Glitz

  ELMORE

  LEONARD

  GLITZ

  Contents

  The Extras

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Praise and Acclaim

  Books by Elmore Leonard

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  * * *

  THE NIGHT VINCENT WAS SHOT he saw it coming. The guy approached out of the streetlight on the corner of Meridian and Sixteenth, South Beach, and reached Vincent as he was walking from his car to his apartment building. It was early, a few minutes past nine.

  Vincent turned his head to look at the guy and there was a moment when he could have taken him and did consider it, hit the guy as hard as he could. But Vincent was carrying a sack of groceries. He wasn’t going to drop a half gallon of Gallo Hearty Burgundy, a bottle of prune juice and a jar of Ragú spaghetti sauce on the sidewalk. Not even when the guy showed his gun, called him a motherfucker through his teeth and said he wanted Vincent’s wallet and all the money he had on him. The guy was not big, he was scruffy, wore a tank top and biker boots and smelled. Vincent believed he had seen him before, in the detective bureau holding cell. It wouldn’t surprise him. Muggers were repeaters in their strungout state, often dumb, always desperate. They came on with adrenaline pumping, hoping to hit and get out. Vincent’s hope was to give the guy pause.

  He said, “You see that car? Standard Plymouth, nothing on it, not even wheel covers?” It was a pale gray. “You think I’d go out and buy a car like that?” The guy was wired or not paying attention. Vincent had to tell him, “It’s a police car, asshole. Now gimme the gun and go lean against it.”

  What he should have done, either put the groceries down and given the guy his wallet or screamed in the guy’s face to hit the deck, now, or he was fucking dead. Instead of trying to be clever and getting shot for it.

  This guy wasn’t going to lay himself out against any police car, he had done it too many times before—as it turned out—and it didn’t pay. He shot from the hip and that was where Vincent took the first one, in his own right hip, through and through. The .38 slug chipped bone, nicked the ilium, missed the socket by a couple of centimeters but raised other hell in its deflected course: tore through his gluteus maximus, taking out his back pocket and wallet containing seventeen dollars and punched his gun out of the waistband of his pants, where it rode just behind his hip. The guy’s second shot went through the Hearty Burgundy, passing between Vincent’s right arm and his rib cage. At this point Vincent dropped the groceries and went for his piece, yelling at the guy, who was running now, to halt or he’d fire. Here again was a lesson to be learned. When you say it, mean it. The guy halted all right, he half-turned and started shooting again. By now Vincent was on the ground feeling for a Model 39 Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic among broken glass and spaghetti sauce. He found it and fired, he believed, four rounds, three of them entering the guy’s body just under his right arm and passing through both lungs.

  The Sinai Emergency staff tore Vincent’s shirt off looking for a chest wound until one of them sniffed him and said, Christ, it’s wine. They x-rayed him, closed the exit wound in surgery, attached some plastic tubes and cleaned glass out of both of his hands.

  He was in Intensive Care for the night, wheeled the next morning to a private room as somebody special. The nurse who came in said, “Well, you look just fine to me.” Vincent said, thank you, he was. Except for a terrible pain, down there. Pointed and said, “In my penis.” He had never called it that before. The nurse took it in her hand, gently removed the catheter and he fell in love with her, her perky cap, her perfect teeth, her healthy body in that starched white uniform. At night she rubbed hospital lotion over his back, his shoulders, soothed that raw gluteus muscle in his right buttock and he called her Miss Magic Hands. Her name was Ginny. Deeply in love he told her the front of his hip hurt too, awful, right there where the leg met the body. Ginny gave him a sly smile and the plastic bottle of lotion. He asked her if she’d like to go to Puerto Rico.

  He was going. He’d been once and loved the food. Went down to pick up a wanted felon and waited over a long weekend for a judge to sign the release. He got to visit with a friend of his on the Puerto Rico Police, but didn’t get out to Roosevelt Roads that trip. His dad had shipped out of there and was killed at Anzio, taking in an LCVP during the invasion of Italy. Vincent wanted to see Roosevelt Roads. He had a picture of his dad at home taken at El Yunque, up in the rain forest: the picture of a salty young guy, a coxswain, his white cover one finger over his eyebrows, grinning, nothing but clouds behind him up there on the mountain: a young man Vincent had never known but who looked familiar. He was twenty years older than his dad now. How would that work if they ever did meet? His mother said rosaries in the hope they would.

  The guy he killed was running on speed and trailing a lifetime of priors, destined—they told Vincent—to crash and burn or die in jail.

  “I didn’t scare him enough,” Vincent said.

  He told this to his closest friend on the Miami Beach Police, Buck Torres.

  Torres said, “Scare him? That what you suppose to do?”

  Vincent said, “You know what I mean. I didn’t handle it right, I let it go too far.”

  Torres said, “What are you, a doctor? You want to talk to the asshole? You know how long the line would be, all the assholes out there? You didn’t kill him somebody else would have to, sooner or later.”

  “Don’t you know what I’m talking about?” Vincent said. “If I’d scared him enough he’d still be alive. I mean scare the guy so bad he stops and thinks, he says, man, no more of this shit.”

  Torres said, “Yeah? How do you know when you scared him enough or you have to shoot him to save your own life? Right in there, that moment, how do you know?”

  That was the question.

  He’d take it with him to Puerto Rico on his medical leave. Maybe think about it while he healed, maybe not. Lieutenant Vincent Mora was at a point, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a cop anymore. Until that night he had never killed anyone. It made him think about his own life.

  2

  * * *

  ISIDRO LOVED THIS GUY TEDDY. He was Mr. Tourist, every taxi driver’s dream. The kind not only wants to see everything in the guide book, he wants the same driver every day because he trusts him and believes whatever the driver tells him. Like he wants the driver to approve of him.

  This Teddy bought souvenirs he sent to his mother in New Jersey. He wrote postcards and sent them to a guy in Florida, an address with a lot of numbers. He sat in the front seat of the taxi saying, “What’s that? What’s that?” His camera ready. Isidro would tell him, that’s La Perla. Yes, people live down there in those little houses . . . That’s San Cristóbal, that’s Fortaleza, Plaza de Colón . . .

  “What’s that? With the bars on the windows?”

  “Tha’ was the old jail of the city, call La Princesa. But now the jail is in Bayamón.” Isidro had to stop so Teddy could take pictures of the e
ntrance, like it was an historical place.

  “That used to be the jail, ‘ey?”

  He always said that, not “hey,” he said, “ ‘ey.” He was interested in everything he saw. “The policia drive black and whites, ‘ey? Most towns in the States I think our policia drive black and whites too.” He took pictures along the narrow streets of Old San Juan. He took pictures of the Caribe Hilton and pictures of the liquor store that was in a building down the street. Strange? A liquor store. He took pictures of the old Normandie Hotel, nearby, that once looked like a ship but was closed now, decaying. A block from this hotel was the Escambron public beach. As soon as the tourist saw it it became his favorite place in San Juan.

  It wasn’t a tourist place. Isidro said, “You want the most beautiful beach we go to Isla Verde.” No, he liked this one. Okay. Isidro believed it was because of the young girls in their bathing suits. The tourist would fix a long lens to his camera and photograph the girls discreetly, without calling attention to himself. Isidro loved this guy.

  He kept his money—listen to this, Isidro told his wife—in a money belt made of blue cloth beneath his shirt. He would take money out of it only in the taxi, next to me, Isidro said. He goes in a shop and buys something for his mother in New Jersey, he returns to the taxi before he puts the change in his money belt. He trusts me, Isidro said. Isidro had lived in New York City nine years in a basement and was relieved to be back. His wife, who had never left Puerto Rico, didn’t say anything.

  Every morning pick him up on Ashford Avenue by the DuPont Plaza, he’s ready to go. Ask him how he slept. Oh, he slept like a baby with the breeze that comes from the ocean.

  This ocean was different, the tourist believed, than the ocean up in New Jersey. Though it must be the same water because the oceans were all connected and the water would get to different places.

  “You know what?” the tourist said. “I might’ve pissed in that same water when it was up in New Jersey a long time ago, ‘ey? I mean back when I was a teenager. I liked to piss on things then. Or be pissing in an alley when a girl comes along? Pretend you don’t see her and give her a flash? . . . You go up in the mountains there and take a piss in a stream, where does it go? It goes out’n the ocean. People have been doing it, they been taking leaks, millions and millions of people for thousands of years they been doing it, but it don’t change the ocean any, does it? You ever thought of that?”

  What Isidro thought was, maybe this guy was a little strange. Innocent, but abnormal in his interests. He’s still a prize though, Isidro told his wife. His wife didn’t say anything.

  The third day at the beach the tourist went swimming. It was easy to find him in the ocean, the sun reflecting on the dark glasses he always wore. He splashed out there, cupping his hands and hitting the water. Man, he was white—holding his arms as though to protect himself or trying to hide his body as he came out of the water in his red trunks. It was interesting to see a body this white, to see veins clearly and the shape of bones. Isidro, originally from Loíza, a town where they made West African masks, was Negro and showed no trace of Taino or Hispanic blood.

  “It was when he came for his towel,” Isidro told his wife, “I saw the name on his arm, here.” Isidro touched the curve of his arm below his right shoulder. “You know what name is on there? MR MAGIC. It’s black, black letters with a faint outline that I think was red at one time but now is pink and almost not there. My Mr. Magic.”

  His wife said, “Be careful of him.”

  Isidro said, “He’s my prize. Look what he gives me,” and showed his wife several twenty-dollar bills. He didn’t tell her everything; it was difficult to talk with the washing machine and the television in the same room and she didn’t seem interested. But that night his wife said again, “Be careful of him.”

  There were whores on Calle de la Tranca in Old San Juan, different places for anyone to notice. In Condado the whores stood in front of La Concha, another empty hotel that had closed. But none had approached Teddy because Isidro was with him, taking care of him, and the whores knew Isidro in his black Chevrolet taxi. He believed, from the way Teddy looked at the whores displaying themselves, his tourist desired one but was timid about saying it. So Isidro didn’t roll his eyes and ask how would you like some of that, ‘ey? He wanted to offer him the pleasure of a woman without presenting it as a business transaction. He cared for his tourist.

  On that third day at the beach he began to see a way he might do it.

  With his tourist wandering about taking pictures, Isidro had time to look at the girls and study them. They seemed to him girls who were lazy and yet restless, moving idly even as they moved to the music of their radios. They seemed to be looking not for something to do but for something to happen, to entertain them.

  One in particular he believed he recognized and searched his mind for a name. A girl who had come out of the Caribe Hilton late one night, tired, going home to Calle del Parque. She had given him her name and telephone number saying, “But only men who stay at the Hilton, the Condado Beach, the DuPont Plaza and the Holiday Inn.”

  Light brown hair with that dark gold skin, and what a body. It was her hair that helped him recognize her, the way it hung down and nearly covered one of her eyes. She held the hair back with the tips of her fingers, like peeking out of a curtain, when she looked at somebody closely. As she did talking to the man with the cane.

  Iris Ruiz.

  That was her name. He had phoned several times with customers but never reached her. Iris Ruiz.

  Talking to the man with the cane.

  He remembered now she had been with him yesterday and the day before. The man in the same aluminum chair, reading a book, the cane hooked to the back of the chair. The girl, Iris, kneeling in the sand to talk to him, earnest in what she was saying. The man looking up from his book to nod, to say something, a few words, though most of the time he seemed to read his book as he listened.

  His skin was dark from the sun. His hair and his beard, not cared for though not unattractive, were dark enough for him to be Puerto Rican. An artist perhaps, an actor, someone from the Institute of Culture, a member of the party for independence. But this was only his look, his type. Isidro knew, without having to hear him speak, the man was from the States.

  The man pushed up on the arms of his chair to rise. He was slender, a lean body in tan trousers that had been cut off to make shorts. No, he wasn’t Puerto Rican. The girl Iris took his arm, to be close rather than to support him. He limped somewhat, using the cane, favoring his right leg, but seemed near the end of his injury, whatever it was. He wasn’t a cripple. Something in the hip, Isidro believed. Sure, he was okay, he played with the cane more than he used it. He liked that cane. They approached a vendor who was selling pineapples.

  Isidro waited a few moments, enjoying the sight of the girl’s buttocks as they walked past him, before following them to the cart where the vendor was trimming a pineapple with quick strokes, handing them slices. Isidro saw the girl’s eyes as she glanced at him and away, indifferent, without a sign of recognition. He heard the man who wasn’t Puerto Rican, it was proved now, say quietly:

  “People up there, you know what they do?”

  The girl, Iris, said, “Here we go again.”

  “They work their ass off all year.” The guy with the beard ate pineapple as he spoke, in no hurry. “Save their money so they can come down here for a week, take their clothes off. Now they have to hurry to get tan, so they can go back home and look healthy for a few days.”

  Iris said, “Vincent, I was born with a tan, I got a tan wherever I go. Wha’s that? I want to be where people are, where they doing things, not where they go to for a week.” They were walking away now, Iris saying, “Miami Beach is okay, tha’s where you work. I think I like Miami Beach fine.”

  Isidro followed them to the edge of the sand.

  “But you never tell me nothing, what you think. Listen, I got an offer right now, Vincent. A man I know owns a hotel,
two hotels, wants me to go to the States and work for him. Wear nice clothes, be with people in business—”

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, now you want to know things.”

  The tourist was coming back with his camera. Isidro walked over to the taxi to wait, ready to smile.

  Before returning to the DuPont Plaza they stopped at the Fast Foto place on Ashford Avenue—perfect—where the tourist left his rolls of film overnight. Perfect because now they drove past La Concha where a couple of afternoon whores who could be college girls in shiny pants, blond hair like gringas, stood by the street.

  “Oh, my,” Isidro said. “Is okay to look at them, but if a man wish to have a woman he has to be careful. Know the ones are safe so you can avoid disease.”

  The tourist said, “I imagine you know some, ‘ey? Being a cab driver.”

  “All kinds,” Isidro said.

  “I don’t go for hoors,” the tourist said. “I don’t want any parts of ’em.”

  “No, of course not. These girls you pay and then you do it. There are other girls, you don’t pay them but you leave a gift.”

  “What kind of gift?”

  “Well, you could leave money, is okay.”

  “Then what’s the difference?”

  “One is a payment,” Isidro said. “The other, is for her to buy her own gift. Save the man the trouble.”

  The tourist said, “What about, you know of any that aren’t hoors but like to, you know, do it?”

  “Let me see,” Isidro said. “A girl who’s very pretty? Has light skin, nice perfume on?”

  The tourist said, “ ‘Ey, sounds good. But don’t bother.”

  “Please, is no trouble.”

  The tourist said, “No, see, I’m not gonna need you no more. I know my way around now. I’m gonna rent a car.”

  Isidro’s wife was no help. He asked her how this could happen to him, losing his prize, his dream tourist. His wife told him to pray to Saint Barbara, thank her for sending him away, this Mr. Magic.