"You can get the number, can't you? Call the Broward County Sheriff's Office. Like you did before."
"What if Drug Enforcement's got a tap on the line?"
"You're somebody from the polo club," Robbie said. "Chichi asked you to call her for him. You're not gonna leave your name, Walter."
"They might not have the number."
"They can get it, can't they? Or you call the telephone company. Tell them you're with the Palm Beach office of the DEA. You know people there, you know the routine. Walter, this is your end of it.
You know how to do all that kind of stuff. But we've got to move."
"Yeah, but what if they want to talk to my superior, something like that?"
"You're the superior, Walter," Robbie paused.
"You're the star. For two grand a week, including your combat pay, it doesn't seem like much to ask.
A couple of phone calls? Come on . . ."
Walter walked over to the narrow casement window that looked down on the swimming pool and the patio with its umbrella tables. He stared at the immaculate blue, green and yellow orderliness of the scene, the arrangement of color reaching to theocean. If the guy wanted to he could have the grass painted red and dye the water in the swimming pool purple or cover the whole setup with a golden dome. The guy could do anything he wanted. Easy.
It came down to a simple question. Would you rather be inside pissing out, or outside getting it all over you?
Walter came away from the window. "Okay, I'll try the phone company, give 'em some bullshit. But when I call her, I don't think it should be a message from the guy. It's gotta be somebody else,'cause what if he happens to call her? It's gotta be somebody offering her a deal, like something she can't pass up."
Robbie was sitting at the bar now. It seemed to come to him almost immediately, the way his expression brightened.
"Dorie thinks she's an actress. She does get a few small parts at dinner theaters, the maid, maybe a couple of lines. But how about--tell her they need somebody right away up at Burt Reynolds's place."
"Where, Jupiter?"
"Yeah, it's perfect. By the time she gets there and gets back, it's done."
Walter drank his beer. It sounded pretty good.
He looked at Robbie sitting like The Thinker now, fist supporting his chin, weighing something heavy.
"What's the matter?""Nothing," Robbie said. "I'm trying to decide what to wear."
Angela wore the new white-linen sunback, feeling and looking good; but more for Bryan, later, than any effect it might have on Chichi. Cheech would probably try something just to test her availability- out of habit, part of his nature--come on with some kind of slippery Latin routine and she'd tell him to knock it off and he would. That's what she told herself. The alive feeling of expectation was something else. She didn't want him to make the moves, but at the same time she wanted to see him at least try. After all, how many internationally famous great lovers did you come across when you knew you were looking good and certain you could handle the situation? She hoped.
Then an anxious feeling of impending disappointment: following the gravel, coasting the Buick through the clumps of sea grape to find the circular drive empty; the cement apron in front of the threecar garage empty. The house with a closed, empty look. The son of a bitch.
Dorie, barefoot in bra and panties, a hairbrush in her hand, opened the door and said, "Hi," and disappeared.
Angela entered cautiously, through a hallwaypast kitchen and den to the spacious front room. A little white dog sniffed her but ran off as she reached to pet him.
"Sit down if you want."
Angela turned to see the red-haired girl halfway up the staircase. The little dog was with her, looking out through the balusters.
"I love your dress. I wear white, I look like some Appalachian kid in a CARE package dress. You know what I mean? I look dumb in plain white things, like they're wearing me. I have to wear something busier so it all like blends together. You know what I mean?"
Angela said, "Is Chichi here?" She held up her slim reporter's notebook, a credential. "I've got an appointment to interview him."
"Good luck," Dorie said. "Listen, I gotta get ready. Unless you want to come up."
"Do you expect him?"
"Cheech shows up or he doesn't. If he told you he'd be here--"
"At six."
"Well, he still shows up or he doesn't. God, is it six already?" She disappeared, the little dog hopping up the stairs after her.
Angela moved to the French doors, looked out at the patio and pool, the stretch of beach beyond.
This had to be the most secluded place on the coast; almost as though the great real estate rush hadpassed it by. There was enough property here for a good-size condominium.
Dorie's voice said from the top of the stairs, "I don't think I know your name. Do I?"
"Angela."
"I'm Dorie and I've got a problem." Still in her bra and panties, pulling the brush through her hair. "You wouldn't do me a huge favor, would you?"
"Sure. If I can."
"I've got a chance to do a walk-on tonight at the--are you ready?--the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre. I don't even know the name of the play, I'm supposed to be there practically right now and my fucking car's at a gas station in Deerfield, getting fixed. Actually it's done. I thought Cheech would be here to drive me, but the son of a bitch, you can't rely on him."
"You need a ride just to Deerfield?"
"God, if you would."
"I'd be glad to," Angela said. "But hurry, okay?
I'll leave him a note in case he comes--" and looked up as she heard the door open.
Chichi, in person.
In golf clothes and a linen sports jacket over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging empty. Angela watched his entrance, coming in to see two women waiting for him--one in a white sundress, one in a bra and panties--the inspector of embassies show-ing mild surprise one moment, a gesture of inevitability the next, no more than his due.
Then coming alive. "Angela!" Coming toward her, both hands extended, limp--the sports jacket somehow clinging to his narrow shoulders--to touch her gently, to kiss both of her cheeks . . .
Dorie said, "Cheech! I'm in a play tonight!"
He turned to look at her with genuine concern.
"Ohhhh, Dorie, you're leaving us? . . . And Mr.
Piper . . . How are you today, Mr. Piper?"
Dorie left in the rented brown Buick, not trusting herself in Chichi's Rolls. The Buick would be at the Mobil station in Deerfield. Then, later on, Chichi would drop Angela there on his way back to Palm Beach. No problem.
"Alone at last," Angela said, playing the game, smiling to show him she was playing.
"I'm going to bathe," Chichi said, holding his dog, trying to hold Angela's hand, drawing out his exit, "and change into something comfortable."
"After a hard day at the club," Angela said.
Chichi's eyes smiled. "You've had your bath."
"Yes, I have."
His eyes smiled and smiled.
She would make a note that they "flashed and danced" and see if she could work up an analogy to Caribbean moonlight, reflections on tropical waters--if she could do it unpretentiously and if Bryan didn't think it was dumb.
Walter had said, "First, we want the cars turned around so they're facing out, you never know. But that road's too narrow, all the trees and shit, to turn around once you're in there. So you have to back in from Ocean Drive. Wait'll you don't see anybody coming. You go in, I give it a couple minutes, then I go in."
This is where they were, on the access road to the beach, about a hundred yards from Chichi's house.
Over his jeans, a dark cashmere and the Colt Python in a shoulder rig, Robbie wore a light canvas shooting coat with deep pockets. He was hot, but needed a good deep pocket for his extra ammo clip. He wore a blue bandana rolled and tied around his forehead like a sweatband. (Walter had said, "You gonna blacken your face, too?") Walter wore his wi
ng tips, his light blue suit pants and a dark blue poplin jacket that covered the Browning nine-millimeter holstered on his right hip.
He hung the VCR, the tape recorder, over one shoulder and crossed the strap holding the battery pack over the other, each one as heavy as a dictionary, and hefted the video camera to his shoulder--like a goddamn native ready to follow the white boss--the white boss in his commando outfit and tennis shoes half inside the "boot" of the Rolls now putting his submachine gun together. The "faggun" Walter called it, all cammied up in shades of blue and rose. Robbie was screwing the suppressor onto the barrel stub, the silencer bigger and longer than the gun itself. Then fitting the thirty-tworound clip into the slot on the underside, just behind the trigger. If you couldn't hit one guy with thirty-two rounds you weren't going to hit him and you might as well take off the coat and leave the extra clip in the car. But Daniels was going in like it was a fucking assault on enemy headquarters--the guy probably sitting in there in his underwear, scratching his ass.
Robbie came out of the trunk. "Ready?"
"Okay," Walter said. "Just his car's there when we drove by. But we got to check, be sure nobody else's come in the meantime. We don't want no surprises. We stay in the trees and shit till we get to the house. Only the one car's still there we go in through the back, I'm right behind you. Do it, then we come back, get the grass out of the trunk."
"I don't think there'll be enough light inside,"
Robbie said, looking up at the sky that was pale gray-blue, without glare.
"Let's wait and see," Walter said. "We stand here we're not gonna have any light anywhere."
"I think I'd like to get him out by the pool."
"You might not have any choice," Walter said.
"The guy makes a run, you have to drop him. I mean that's why we're here, right? You see him,you hit him, no fucking around, give him a chance to get away."
"Yeah, but I want to see him fall in the pool,"
Robbie said. "He's running--give him a burst, he falls in the swimming pool and you see him floating there, face down, the water turning red . . ."
"Jesus Christ," Walter said, "let's get it done."
Chichi called down from upstairs, "I won't be a minute. I hurried, so, I didn't have a chance to shower at the club . . . Why don't you make yourself a drink?"
"I'm fine."
"Well, sit down. Watch the telly if you like."
Angela looked about the sitting room that resembled a Cape Cod summer home more than it did a place in Florida. The sofa and chairs, slipcovered in a beige fabric, reminded her a little of Bryan's apartment. Comfortable, but indifferent to fashion. She was gathering impressions. The side-table bar offered a skimpy selection of several brands of whiskey, one gin and a blue siphon bottle. Now the room looked English. A cottage in Brighton. Apparently there was no ice. But she didn't want a drink anyway.
Angela looked up toward the top of the stairway as she said, "I'll be outside . . ."
Bryan was put on standby for the five-thirty Delta flight to West Palm. He told the ticket lady behind the counter he had to make it. "I'm getting married." The ticket lady glanced up at him and said, "Congratulations." He told her he was also a police officer--"See? My shield"--working on a very important case that was taking him to Florida and that's why they were getting married down there.
The ticket lady looked at him again, into his solemn unwavering blue eyes. He would tell her anything.
All that, his stomach in a knot, then hearing his name called and grabbing his canvas bag.
He sat in the back of the plane and smoked cigarettes, drinking down the first bourbon over ice then sipping the second one, trying to make it last.
He would tell her about his former wife about to get married. It had nothing to do with them, yet somehow it did, because it relieved him and gave him no more reason to look back or think of reasons to feel guilty. He could concentrate on Angela.
Tonight they'd have dinner in a dark place and go back to the Villas, sit by the seawall alone and look at the ocean and touch her and feel the familiar feel of her hand that was like no other hand and feel her arm, the soft hint of down, and feel her face--later, lying down, feel her face and trace the delicate line down her nose to her mouth and feel her breath. Jesus. He said, I love you. He said it again and then again, trying the emphasis on a different word eachtime. He said, I'm in love with you. He said, God, I love you. He said, I love you so much that . . .
She would know.
She had said, "You don't have to say a word if I feel it."
And he had said, "Start feeling."
But he would tell her so she would be absolutely sure.
They crossed a strip of lawn from the trees to the back of the house, Robbie running with his head down, shoulders hunched, the flowery submachine gun at port arms--the way it was done. Walter carried the video camera in front of him, using his arms beneath it for support. He didn't hoist the curved, saddlelike support to his shoulder until they were in the entranceway.
Robbie said, over his shoulder, "The door's locked."
Walter said to himself, Get out; right now. He said, "I 'magine it is. Kick it open."
"It's too heavy."
"Okay, you got a credit card?"
"Christ," Robbie said.
"Come on, gimme a credit card, I'll see what I can do."
Robbie gave him his gold American Express card from his wallet and held the camera while Waltertried to work the card into the crack between the door and the molding and slip the lock. It wouldn't budge.
"We'll have to go around the front," Walter said.
Robbie gave him the camera back and they moved along the north side of the house, pausing to look in a window at the empty living room. At the front corner of the house, Robbie raised his left hand to hold up his troops. He crouched, his gaze scanning the patio and pool area, then out to the empty stretch of beach. Rising now, Robbie moved around the corner. Walter lifted the camera to his shoulder again and followed his leader across the brick patio and in through the French doors.
Robbie stood in the middle of the room, the machine gun held close to him, the silencer pointing up past his head. He glanced at Walter and swept his left hand toward the back of the house.
Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.
Walter said, "He's upstairs. You hear the shower?"
Listening, Robbie shook his head.
"It stopped," Walter said. "Get back in the hall there, wait for him."
They crossed quickly. Robbie poked his machine gun into the kitchen first, then looked in the den to be sure and shook his head at Walter.
Walter said, "I just told you, he's upstairs."
They waited in the hallway. When Chichi appeared, coming from the right into his frame of vision, Robbie was looking at the man's back, at a gold lame robe, the skirts hanging nearly to the floor, a little dog running to keep up with him. He could hear Chichi's slippers slapping his heels as he crossed the room, approaching the bar now, rubbing his hands together. Chichi selected a bottle, stooped to bring out a leathercovered ice bucket from underneath. It was when he straightened, coming around, that he saw Robbie holding the gaily colored submachine gun and the heavyset man with the camera mounted on his shoulder, the man moving carefully to the side now, his face pressed to the eyepiece.
Chichi said, "Robbie--what are you doing, making a film? Can I be in it?"
"You're in it all right," Robbie said. "You're the star."
"You know, I did appear in a film once when I was married to Valaria," Chichi said. "I seduced her in the first reel and I was shot in the second reel by that weight lifter, very popular with the Italians.
Muscular young man--I can't think of his name.
Steve something . . . What's this picture about, Robbie?"
Walter kept the gold robe in the center of the viewfinder that was like a tiny television screen in front of his eye. The camera whirred in his right ear.
He heard Robbie
say something."Death."
Then Chichi. "The film is about death?"
The gold robe on the little screen was turning to the bar again. "Should I ask whose?"
"Yours," Robbie's voice said.
"You wouldn't prefer a drink, would you?"
Chichi's voice said.
Son of a bitch--the gold robe was moving again.
Walter heard the popping sounds like a heavy automatic B-B gun firing and saw the bottle on the sidetable bar shatter. He saw the stunned expression on the guy's face for only a split moment--beautiful, got it--but now the guy was moving and he heard the hard popping sounds again and the little dog barking and saw the guy stumble like he was tripping over his robe and several panes in the French door exploded.
Angela heard glass breaking.
She was coming back from an anxious walk that had taken her a little way down the beach- carrying her sandals--restless now, feeling she was running out of time and wanting to postpone the meeting, put Chichi aside for another day--Bryan was right, he was always right--and get out to the airport. Be there waiting. Her mind wasn't on this at all. The ocean was even different, oily, uninviting. She didn't want to be here. She heard the sound of breaking glass in a lull, coming clearly and by itself as the heavy sound of the surf receded and was still for a moment.
She came away from the ocean, crossing the littered sand, looking down to avoid patches of tar and seaweed, then looking toward the house again . . . at a figure in gold coming out. The Great Lover. God, in a gold bathrobe. He seemed drunk. She was halfway there, between the ocean and the grounds.
She saw him coming out toward the swimming pool, staggering, the little dog coming with him. How could he have had that much to drink? He was fine when he came in. She saw two more figures, one of them carrying something on his shoulder. She moved toward them but not hurrying now, not understanding what was going on, but beginning to think now, to realize there were people associated with this man, like the two in the restaurant . . . She saw the other figure raise something in front of him that began to jump up and down as he held it and tried to control it and she saw Chichi in the gold robe running, stumbling, the thing still jumping in the other man's hands and she could hear it now, hard little muted pops, as Chichi staggered and went into the pool. She stood still. She saw the figure looking this way. She saw his arm extend, pointing directly at her. Angela dropped her sandals and began to run.