"The one he was gonna kill me with. Doesn't anybody understand that?"
The young lawyer shook his head. "There's no shotgun mentioned in the Uniform Crime Report."
Harry said, "Did they look for one? You think I shot this guy I never saw before in my life for no reason? Or you think I was muggin' him, what?"
The victim was Earl Crowe, fifty-three, from the Glades, as Harry thought. Clewiston, up on Lake Okeechobee.
He said to Buck Torres, after, "Where were you last night when I needed you?" Meaning during the interrogation. "I have all these dicks ganging up on me."
Torres said it was a homicide investigation and he was with an organized-crime task force, Torres cooler than the last time they talked. He said, "You were nervous, right? Man, I can understand it. You thought sure this guy was coming for you."
"He was," Harry said. "He knew my name."
"You're a popular guy."
"He had a sawed-off pump-action shotgun, for Christ sake, he says from Jimmy Cap. He comes right out and tells me that so I'll know. From Jimmy."
"You had a loaded Colt .45," Torres said. "You want to talk about intentions?"
"I didn't know the guy."
"I hear he's got priors and state time going back thirty years," Torres said. "Maybe you can work a deal with the prosecutor's office, get it down to some kind of manslaughter. If you want you can talk to the feds about Jimmy Cap. Help your cause, if you know what I mean. McCormick asked me to mention it, that's all."
"They set me up," Harry said, "then offer to save my ass and I'm supposed to be grateful. If I say I'll tell stories on Jimmy, will they all of a sudden find the shotgun?"
Torres shook his head, saying he would never be part of anything like that.
"Yeah, well, I got no business being in jail," Harry said, "but if I'm out on the street I'm fucking dead."
"They'll look out for you," Torres said, "as long as you can do them some good. What else can I tell you? That's the way it is."
After the first-appearance hearing Harry was remanded to the Dade County Stockade in Miami, told by his lawyer he could be there as long as six weeks, until his arraignment came up. Monday, three days later, a woman from ABC Bail Bonds appeared at the Stockade with Joyce Patton and he was released on the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar surety bond.
Not put up by Joyce, no way. In fact he didn't know a single person who'd be willing to put up the ten percent the bond would cost, fifteen grand in cash, and have the collateral to represent the value of the bond, the full amount that would be forfeited if he failed to appear for his court hearing.
"Please don't tell me," Harry said, "Jimmy Cap put it up. Okay?"
The ABC Bail Bonds woman said, "How about your wife in Palos Heights, Illinois?"
Joyce standing there taking it in.
"My ex," Harry said. "You're telling me she came down here and gave you a check for fifteen grand? The day I went in business for myself she stopped cooking, refused to go in the kitchen unless I got a real job. We ate out every night for the next nine years. When I couldn't live like that anymore I gave her the house, a four-bedroom Tudor in Palos Heights, outside Chicago, and came back here to live."
Joyce said, "You still eat out every night."
Looking for a fight because he had a wife at one time he hadn't told her about.
The ABC Bail Bonds woman, who was blond, maybe thirty-five and not bad-looking for someone in that business, said a man named Tomasino Bitonti had brought her the check and a quit-claim deed to the Palos Heights property as collateral, signed by Teresa Ianello, back to using her maiden name.
Now it made sense. Jimmy Cap wanted him on the street. He'd never use his own money, so he must have sent the Zip to intimidate Teresa, get her to put up the bond. What bothered Harry, How did Jimmy know he had an ex-wife up there? Unless they kept a file on him: knew he was from Miami originally, worked on the Beach in the fifties, got married and moved to Chicago, Teresa's home, following the Kefauver crime investigations in Miami. They'd know he came back in '71, without Teresa, and set up his sports book, because that's when they went into business with him.
He explained all this to Joyce driving back to the beach over the MacArthur Causeway: telling her general facts about his past and interrupting himself to say, Jesus, he could never do serious time. "There's nobody to talk to in jail you have anything in common with."
"I don't understand that," Joyce said. "You break the law every day of your life, you should expect to do some time."
Still peeved over finding out he'd had a wife. By the time they got to Harry's apartment, Joyce was asking direct questions about his ex. Where he'd met her. The Roney Plaza, Teresa down for the winter. How long they were married. Almost ten years. What she was like. An alligator. Harry wanting to know what difference did it make? No kids, that part of his life was behind him.
For the first time in over twenty years he phoned the house in Palos Heights and said to Teresa, as a courtesy, "I want to thank you for putting up my bond. I'll send a check for the fifteen thou as soon as I move some dough around. I sincerely hope it didn't inconvenience you any."
Teresa Ianello said over the phone, loud enough for Joyce to hear, "You coward, you two-bit bookmaking son of a bitch, you sent that muscle here to threaten me? You know what would happen to you if Papa was still alive? I say the rosary every night, praying they send you up and lose the fucking key."
Harry said, "Nice talking to you, Teresie," and hung up. He said to Joyce, "You think I could live with a woman like that? She had five o'clock shadow all day. She could teach a course in ball-busting to women that, for one reason or another, don't instinctively have the knack. Listen, all her life she believed her dad was in the pepperoni business. I had to get permission from him to divorce her. You know what he said? He said, 'Ten years, Christ, you have a lot more patience'n I would've.'"
Chapter Four.
Harry's phone rang all day Monday and Tuesday, friends, players, calling to say what was this they heard or read in the paper, asking if he was okay, if he was still in business. A short piece in The Miami Herald said:
SOUTH BEACH RESIDENT CHARGED IN FATAL SHOOTING
On page three, buried. That's all he was, a resident? Why not Popular South Beach Figure, or Personality? Christ, resident. He told friends and players it was all a mistake and would be straightened out before too long. When his runners and sheet writers called he told them to sit on their totals another day or so and he'd get back to them.
The Zip phoned late Tuesday afternoon. Harry wasn't ready for him. He heard the Zip say, "What're you doing, Harry, going around shooting people? You know who the guy was you capped? Earl? Jimmy's fish guide he always used, up on the lake. You gonna call Jimmy, tell him you're sorry?... Harry?"
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't play along, pretend he didn't know who sent the guy, Christ, Earl Crowe. So he hung up the phone.
It didn't give him any time at all to think. When the phone rang again Harry answered and the Zip said, "You hang up on me?"
"We were cut off."
The line was silent until the Zip said, "You know a reason we shouldn't be talking?"
Harry said, "You want to know if I'm wired and some people are listening? What do you think?"
"There's a guy sitting in your lobby," the Zip said. "I wondered was he a friend of yours. Somebody looking out for you."
"I haven't left the apartment."
"Haven't talked to people from the government?"
Harry said, "Not yet," and hung up. Fuck him.
He knew guys who punched walls in moments of frustration and some of them broke their hands. He could smash something, throw the telephone through the window. Kick in the TV set. What else? Thinking about violent things he might do calmed him down. He was leaving, putting his forty-seven years of planning into effect. So why get excited?
Later, Joyce came with Chinese. She set the dining table that was at one end of the living room, go
t the place mats and dishes from the kitchen. They started, Joyce using chopsticks, Harry a fork. He ate a piece of shrimp toast and then fooled with his Szechuan chicken, removing the peppers. He said to Joyce, "When you came in, was there a guy in the lobby? Like a federal agent pretending to be a normal person?"
Joyce knew how to handle those chopsticks.
She said, "How about a guy in a cowboy hat? Not the kind country-western stars wear, a small one. Like a businessman's cowboy hat."
"I know what you mean, the Dallas special," Harry said. "That Stetson, the kind the cops were wearing when Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald."
Joyce held her chopsticks poised and then nodded, no doubt seeing it. "That's the one. Light tan, or sort of off-white." She took a few moments to poke at her Gung Bo shrimp. "He's wearing a dark suit and tie, has a newspaper on his lap."
"All by himself?"
She nodded, but seemed to be thinking of something else. "He's the type, he's dressed up you might say, but looks like a farmer. You know what I mean? That weathered rawboned type. Probably around forty. I almost forgot, he's wearing cowboy boots, tan with sort of ivory wingtips. With a dark-blue suit."
"No style," Harry said. "I guess you did notice him."
Joyce looked up from her plate, thinking of something else. "You know what? He was there yesterday when we came in."
Harry shook his head. "Never saw him."
"Then last night when I left, there was another guy sitting in the same chair, near the elevator."
"My protectors," Harry said, "from some government law-enforcement body." He took a bite of chicken and vegetables and worked on his plate for a minute before looking at Joyce again.
"When you're finished, would you mind going down and ask the guy who he's with? I'm curious."
Joyce said, "Really?"
"Or, hey. Ask him if he could come up here for a minute. Tell him I'd like to meet him."
Joyce seemed to think it over.
"Why?"
"This guy could be risking his life for me. I'd like to shake his hand, that's all." He saw the way she was looking at him and said, "What's the matter?" Innocent.
Joyce said, "What're you up to, Harry?"
The first thing the man said, once he was in the apartment, was, "You don't remember me, do you?" with a slight grin, his head cocked looking at Harry. "I could tell yesterday when you came in. You walked right past like I wasn't there." Harry tried narrowing his eyes, but it didn't help. Joyce had it right, he looked like a farmer: that stringy type with hollow cheeks, crow's-feet, and had the accent to go with it, not Deep South but from somewhere below Ohio. He touched the funneled brim of his Stetson with two fingers and held open his ID case in the other hand, showing his star. He said, "Raylan Givens, U. S. Marshals Service." The name was no more familiar than the face, that rugged outdoor type with a fighter's nose. Harry stepped up now and shook his hand, squinting to show he was trying to remember. Raylan Givens was nearly a head taller in his cowboy boots, tan ones, Harry had noticed, yeah, with a wingtip design. He kept nodding as he gripped Harry's hand, pumping it. Harry said, "It was in federal court," taking a shot. "Am I right?" He got free of Raylan's grip as the man shook his head.
"Almost," Raylan said. "I'll give you a hint. We took a trip together."
Harry said, "Right, we met on a plane one time," and saw Raylan shaking his head again, still with that grin, enjoying this. So he wasn't offended at not being remembered. A good-natured type.
"We made the trip together," Raylan said. "Started out from Miami International, got as far as Atlanta where we had to change?"
Now Harry was nodding. "On our way to Chicago." He said to Joyce, "I was subpoenaed to appear before a grand jury. It would've put me in about the same position I'm in now, getting squeezed."
"I was to see you got there," Raylan said, "but we never made it, did we? Least you didn't."
Harry said to Joyce, "This was about five years ago."
"Six years in February. We're hung up in Atlanta on account of the flight was delayed," Raylan said. "You were sore anyway 'cause you didn't want to talk to that grand jury. I mean you were good and ticked off."
"I had no business being there."
"If you had nothing to say, that would've been brought out in your testimony, wouldn't it? No, you had to pull a disappearing act on me after you gave your word." Raylan looked over at Joyce, in the kitchen now cleaning up. "We're in the Atlanta airport? I'm eating an ice cream cone, he says he's going to the men's and will be right back. The next time I saw him was yesterday, six years later.'
Harry grinned, Raylan didn't. He said to Harry, "If you'd kept your word I'd be up in grade by now with the Marshals to a GS-Twelve 'stead of where I am presently and have been the past seven years. Nothing happened to you, though, did it? I thought sure the court would hold you in contempt and put out a fugitive warrant."
Harry, serious now, said, "If I had ever shown my face in that courthouse, I would have been seen by some people as far worse than contemptuous. It turned out the Justice Department didn't need me anyway." He narrowed his eyes at Raylan Givens and this time saw the two of them in the Atlanta airport, only a glimpse, but with enough recall in it for him to say, "I think you told me you're from Kentucky."
"Yes sir, Harlan County, in the eastern part of the state."
"You don't drink."
"Well, not too much."
"I don't drink at all anymore."
"Well, good for you."
"You said your goal, at least then, was to be a... revenue agent?"
"ATF," Raylan said. "That's Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, part of the Treasury Department. I still wouldn't mind it."
Harry glanced at Joyce. "Wants to stop people from drinking and smoking."
Raylan's grin returned. "That's what you said in Atlanta that time. I told you no, ATF goes after people who deal illegally in those items." He looked over at Joyce. "On the plane he kept trying to get me to have a drink."
Harry watched Joyce give him kind of a smile, about to say something, but Harry beat her to it.
"Let me ask you, Raymond--"
"It's Raylan," the marshal said, and spelled it.
"Raylan, right. Can I ask you what exactly your duties are?"
"Well, we guard federal prisoners, see to their transportation. Work courtroom security, my least favorite assignment. We take care of forfeitures, property that's been confiscated."
"I mean what're you doing for me?" Harry said. "I'm not a prisoner."
"No, but you're likely to be called before a grand jury," Raylan said. "We're to see nothing happens to prevent your appearance."
"What if I don't want your protection?" Harry saw the man's puzzled look and said, "That's a theoretical question. I'm wondering about my rights."
"Our being around makes you nervous?"
It didn't seem worth getting into. Harry shook his head. "Let's forget I asked."
Raylan said, "We can stay pretty much out of sight except ... Mr. Arno, could you do us a big favor? Don't go out at night, okay? And if you want to go someplace during the day, let us drive you."
Harry said, "This is for my protection."
"Yes, sir."
"Or so I won't run off on you."
"This's different'n that other time," Raylan said. "You jump bond you become a fugitive from justice." Serious about it.
Harry said, "I guess I wasn't thinking."
It seemed to satisfy Raylan.
Joyce was the one giving him the look.
He was at the window again where he spent half the day. Joyce watched him from the kitchen. She finished drying the dishes and crossed the room to put her hand on Harry's shoulder and stand close to him.
"Is he still outside?"
"In the park getting a cone. The U. S. marshal loves ice cream. You hear him say he's from some county? People from the South do that. Not in Florida so much, I mean people from the south South."
"I've heard of Harlan Count
y," Joyce said. "You want to know what I think?"
"Tell me."
"He's not as dumb as you'd like to believe."
"I forgot you're from that part of the country. Nashville, was it? And you people tend to stick up for each other."
"We moved, Harry, when I was two years old."
"Yeah, but once a you-all, you're one for life," Harry said. "Look at him licking his cone."
When they were silent and it was quiet in the room they could hear faint sounds from outside, a car starting, voices raised. Out on the beach a photographer and crew were shooting a ninety-pound fashion model in after-swim wear, a girl fifteen or sixteen. Models now were babies. Joyce had three catalog jobs lined up for the winter and was pretty sure of doing aerobic outfits in the sexy underwear book. She looked okay as long as she could wear a stocking to cover her veins and bumps. She didn't mind Harry seeing them.
They went out weekdays during the football season, saw a movie and had dinner and sometimes she'd stay over. Harry became horny about once a month, always in the morning. Toward the end of his drinking days, a few years ago, he was horny every morning, especially hung over. But he was only normally horny, years before that, when she was dancing topless and he would take her out after to get something to eat. He didn't seem to know what kind of attitude to have about her. Or he was self-conscious about being seen with her in public; though there was little chance anyone on the beach would recognize her. The clubs she worked were in Miami. Harry was prudish, while she didn't feel that dancing with her breasts exposed, when she was doing it, was that big a deal. She said to him once, "You wait for what seems like forever to see what kind of tits you're going to have. Then once you have them, whatever shape or size they are, you're stuck. Mine are o-kay, they're not showstoppers by any means, which is fine with me. I've never ever thought for one minute about getting them augumented, or envied girls who had big ones -- no thanks, have to carry around the load some girls do. Of course, guys love big ones." At least guys who came to topless clubs seemed to. They'd ask why she wore glasses while she performed and she'd tell them so she could see where she was going and not fall off the stage. She told Harry the horn-rim glasses gave her a friendly rapport with the audience. Here was a girl being herself and they loved it, they could relate to her. "Like I was the girl next door." And Harry said, "Or their fifth-grade teacher they used to fantasize about, wonder what she looked like naked." There could be something to that. He asked about guys who ran these clubs hitting on her. She told Harry they weren't her type. As Joy she'd open her act with Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog," do funky moves to the intricate guitar riffs between the lyrics and get the room's attention fast. Her glasses would slip and she'd push them back up while she danced. The idea was not to look too professional. When she finally quit Harry said, "Well, you don't have to do that anymore." She told him she didn't ever have to do it, she liked it, all that attention. Harry told her she should be ashamed of herself. He didn't get it, because in his business the idea was not to call attention to yourself. They split up. She worked in the chorus aboard a cruise ship that toured the Caribbean, choreographed routines a couple of years, got into catalog modeling. About this time she began to hear her biological clock ticking and married a guy who sold real estate. He said he wouldn't mind a couple more kids. "I thought I was going to be a mommy," Joyce told Harry a few years later, when he was back in her life. "Until these two little girls he already had, not even in training bras yet, made him choose between them and me." Harry said, "You're not the mommy type, kiddo." Making it sound like a compliment. They'd go to movies, to Wolfie's, to Joe's Stone Crab. Have Chinese in. ... All those years, it was funny, she always felt she could do better than Harry Arno, twenty-five years older than she was, on Medicare. Though he never took advantage of the senior citizen's discount at the movies.