Cat Chaser Page 12

  “I’ll take care of it.” Moran looked over at Number One. “They both in there?”

  “She’s in there eating potato chips,” Lula said, “getting ’em all over everything. That’s all I seen her do is eat. The man, I don’t know where he is.”

  Moran got a beer and came back outside with a canvas deck chair he sat in to look at the ocean, his feet on the low cement wall. He’d get things settled with Rafi before the day was over, put him against a wall and pull his pockets out . . .

  Nolen said, “You drinking without me?”

  He came up next to Moran running a hand through his thinning hair as the wind whipped it across his forehead. He raised the can of beer in his other hand.

  “I got my own. I bought four six-packs today; two for you, two for me.”

  “You doing a little surveillance this afternoon?”

  “No, I was off today. Listen”—he sat down on the cement wall hunching in close to Moran, anxious to tell something—”that broad, your little pal from Santo Domingo, she comes up to me—no, first she has her swim, her float. She gets out of the pool, comes over and sits down next to me in this little string number, her lungs about to come tumbling out—you wonder if the straps can hold all the goodies in there. She’s sitting there—Isn’t it a nice day? Get all that over with. You like Florida? Yes. She’s sitting there very quietly for a couple of minutes, she goes, ‘You want to have a party?’ I ask her what kind of party. She goes, ‘You know’—and looks around to see if anybody’s watching—‘do it, man, have a good time. Me and you.’ I go, ‘Do it?’ Like I just got in from Monroe Station, some place out on the Tamiami. ‘What do you mean, do it?’ She gives this surprised look and says, ‘What do you think? Half-and-half for fifty dollars. Okay?’ . . . That’s your little orphan.”

  Moran said, “You do it?”

  “I told her it had to be for love. I’m gonna catch her later. Little broad—she isn’t eighteen years old she’s a pro.”

  “When’d all this happen?”

  “Couple hours ago. Before I went to the store. I bought her some potato chips. She can’t get enough of ’em.”

  “Where else did you go?”

  “No place. What is this? I told you, it’s my day off.”

  “I didn’t see your car out front when I got home.”

  “No, I loaned it to your buddy Rafael Amado. The guy’s a hustler, you know it? He comes on with the manners like he’s the chief of protocol, but just the way he asks if he can use the car, buy the gas, all that, you know he’s a hustler. So be careful. He wants to sell you something, tell him no, you got one.”

  “When’d you give him the car?”

  “This morning, around noon. He left almost the same time you did,” Nolen said. “He was right behind you.”

  11

  * * *

  THE SHOCK OF SEEING HIM was instant, even before he called her name. She had just now arrived home. Turned from the front door to see Corky hurrying toward the blue car in the driveway, Rafi getting out, smiling—there, at that moment—knowing who it was before she saw his face clearly but recognizing something about him, Corky shoving him then, keeping him against the car, and Rafi was calling, “Mary, help me!”

  Beaming then, all a joke, with a few words in Spanish for Corky and he was coming to her with outstretched hands—to do what, put his arms around her? She took his hands, managed to smile and said pleasantly, with a note of surprise, “Well . . .” It was the best she could do.

  “Mary, Mary, it’s so wonderful to see you again!” His head darted and he kissed her, almost on the mouth, before she could pull back.

  Mary said, “Well . . .” She said something that sounded like, “What a surprise.”

  Altagracia served them chilled white wine on the sundeck. Rafi made a show of raising his to the fading sun and came close to rejoicing over the red hues reflected in his glass. He wore his tailored white Dominican shirt, the squared-off tails hanging free of his trousers.

  “It’s lovely,” Rafi said then, “everything, your home, your—how should I say?—your taste in decorating, it’s as I imagine it would be.”

  Mary said, “I didn’t think you knew my name.”

  His gaze came away from the view, the boat dock, the sweep of lawn, smiling with that air of familiarity, confidence, she remembered from the first time they met.

  He said, “Mary, a woman of your beauty begs to be identified.”

  She said, “Rafi, knock it off. Get to the point.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What?”

  “Who told you my name?”

  “You’re well known, Mary. The wife of a man who was once very important in our government. You come to Casa de Campo . . . You’re the buddy of a man who was a celebrity in Santo Domingo for a day or two, looking for his lost love.” He stopped. “I can’t imagine that, why he would look for someone else if he has you.”

  “We’re friends,” Mary said.

  “Yes, I notice. Very good friends.”

  “Have you called him since you got here?”

  “Who, Moran?” This brought a new depth of enjoyment. As his smile began to fade a trace still lingered. “You just left him, Mary, at, I believe, the Holiday Inn? Didn’t he tell you I’m staying with him?”

  Mary had stopped smiling some time ago, seeing it coming. And now here we are, she thought. She was ready and said very quietly, “How much are you asking for?”

  Rafi seemed hurt, furrowing his brow. He said, “Como? How much do I ask for?” Overdoing it. Then let his expression relax, though still with sensitivity, misunderstood. “You don’t believe I intend to make something of this, do you? Your affair with Moran? I think it’s beautiful. I admire both of you very much.”

  Past Rafi’s shoulder, far out in the bay, a powerboat was trailing a curving wake, coming in toward shore. Mary saw it and recognized El Jefe, the de Boya sixty-foot yacht, vivid white against the darkening ocean.

  She said, “why did you bring the girl?”

  “Loret? He’s looking for her sister.” Innocence now in Rafi’s tone. “But she’s dead. Gave her life in a cause, and now poor Loret has no one to take care of her. I tell this to Moran because of his feeling, if he wants to give something to Loret for her future, her education, something to help the poor girl. It’s up to him.”

  “And how,” Mary said, “do you put the bite on me?”

  “That sounds good,” Rafi said, “whatever it means. I’d give you some nice bites, Mary, if we were more than friends. But”—he gestured, a sad smile now—”what can I do? I’m not your lover. I can only approach you as a friend. Ah, but there, perhaps I can suggest a very profitable business investment in Santo Domingo that might interest you. Something you can come down to see from time to time. I show you and we watch it grow. Maybe something like that?”

  “How much?” Mary said.

  “The investment? I don’t know, I have to show you the papers.”

  “Would you like to show my husband?”

  “He has his investment, uh?” Rafi said. “You have yours. What’s the matter with that? I wouldn’t wish to take his valuable time, a man like your husband . . .”

  “He’s coming,” Mary said, nodding toward the bay. “Tell him about it.”

  Rafi turned to see the prow of the boat approaching the dock, a heavy rumbling sound reaching them.

  “I think you misunderstand me.”

  They could hear the boat’s exhaust clearly as the white hull crept toward its berth and a deckhand jumped to the dock with a line.

  “Really,” Mary said, “tell him about your profitable investments.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to meet your husband, of course . . .”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “General de Boya. Every Dominican knows of him. It would be an honor.”

  “He’s not a general anymore,” Mary said. “He’s . . . I’m not sure what he is. Ask him.”

  Rafi had lost some of his
confidence. He seemed apprehensive, watching de Boya, in a business suit, coming across the lawn toward them, and looked at Mary quickly.

  “I don’t want to take his time.”

  “He won’t let you take his time if he doesn’t want you to,” Mary said. “Tell him whatever you like.”

  She glanced at Rafi preparing himself, squaring his shoulders; then waited until her husband was mounting the steps to the sundeck. He was wearing sunglasses, his grim expression in place.

  “Andres, I’d like you to meet a fellow Dominican, Rafael Amado.” And told him they had met at the Santo Domingo Country Club on her last trip. “Rafi’s in investments. You two should get along fine.”

  She watched Rafi step forward and bow, eyes lowered, as he took her husband’s hand, a commoner in the presence of royalty. But it was her husband’s reaction that surprised her more. His posture seemed to be not the stiff formality he reserved for strangers, meeting someone for the first time, but the more guarded sense of suspicion he usually reserved for her. She wondered if he knew who Rafi was. They spoke in Spanish for less than a minute while Andres eyed him and Rafi looked off nodding, trying to maintain a thoughtful, interested expression; until Andres gave him a stiff nod for a bow, looked at Mary briefly as he excused himself and walked into the house.

  Rafi now seemed dazed. He said, “I’ve met General Andres de Boya.”

  “And he didn’t take you out and shoot you,” Mary said. “He must like you.”

  It was as though Rafi took her seriously, his expression numb, a glazed look in his eyes.

  “When I was little,” he said, then paused. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you. It might seem offensive to you.”

  Mary shrugged. “No more than anything else you’ve said.”

  Now he seemed wounded. “Have I hurt you?”

  “When you were a little boy,” Mary began. “What?”

  “My mother would threaten me,” Rafi said, “as many of the mothers of small children did at that time. She would say to me, ‘If you’re not good, General de Boya will come and take you and we’ll never see you again.’ “ Rafi gestured with a weak smile. “That’s all. As you introduced me to him I thought of it again.”

  “Well, it sounds like something to keep in mind,” Mary said, “no matter how old you are.”

  There had been a list of POOL RULES on a board nailed to a palm tree, put there by the previous owner. No running . . . No splashing . . . No swimming without showering first . . . No glass objects allowed on the patio . . . A list of negatives Moran never cared for. So when the palm tree died and was removed the POOL RULES went with it. He did set an example, though, and when he switched after two cans of beer to scotch he poured it into a plastic party glass with ice and took his drink outside to sit in his deck chair and wait for Rafi.

  It was dark now though still early evening. He had not seen Rafi all day. When he saw him again it would be for the last time. He did not have to prepare a speech; what he had to say was simple enough. Get your ass out of here.

  He told himself he shouldn’t let things get out of hand like this. He should never wait for things to happen and then have to clean up after. Maybe he should have put the pool rules up somewhere. But then he thought, no. Even if you said No glass objects people could still bring a glass out and break it; they could still cut themselves and sue you. No, rules were cold, unrelenting. You had to handle people individually, take each situation as it came. Just don’t let them talk you into something you don’t want to do.

  He wished Mary were here looking at the ocean with him. Looking at the ocean at night made him think of himself in a quieting way. He felt the breeze with a smell of salt in it and thought of turning on some music. Start with Placido Domingo doing love ballads. She said he was more romantic than she’d expected and he told her he felt like he was seventeen. He did. Thinking about her now mellowed him. Start with Placido and work up to J. Geils.

  So that when Rafi showed up, coming across the patio from the office, Moran waved—”Hey, I want to talk to you”—and walked toward the swimming pool where Rafi stood in the green glow of underwater lights.

  “What’d you lay on Mary?”

  “I’m sorry . . .” Rafi began, not understanding.

  “I am too,” Moran said. “Never buy a guy dinner until he proves you shot him.” Rafi still looked puzzled—real or acting, it didn’t matter to Moran. “You weren’t on that roof with Luci anymore’n that little broad’s her sister. So let’s cut the shit. I don’t care if you own up or not, long as you’re out of here tomorrow.”

  Rafi seemed hurt now. “George, what is it? Why you saying this?”

  “You can try it out on me,” Moran said, “it was kind of interesting, see how you handle it. But you go for my friend, the fun’s over. Take your little hooker and get out of here.”

  Rafi said, “My hooker?”

  “Your puta. She’s over there waiting for you.” Moran nodded toward Number One, at the figure of the girl in the doorway, and it took him by surprise; the classic pose, the girl’s body outlined in a soft glow of lamplight, inviting without making a move.

  Rafi said, “George, you heard her story . . . I swear to you on my mother’s honor . . .”

  “You better keep your mother out of it,” Moran said, “unless you want to hear some street Spanish about where you came from. You comprende, pendejo? Let’s keep it simple. You brought the girl along so I’ll feel sorry for her and you can make a pitch. Something for poor little Loret, living down there in the slums. And if I get your meaning you don’t have to hold anything over my head. Then what? You parade her in front of Mary? . . . You knew who she was when we were down there, didn’t you? Must’ve lit your eyes up. What’d you say to her today?”

  Rafi took his time. “George, part of what you say is true. Yes, I recognize Mary. But I don’t say anything because I don’t want to . . . surprise you and you think the wrong thing.”

  “Bullshit, you had to come up with a scheme. You followed me today, you followed her . . . You tell her how much you want or you haven’t made up your mind yet?”

  “George, what do you think I want?”

  “Not what, how much. I know what you want. Christ, the way you do it, you might as well wear a sign. You’re a fucking lizard, Rafi, that’s all I can say.”

  Rafi gave himself a little time. He sighed. “You make it sound ugly, George, I’m surprise. A man like you, run this kind of place.” Rafi looked about critically in the glow of the swimming pool, unimpressed. “You want me to believe it’s very swank. But soon as I come here I realize something, George. You see a good thing you go for it. You accuse me, but, George”—with a smile to show patience and understanding—”I’m not the one fucking General de Boya’s wife, you are.”

  Moran hammered him with a straight left, aiming for the grin that vanished behind his fist and Rafi stumbled back, over the side of the pool. He landed on his back, smacking the water hard, went under and came up waving his arms, gasping. Moran stood on the tile edge watching him. Rafi was only a few feet away but struggling, fighting the water, still gasping for breath. Shit, Moran thought.

  He yelled at him, “Take it easy! Hey—put your head back, you won’t sink.”

  Rafi was trying to scream something in Spanish, taking in water, gagging, going under again.

  “Relax, will you. Take it easy.”

  Moran glanced around to see the girl, Loret, next to him now, calmly watching Rafi in the water.

  “Can’t he swim?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said. “It don’t look like it.”

  “Shit,” Moran said. He pulled his untied sneakers off, hesitated, took his wallet out of his pocket, dropped it behind him and jumped in the pool.

  As soon as they got him in the living room of the apartment Rafi slumped into the sofa, his Dominican shirt sticking to him, transparent. Moran yelled at him, “Not on the couch!” and grabbed an arm to pull him up. Christ, the guy was making a surv
ivor scene out of it, saved from a watery grave, the girl bringing a blanket she’d ripped from the bed. Moran held her off and pushed Rafi toward the bathroom. “Get in there. You ruin my furniture I’ll throw you back.”

  Nolen was standing in the doorway holding the screen.

  “What happened?”

  “Asshole fell in the swimming pool.”

  “He all right?”

  “Who gives a shit,” Moran said. He started out, then looked around at Loret. “Give me my wallet.”

  She hesitated, then reached behind her and brought it out of the waist of her jeans. “I holding it for you.”

  “Thanks,” Moran said. “Now pack. You’re going home tomorrow.” He took his wallet and left.

  Nolen watched Moran cross to his bungalow and go inside. For several moments Nolen stood with his hands shoved into his back pockets, looking about idly.

  “Moran hit him then save his life,” Loret said.

  “Funny guy,” Nolen said. He came in now, moved through the living room to the kitchenette, snooping, looking around. “What do you and Rafael drink for fun, anything?”

  “They some wine in the refrigerador.”

  “I’ll be back,” Nolen said.

  Loret began in Spanish and Nolen had to tell her to talk English or shut up. He listened to see if she had anything of value for him, but all she was doing was bitching at Rafi.

  “I don’t know why I come here with you. I learn what you tell me, I say it perfect.”

  “You don’t say it perfect,” Rafi said.

  “I say it so good I begin to cry myself and he touch me. You see that. He reach over and touch me. I did it perfect. But you—you say something he push you in the piscina.” She looked at Nolen sitting forward on the sofa, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of Scotch he’d placed close by on the coffee table. “You know how much money I didn’t make since I start being with him? I’ll tell you—”

  Rafi said something to her in Spanish that shut her up.

  “It’s okay,” Nolen said. “How much?”

  “Two hundred dollar a night—all those nights I have to spend listening to him, it come to dos mil, two thousand dollar I don’t make,” Loret said. “Maybe more than that.”