When the Women Come Out to Dance Read online

  She saw her boss now, Milt Dancey, an old-time marshal in charge of court support, come out of the building to stan d looking around, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Milt looke d this way and gave Karen a nod, but paused to light a cigarett e before coming over. A guy from the Miami FBI office wa s with him.

  Milt said, "Karen, you know Daniel Burdon?"

  Not Dan, not Danny, Daniel. Karen knew him, one of the younger black guys over there, tall and good-looking, confident, known to brag about how many women he'd had of all kinds and color. He'd flashed his smile at Karen one time, hitting on her. Karen turned him down saying, "You have two reasons you want to go out with me." Daniel, smiling, said h e knew of one reason, what was the other one? Karen said, "So you can tell your buddies you banged a marshal." Daniel said , "Yeah, but you could use it, too, girl. Brag on getting me i n the sack." See? That's the kind of guy he was.

  Milt said, "He wants to ask you about a Carl Tillman."

  No flashing smile this time, Daniel Burdon had on a serious, sort of innocent expression, saying to her, "You know the man, Karen? Guy in his forties, sandy hair, goes about fiveten, one-sixty?"

  Karen said, "What's this, a test? Do I know him?"

  Milt reached for her shotgun. "Here, Karen, lemme take that while you're talking."

  She turned a shoulder saying, "It's okay, I'm not gonna shoot him," her fist tight on the neck of the 12-gauge. She said to Daniel, "You have Carl under surveillance?"

  "Since last Monday."

  "You've seen us together--so what's this do-I-know-him shit? You playing a game with me?"

  "What I meant to ask, Karen, was how long have you known him?"

  "We met last week, Tuesday."

  "And you saw him Thursday, Friday, spent Sunday with him, went to the beach, came back to your place . . . What's he think about you being with the Marshals Service?"

  "I haven't told him."

  "How come?"

  "He wants to guess what I do."

  "Still working on it, huh? What you think, he a nice guy?

  Has a sporty car, has money, huh? He a pretty big spender?"

  "Look," Karen said, "why don't you quit dickin' around and tell me what this is about, okay?"

  "See, Karen, the situation's so unusual," Daniel said, still with the innocent expression, "I don't know how to put it , you know, delicately. Find out a U. S. marshal's fucking a ban k robber."

  Milt Dancey thought Karen was going to swing at Daniel with the shotgun. He took it from her this time an d told the Bureau man to behave himself, watch his mouth if h e wanted cooperation here. Stick to the facts. This Carl Tillma n was a suspect in a bank robbery, a possible suspect in a halfdozen more, all the robberies, judging from the bank videos, W c ommitted by the same guy. The FBI referred to him a s "Slick," having nicknames for all their perps. They had print s off a teller's counter might be the guy's, but no match in thei r files and not enough evidence on Carl Edward Tillman--th e name on his driver's license and car registration--to brin g him in. He appeared to be most recently cherry, just gettin g into a career of crime. His motivation, pissed off at banks because Florida Southern foreclosed on his note and sold his forty-eight-foot Hatteras for nonpayment.

  It stopped Karen for a moment. He might've lied about his boat, telling her he was moving it to Haulover; but tha t didn't make him a bank robber. She said, "What've you got, a video picture, a teller identified him?"

  Daniel said, "Since you mentioned it," taking a Bureau wanted flyer from his inside coat pocket, the sheet folded onc e down the middle. He opened it and Karen was looking at fou r photos taken from bank video cameras of robberies i n progress, the bandits framed in teller windows, three blac k guys, one white.

  Karen said, "Which one?" and Daniel gave her a look before pointing to the white guy: a man with slicked-back hair, an earring, a full mustache, and dark sunglasses. She said , "That's not Carl Tillman," and felt instant relief. There was n o resemblance.

  "Look at it good."

  "What can I tell you? It's not him."

  "Look at the nose."

  "You serious?"

  "That's your friend Carl's nose."

  It was. Carl's slender, rather elegant nose. Or like his.

  Karen said, "You're going with a nose ID, that's all you've got?"

  "A witness," Daniel said, "believes she saw this man-GCo r ight after what would be the first robbery he pulled--ru n from the bank to a strip mall up the street and drive off in a white BMW convertible. The witness got a partial on the license number and that brought us to your friend Carl."

  Karen said, "You ran his name and date of birth . . ."

  "Looked him up in NCIC, FCIC, and Warrant Information, drew a blank. That's why I think he's just getting his feet wet. Managed to pull off a few, two three grand each, an d found himself a new profession."

  "What do you want me to do," Karen said, "get his prints on a beer can?"

  Daniel raised his eyebrows. "That would be a start. Might even be all we need. What I'd like you to do, Karen, is snuggle up to the man and find out his secrets. You know what I'm saying--intimate things, like did he ever use anothe r name . . ."

  "Be your snitch," Karen said, knowing it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  It got Daniel's eyebrows raised again. He said, "That what it sounds like to you? I thought you were a federal agent , Karen. Maybe you're too close to him--is that it? Don't wan t the man to think ill of you?"

  Milt said, "That's enough of that shit," standing up for Karen as he would for any of his people, not because she was a woman; he had learned not to open doors for her. The onl y time she wanted to be first through the door was on a fugitiv e warrant, this girl who scored higher with a handgun, mor e times than not, than any other marshal in the Southern District of Florida.

  Daniel was saying, "Man, I need to use her. Is she on our side or not?"

  Milt handed Karen her shotgun. "Here, you want to shoot him, go ahead."

  "Look," Daniel said, "Karen can get me a close read on the man, where he's lived before, if he ever went by other names , if he has any identifying marks on his body, scars, maybe a gunshot wound, tattoos, things only lovely Karen would se e when the man has his clothes off."

  Karen took a moment. She said, "There is one thing I n oticed."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "He's got the letters f-u-o-n tattooed on his penis."

  Daniel frowned at her. "Foo-on?"

  "That's when it's, you might say, limp. When he has a hard-on it says Fuck the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

  Daniel Burdon grinned at Karen. He said, "Girl, you and I h ave to get together. I mean it."

  Karen could handle "girl." Go either way. Girl, looking at herself in a mirror applying blush-on. Woman , well, that's what she was. Though until just a few years ag o she only thought of women old enough to be her mother a s women. Women getting together to form organizations o f women, saying, Look, we're different from men. Isolatin g themselves in these groups instead of mixing it up with me n and beating them at their own men's games. Men in genera l were stronger physically than women. Some men were stronger than other men, and Karen was stronger than som e too; so what did that prove? If she had to put a man on th e ground, no matter how big or strong he was, she'd do it. On e way or another. Up front, in his face. What she couldn't se e herself playing was this sneaky role. Trying to get the stuff o n Carl, a guy she liked, a lot, would think of with tender feelings and miss him during the day and want to be with him.

  Shit. . . . Okay, she'd play the game, but not undercover.

  She'd first let him know she was a federal officer and see what he thought about it.

  Could Carl be a bank robber?

  She'd reserve judgment. Assume almost anyone could at one time or another and go from there.

  What Karen did, she came home and put a pot roast in the oven and left her bag on the kitchen table, open , the grip of a Beretta nine sticking
out in plain sight.

  Carl arrived, they kissed in the living room, Karen feeling it but barely looking at him. When he smelled the pot roas t cooking, Karen said, "Come on, you can make the drink s while I put the potatoes on." In the kitchen, then, she stoo d with the refrigerator door open, her back to Carl, giving hi m time to notice the pistol. Finally he said, "Jesus, you're a cop."

  She had rehearsed this moment. The idea: turn saying, "You guessed," sounding surprised; then look at the pisto l and say something like "Nuts, I gave it away." But she didn't.

  He said, "Jesus, you're a cop," and she turned from the refrigerator with an ice tray and said, "Federal. I'm a U. S. marshal."

  "I would never've guessed," Carl said, "not in a million years."

  Thinking about it before, she didn't know if he'd wig out or what. She looked at him now, and he seemed to be taking i t okay, smiling a little.

  He said, "But why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Are you a marshal?"

  "Well, first of all, my dad has a company, Marshall Sisco Investigations. . . ."

  "You mean because of his name, Marshall?"

  "What I am--they're not spelled the same. No, but as soon as I learned to drive I started doing surveillance jobs for him.

  Like following some guy who was trying to screw his insurance company, a phony claim. I got the idea of going into law enforcement. So after a couple of years at Miami I transferre d to Florida Atlantic and got in their Criminal Justic e program."

  "I mean why not FBI, if you're gonna do it, or DEA?"

  "Well, for one thing, I liked to smoke grass when I was younger, so DEA didn't appeal to me at all. Secret Service guy s I met were so fucking secretive, you ask them a question , they'd go, 'You'll have to check with Washington on that.' See , different federal agents would come to school to give talks. I g ot to know a couple of marshals--we'd go out after, have a few beers, and I liked them. They're nice guys, condescendin g at first, naturally; but after a few years they got over it."

  Carl was making drinks now, Early Times for Karen, Dewar's in his glass, both with a splash. Standing at the sink, letting the faucet run, he said, "What do you do?"

  "I'm on court security this week. My regular assignment is warrants. We go after fugitives, most of them parole violators."

  Carl handed her a drink. "Murderers?"

  "If they were involved in a federal crime when they did it.

  Usually drugs."

  "Bank robbery, that's federal, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, some guys come out of corrections and go right back to work."

  "You catch many?"

  "Bank robbers?" Karen said. "Nine out of ten," looking right at him.

  Carl raised his glass. "Cheers."

  While they were having dinner at the kitchen table he said, "You're quiet this evening."

  "I'm tired, I was on my feet all day, with a shotgun."

  "I can't picture that," Carl said. "You don't look like a U. S. m arshal, or any kind of cop."

  "What do I look like?"

  "A knockout. You're the best-looking girl I've ever been this close to. I got a pretty close look at Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, when they were here shooting Scarface? But you're a lot better looking. I like your freckles."

  "I used to be loaded with them."

  "You have some gravy on your chin. Right here."

  Karen touched it with her napkin. She said, "I'd like to see your boat."

  He was chewing pot roast and had to wait before saying, "I t old you it was out of the water?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't have the boat anymore. It was repossessed when I f ell behind in my payments."

  "The bank sold it?"

  "Yeah, Florida Southern. I didn't want to tell you when we first met. Get off to a shaky start."

  "But now that you can tell me I've got gravy on my chin . . ."

  "I didn't want you to think I was some kind of loser."

  "What've you been doing since?"

  "Working as a mate, up at Haulover."

  "You still have your place, your apartment?"

  "Yeah, I get paid, I can swing that, no problem."

  "I have a friend in the marshals lives in North Miami, on Alamanda off a Hundred and Twenty-fifth."

  Carl nodded. "That's not far from me."

  "You want to go out after?"

  "I thought you were tired."

  "I am."

  "Then why don't we stay home?" Carl smiled. "What do you think?"

  "Fine."

  They made love in the dark. He wanted to turn the lamp on, but Karen said no, leave it off.

  Geraldine Regal, the first teller at Sun Federal on Kendall Drive, watched a man with slicked-back hair an d sunglasses fishing in his inside coat pocket as he approache d her window. It was nine-forty, Tuesday morning. At first sh e thought the guy was Latin. Kind of cool, except that up close his hair looked shellacked, almost metallic. She wanted to as k him if it hurt. He brought papers, deposit slips, and a blan k check from the pocket saying, "I'm gonna make this ou t for four thousand." Began filling out the check and said, "Yo u hear about the woman trapeze artist, her husband's divorcing her?"

  Geraldine said she didn't think so, smiling, because it was a little weird, a customer she'd never seen before telling her a joke.

  "They're in court. The husband's lawyer asks her, 'Isn't it true that on Monday, March the 5th, hanging from the trapeze upside down, without a net, you had sex with the ringmaster, the lion tamer, two clowns, and a dwarf ?' "

  Geraldine waited. The man paused, head down as he finished making out the check. Now he looked up.

  "The woman trapeze artist thinks for a minute and says, 'What was that date again?' "

  Geraldine was laughing as he handed her the check, smiling as she saw it was a note written on a blank check, neatly printed in block letters, that said: THIS IS NO JOKE IT'S A STICKUP! I WANT $4000 NOW!

  Geraldine stopped smiling. The guy with the metallic hair was telling her he wanted it in hundreds, fifties, and twenties , loose, no bank straps or rubber bands, no bait money, no dy e packs, no bills off the bottom of the drawer, and he wanted hi s note back. Now.

  "The teller didn't have four grand in her drawer," Daniel Burdon said, "so the guy settled for twentyeight hundred and was out of there. Slick changing his style--we know it's the same guy, with the shiny hair? Onl y now he's the Joker. The trouble is, see, I ain't Batman."

  Daniel and Karen Sisco were in the hallway outside the central courtroom on the second floor, Daniel resting his lon g frame against the railing, where you could look below at th e atrium with its fountain and potted palms.

  "No witness to see him hop in his BMW this time.

  The man coming to realize that was dumb, using his own car."

  Karen said, "Or it's not Carl Tillman."

  "You see him last night?"

  "He came over."

  "Yeah, how was it?"

  Karen looked up at Daniel's deadpan expression. "I told him I was a federal agent and he didn't freak."

  "So he's cool, huh?"

  "He's a nice guy."

  "Cordial. Tells jokes robbing banks. I talked to the people at Florida Southern, where he had his boat loan? Found ou t he was seeing one of the tellers. Not at the main office, one o f their branches, girl named Kathy Lopez. Big brown eyes , cute as a puppy, just started working there. She's out wit h Tillman she tells him about her job, what she does, how she's counting money all day. I asked was Tillman interested, wan t to know anything in particular? Oh, yeah, he wanted t o know what she was supposed to do if the bank ever go t robbed. So she tells him about dye packs, how they work , how she gets a two-hundred-dollar bonus if she's ever robbe d and can slip one in with the loot. The next time he's in, cut e little Kathy Lopez shows him one, explains how you walk ou t the door with a pack of fake twenties? A half minute later th e tear gas blows and you have that red shit all over you an d the money you stole. I checked the reports on the
other robberies he pulled? Every one of them he said to the teller, no dye packs or that bait money with the registered seria l numbers."

  "Making conversation," Karen said, trying hard to maintain her composure. "People like to talk about what they do."

  Daniel smiled.

  And Karen said, "Carl's not your man."

  "Tell me why you're so sure."

  "I know him. He's a good guy."

  "Karen, you hear yourself ? You're telling me what you feel, not what you know. Tell me about him--you like the way h e dances, what?"

  Karen didn't answer that one. She wanted Daniel to leave her alone.

  He said, "Okay, you want to put a wager on it, you say Tillman's clean?"

  That brought her back, hooked her, and she said, "How much?"

  "You lose, you go out dancing with me."

  "Great. And if I'm right, what do I get?"

  "My undying respect," Daniel said.

  As soon as Karen got home she called her dad at Marshall Sisco Investigations and told him about Carl Tillman, the robbery suspect in her life, and about Daniel Burdon's confident, condescending, smart-ass, irritating attitude.

  Her dad said, "Is this guy colored?"

  "Daniel?"

  "I know he is. Friends of mine at Metro-Dade call him the white man's Burdon, on account of he gets on their nerves always being right. I mean your guy. There's a running back in the NFL named Tillman. I forget who he's with."

  Karen said, "You're not helping any."

  "The Tillman in the pros is colored--the reason I asked. I t hink he's with the Bears."

  "Carl's white."

  "Okay, and you say you're crazy about him?"

  "I like him, a lot."

  "But you aren't sure he isn't doing the banks."

  "I said I can't believe he is."

  "Why don't you ask him?"

  "Come on--if he is he's not gonna tell me."

  "How do you know?"

  She didn't say anything and after a few moments her dad asked if she was still there.

  "He's coming over tonight," Karen said.

  "You want me to talk to him?" "You're not serious."