’m an architect.”
Cindy laughed guardedly and tugged on Meadows’s sleeve. “Come on. Why would you lie about that?”
“Because people are trying to kill me.”
“Right.”
Guy and the other girl were off on the dance floor somewhere. Meadows put his arm around Cindy and pulled her close. “Where do you live?”
“I’m staying at the Deauville,” she said.
“Let’s go.”
“I can’t. What about Guy?”
“He’s too short for me,” Meadows said, kissing Cindy on the cheek. Her perfume was wonderful; he could not remember ever wanting to screw somebody so much. “Let’s go back to your place and make love,” he said. “I’ve got some better stories. You won’t believe what’s happened to me.”
“That’s very sweet,” Cindy said, patting Meadows’s hand like an aunt, “but I can’t, really.”
Suddenly Guy and the other girl were back at the bar.
“Big day tomorrow, girls. Time to hit the road,” he announced. “Christopher, it was a pleasure.” Guy stuck out his hand. “We’ve got an early flight back to Washington tomorrow, so I’ve got to get these dolls home.”
Then Meadows was alone, left with a powerful hunger and puzzlement. It had to be the dope. He drove back to the motel and spent the next two hours pacing and sketching. Finally he fell into a solid, dreamless sleep. He spent the next day fighting off depression and trying to sort out what had happened. He was worried about his reaction to the drug; for a few moments in that loud dark lounge, his emotions laced with high-grade coke, Meadows actually had been in love with that crazy model. Fascinating stuff, he told himself later. Dangerous stuff.
It did not take him long to realize that, without an introduction, all he was ever going to get for his efforts were a runny nose and, occasionally, a willing woman. He needed more, and he needed it fast. It was difficult making the phone call, but Meadows was washed with relief that night when he saw the big man amble into the lounge. Arthur Prim broke into a grin when he spotted his friend at the bar; his huge hands seized Meadows warmly by the shoulders.
“Where’ve you been, man?” Meadows asked. “Hey, miss, this gentleman would like a Tanqueray. Right?”
Arthur nodded. “It’s a long drive up here, Chris. Whatsamatter, you gettin’ bored with the scene in Miami?” Arthur wore jeans, sandals and a tight yellow T-shirt that cried for relief across his huge chest.
“You’re getting a little shaggy,” Arthur said.
Meadows shrugged. They had talked at length over the phone. Arthur knew the situation, and he had agreed to help.
“You still up for it?”
“It’s the only way I can see,” Meadows said. “I know it’s risky.”
“Hey, man, don’t forget, you’re talkin’ strategy to a man who regularly whupped your ass in chess.”
“I’m never going to live that down,” Meadows said, laughing.
Arthur’s smile dissolved, and he took a long, thoughtful sip of gin. “There are,” he said softly, “other ways.”
“Sure, like what? The cops?”
“Sheeeeit, no.” Arthur winced as the sax player in the band assaulted a high note. “Chris, I got some friends…”
“That’s what I’m counting on, buddy.”
Arthur shook his braided head. “I’m not talking friendly friends. What I’m telling you,” he went on, lowering his voice, “is that if you tell me who did all this shit to you and the lady, I’ll put the word in the right ears. You dig?”
“I couldn’t live with that,” Meadows said.
“Oh, so it’s living you’re interested in?” Arthur chuckled darkly. “You white boys sure got a crazy way of doin’ it.”
“Arthur, come on.”
“This music sucks,” he said, gulping down the last of the Tanqueray. “There’s a blonde at the end of the bar. She came in with a tough little Cuban guy, but she’s probably looking at us right now. Her name is Patti. Buy her a drink. If she wants you to meet the Cuban, you will.”
Arthur stood up and fished in his jeans.
“No, it’s on me. I’ll let you bu
y me one when this is all over,” Meadows said. “One more favor: Could you hire a couple kids to clean up my house? It’s a mess.”
They shook, Arthur’s slab of a hand enveloping Meadows’s. The big man did not let go for several seconds.
“I want you to call me and let me know,” he said, moving toward the exit. “I don’t want to read about it in the fuckin’ papers.”
After he was gone, Meadows glanced down at the bar at Arthur’s couple. The man was darkly handsome and built like a fireplug. The woman was tall with a fickle weekend tan and dark blond hair to the shoulders. Meadows smiled in appreciation and was dazzled when the woman smiled back. He turned to his drink, wondering what to do now.
“Need a refill?” the barmaid asked. Her name was Barb; a name tag said so.
“Yes,” Meadows said, “and I’d like to buy a drink for the lady down there.” He watched Barb walk down and talk to the blonde, who shook her head. Meadows held his breath. Barb turned and shrugged at him. Feeling like a foolish teenager, he swung around on the barstool and pretended to watch the band. The blond woman came and sat next to him.
“It wasn’t meant as an insult,” she said. “I’m just not thirsty right now.”
“It’s OK,” Meadows said. He guessed her age at thirty-four or thirty-five. Her hair was silky; her eyes were a stormy green, approaching blue.
“My name is Patti.”
“Mine’s Christopher.” Meadows found himself looking back over her shoulder. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Patti laughed. “No boyfriend. That’s Manny. My girlfriend’s husband. He’s dancing with somebody. Would you like to dance with me?”
“I’m afraid I’d just embarrass you. Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
“Perrier is fine,” Patti said. “Where you from?”
Meadows gave her the real estate story and said he was from Atlanta. She told him she was from Pompano Beach and asked if he was married. Meadows said no, definitely not.
“I’m separated,” Patti volunteered. “My husband is a lawyer. He’s in jail right now, but that’s not why we’re separated. What I mean is that even if Larry didn’t get caught, I would have left him. We weren’t getting along.”