Split Images Page 14

  Who shoots first."

  Now he was trying to sound hip. He didn't know who he was. Or as Angela said, there was an interesting other Robbie inside the cute Robbie. The one in there was dying to pull the trigger and the pres-ent world climate was inspiring him, bringing him out on stage.

  "You can wait for an intruder. Somebody breaks into your house, which happened right here. Or, if you have the wherewithal, the purpose, the ability, why not go out after the same sort of game? Only bigger?"

  "Like Carlos," Bryan said.

  "Like any number of individuals on the other side," Robbie said. "Carlos is an example. Maybe someday, down the road. A more realistic one might be . . . say, a big-time drug dealer that none of the government agencies can touch. A guy who's fucking up lives, kills people who get in his way and lives like a king."

  Bryan said, "Well, you're looking for action you could join the Marines."

  "Listen, a hundred and twenty years ago," Robbie said, "during the Civil War, gentlemen of means raised their own regiments. 'Bring your horse, a shotgun and a pistol and ride with Nathan Bedford Forrest.' You put a sign on a tree in the front lawn.

  Now you don't fight with armies; the sides aren't clearly enough defined. But, you don't have to raise a regiment to take out some of the bad guys."

  He was serious. Listening to him was not exactly embarrassing, but close to it. The man didn't hear himself as he was. He was picturing himself in arole. With a sword. Born a hundred years too late.

  Maybe that was it.

  Bryan said, "I notice you read some pretty exciting stuff. We can get all kinds of secret thrills from books, can't we? Especially in a nice comfortable study. Quiet, air-conditioned . . ."

  "The star German terrorist Ulrike Meinhof,"

  Robbie said, "refused to hide out in an apartment that didn't have central heating, or the usual comforts of home. He complained about the primitive conditions in PLO training camps, raised quite a stink about Al Halil, in Libya. Which incidentally got Qaddafi very pissed off."

  "I guess what you're saying," Bryan said, "you don't have to be poor to want to kill somebody."

  "You don't have to be a cop, either."

  Bryan waited, letting the silence lengthen.

  "What's the matter, you bored?"

  "Usually."

  "Golf doesn't do it, uh?"

  "There's very little competition."

  "Well, now you're into a game I know something about," Bryan said.

  "I'm aware of that." Robbie sipped his drink.

  "Except you haven't told me if you've ever killed anyone."

  "Does it matter?"

  "I don't believe you have," Robbie said, "and Ithink that's odd. I mean if I've killed and you haven't, who's the authority?"

  "I think it might depend," Bryan said, "on who you've got in mind."

  The curly haired smiler who owned a half-dozen cars, a couple of million-dollar mansions, property in seven states and was sometimes mistaken for a movie star looked at the thirty-grand-a-year homicide cop with the solemn mustache.

  He said, "It's funny. You go to a club for a round of golf, you're asked what you shoot. But this kind of game you're asked who you shoot, or would like to. It's considerably more exciting, isn't it?"

  "Only if you win," Bryan said. "You lose, you don't get off buying a round of drinks."

  HE GROANED AS he worked sore feet into his loafers, sat back and rested, then groaned again as he got up out of the Holiday Inn chair.

  Angela said, "Sometimes you sound old."

  She stood at the mirror over the bank of dressers, looking at his reflection across the room, the glass door to the balcony behind him in flat light.

  He said, "I told you, I like to sound old."

  "Not creaky old."

  "I played eighteen holes on a ball buster. That'll do it to you."

  Angela was adjusting the neckline of her dress, pulling it out and looking down inside. "But did he tell you who he wants to shoot?"

  "He talks around it." Bryan moved to the closet, came out with his blue polka-dot tie. "If you could get rid of anybody you feel doesn't deserve to live- or the world would be a better place without--who would it be? I think some girl told him one time he's 'real deep' and he believes it.""You know who might be a good one," Angela said. "Robbie."

  "I thought of that," Bryan said, "after." He came over to the mirror to tie his tie, standing obliquely behind her. Angela's eyes raised to his reflection, his face already deeply tanned.

  "Who did you suggest?"

  "I gave him Howard Cosell. I didn't mean it though. I like Howard, he's all right."

  "You like everybody."

  "No, but when I think about it, I don't dislike as many people as I thought. I decided I like John McEnroe, for example. I'd take him for backup any time."

  "How about Walter?"

  "Walter's Walter. I think Daniels played the game with him and signed him up. Walter, I can see him, makes out a list of prospects and licks his thumb going through the pages. But I guess I didn't play it right. It was funny, I had the feeling, it was like I was waiting to get a bribe offer. If I said the right thing, showed some interest, he'd have offered me . . . I don't know. Shows me the exclusive club, his home--it was like, all this can be yours if you play along."

  "The temptation of Bryan Hurd."

  "Except he didn't offer me anything; so what was he doing? He tells me about an international terrorist as a likely target, a guy named Carlos. That rang a bell, so I told him I'd called that Mexican buyer, Carlos Cabrera."

  "Did you?"

  "No, I took a shot. I told him the Mexican said Mr. Daniels himself had picked him up. At the Plaza. And Robbie said, that's right, I guess I did.

  No argument. So he was there Saturday morning."

  They thought about it separately, staring at their reflections, tieing a tie, pinning the front of a dress, wondering about a man who talked about killing people. She said, "Are you always this detached?"

  And thought of him in the squad room. "No, you're not. But you don't seem interested."

  "I'm used to working from some kind of possible motive, and I don't see it," Bryan said. "Why would he kill Curtis Moore?"

  Angela moved to the chair by the balcony and sat down, erect, knees together, as though practicing. She said, "You discussed it with him in the abstract, didn't you? When he talks about killing people, does he show any kind of emotion? Does he get excited?"

  "He rationalizes. But when you begin with bullshit the conclusion you reach is still bullshit."

  They were dressing to meet Robbie at the Everglades Club for cocktails and dinner. Angela had brought one dress, the beige wraparound cotton knit she wore. She wondered if it was dressy enough for the Everglades and had asked Bryanseveral times if he thought the neckline was all right. He'd said, "If you hold rich people somewhere below you, how're they gonna see down your dress?" She'd said she was asking what he thought, not anyone else, and made him feel like a smart-ass.

  She would sit stiffly erect now, then bend forward from the waist, testing her moves as Bryan got into his dark blue Sunday suit.

  "Did Curtis Moore come up at all?"

  "No, but that's an idea," Bryan said. "Offer Curtis as a guy you'd like to shoot if someone hadn't already. See if he lights up."

  "Would we be meeting him tonight if you weren't a cop?"

  That was a good question. Or, would they have been invited? He sidestepped it and said, "I thought you want to see the Everglades Club."

  "I do," Angela said. "How about when I bend over?"

  "Nice . . . You don't have a bra on."

  "Sure I do. See? But there's not much to it."

  He said, "We've got a little time, haven't we?"

  She said, "Now wait a minute. You know how long it took to get this pinned?"

  He said, "We sound like we're married."

  They looked at each other and then looked away. But there it was.

  Walter got ba
ck to the house at ten minutes to seven, looked around and found Daniels out on the patio, all dressed up in a tan suit and red-striped tie, like he was going out. Except he was reading a book.

  Walter started his report: "You know how many Rolls--" But Daniels raised his hand, not looking up from the book. Walter had to wait for Mr. Cool to finish the page and bend the corner over.

  "Now then."

  "You said the guy had a Rolls. You know how many fucking Rolls are parked out at Seminole?"

  "I told you it was a dark blue sedan."

  "Well, it turned light tan since you seen it."

  "Walter, did you follow him or not?"

  "Yeah, I followed him. He went down to Hillsboro. That area there before you get to the inlet where you can't see the houses? It's all trees. He turned into a drive. I parked down a ways, came back. It's a big house made of like shingles. Right on the beach but back, you know? With all these sea-grape trees around it."

  "Hillsboro." Daniels seemed mildly surprised, then pleased. "Go on."

  "He picked up a broad. Skinny, but with great big ones, stuck out to here."

  "How old?""Young broad, early twenties. Reddish hair with gunk around her eyes. Had on a lavender dress with little straps."

  "What kind of shoes?"

  "Sandals, like wedgies."

  "Just testing you, Walter." Robbie was in a good mood now.

  "They got in the Rolls, took Sample Road over to the Interstate and went down to Miami, all the way to the end. Got off in Coconut Grove, that area there and drove over to a high rise on Brickel Avenue just north of the Key Biscayne Causeway.

  The place's got not only a fence around it, it's got bob wire on top the fence and a sign says beware of guard dogs. Fucking Miami, I'm telling you, the fucking natives're taking over."

  "Between Brickel and Bay Shore," Robbie said.

  "You know what you can see from the penthouse of that condominium looking east?"

  "I imagine you can see the whole bay," Walter said.

  "Yeah, but in particular," Robbie said, "from twenty-six floors up you've got a clear shot of Government Cut."

  "Yeah, I imagine you would."

  "And the Coast Guard base."

  "Now you're talking," Walter said, raising an arm as though he were making a muscle and pulled his shirt out from his armpit. "I was wonderingwhat we're playing here. So the guy likes to watch the Coast Guard boats and he's not with the DEA, I know that, driving a fucking Rolls. So what's he handle, weed?"

  "He doesn't handle anything," Robbie said. "He arranges for the importation of marijuana and cocaine, staying well above the action, and makes approximately, part time, two hundred thousand dollars a month . . . when he isn't inspecting embassies."

  Walter said, "Wait. This is the same kid we been talking about? The kid sitting on the old man's lap with the Knights of Columbus outfit on only grown up now?"

  Robbie paused, deadpan. He said, "Amazing," staring at Walter. "I'm the only person in the world would have any idea what you just said. To answer your question, yes, it's the same kid on the guy's lap with the Knights of Columbus outfit only grown up now."

  "I think it was, with the Knights of Columbus outfit on. You left out on," Walter said and thought, Fuck you, too . . .

  "Walter, why don't you sit down."

  "Yeah, I think I will. Thanks."

  "Okay. He went up to the penthouse, stayed about a half-hour. Right?"

  "You followed him before?"

  "Many times. Go on.""He was in the building twenty-three minutes,"

  Walter said. "The broad waited in the car . . . This kid comes along--listen to this. This kid comes along looking for his dog. He's calling, 'Here, Piper! Here, Piper!' "

  Robbie stared at Walter.

  "The kid goes up the street. In a couple minutes here's this dog, this little white scottie comes along.

  The broad sees it, she opens the door, goes 'Here, Piper!' The dog hops in the car and she starts playing with it. The guy comes out, gets in the car--now you could see him petting the dog, playing with it. The broad goes to open her door, too late, he drives off, the dog's still in the car. The dog's got this little red collar on, you know, with the license hanging on it? Probably has the name and address.

  No, the guy drives off. He don't care if the dog belongs to the kid and it's gonna break the kid's heart, fuck no, take it. They drive off with the dog."

  Robbie waited, making sure there was no more to the story. He said, "Walter?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Then where'd they go?"

  "They went back up to Hillsboro, the broad's place."

  "How do you know it's hers?"

  "I call the Broward County sheriff."

  "Walter, don't tell me that--""Mr. Daniels, what was I doing the past twentyone years? I identify myself as an officer with Palm Beach County, give 'em a phony name, a badge number they don't know from shit and ask 'em to look up in their directory who lives at the address in question. I talk to a clerk, it took maybe a minute and a half." Walter dug into his back pocket, brought out a notebook that was limp, curved to fit his hip; he opened it, licked his thumb to turn a few pages and said, 3524 Ocean Drive. The deed to the property and the lots on both sides are registered in the name of Doris Marie Vaughn.

  Robbie said, "Dorie? " Amazed. "She's a polo groupie."

  Walter said, "I don't know what she does for a living, but she's got dough. That property in there with the lots'd be worth a couple million."

  "Jesus," Robbie said, "Dorie Vaughn. Well, you know what he's doing, what he's using the house for."

  "I got a pretty good idea what he's doing when I left," Walter said. "Even with the gunk on her eyes, that's a tasty broad."

  "She's a good kid, but flaky."

  "Well, nobody says you got to talk to 'em."

  "I want to see the house," Robbie said.

  "I thought--you're all dressed up you're going out."

  "I've been waiting a long time for this kind of asetup," Robbie said. "Jesus, Hillsboro. It's perfect.

  Come on, I want to see the house."

  Walter said, "I hope she knows how to take care of Piper. Knows what she's doing."

  Robbie paused getting up from the chair, hands clamped on the arms. "Who?"

  "Who we been talking about?" Walter said. "The broad."

  Angela thought of an image. The tourists stroll past the expensive Worth Avenue shops. Near the end of the street they see any ordinary entrance gate, no sign, a pink facade, the unadorned back of a building. The tourists barely notice it. But it's the rear end of the Everglades, one of the world's most exclusive clubs. And Worth Avenue is the alley that runs behind it.

  "I thought of it coming in," Angela said.

  Bryan said, "Then what happens?"

  "Boy, are you a smart-ass."

  "No, I think you should write your rich people's book. Get it out of your system."

  "If I can do it without the usual knee-jerk attitude. It would have to be straight impressions without cute asides. And no adverbs." Speaking as her eyes wandered.

  "You'd better close your mouth then, quit staring.""I'm not staring."

  He watched her gaze slide over the lounge that was like a formal living room. They sat in upholstered chairs, their drinks on a glass-top cocktail table.

  "You are now."

  She said, "My God. You know who that is?"

  Nodding to point. "The three ladies sitting together."

  "That's all're in here. It's like a woman's club."

  "The one with the pearls. That's Mary Sanford.

  Very close friend of Rose Kennedy. If you're putting on a charity you'd better have Mary Sanford or you're dead. I hear she's nice though."

  "Are you from a big family?"

  "Two sisters and two brothers. All older."

  "And you had to wear your sisters' hand-medowns."

  "For about ten years. How'd you know that? . . .

  Damn it, I should've brought a copy of th
e Social Pictorial. Or the Shiny Sheet. The one's Mary Sanford. And I think the one next to her is Anky Johnson. That's Revlon money. But she usually wears a turban."

  Bryan said, "How come you don't see any guys here?"

  Angela's gaze began to move again, inching over the lounge. "They're all dead. Or they're upstairs playing dominoes. Or both . . . I hope we eat in the Orange Garden. I mean dine. That's the room here."

  "We're gonna eat at McDonald's if Smiley doesn't show up."

  "He's always late."

  "Well, I read one time, a prompt man is a lonely man," Bryan said, "and it's true." He sipped his Wild Turkey. When they came in and sat down he was going to order their favorite, Jack Daniels, but he had said to the waiter, "While we're waiting for Mr. Daniels we'll have--" and paused awkwardly and changed the brand. Not wanting to call attention to himself. The homicide cop trying to act as though he belonged. Angela hadn't noticed.

  She said, "Oh, my God," in a hushed tone. Then, without moving her mouth: "The one in pink, just coming in. The middle-aged Barbie doll. That's Robbie's wife. With the bald-headed guy with the white hair. And you know what? Robbie won't think a thing of it."

  Bryan said, "The wild-west jacket and the hair, the guy looks like Buffalo Bill. I understand he's a count."

  "He is? How do you know?"

  Got her. "You hear things," Bryan said. "But how come, if his wife's here he doesn't know it?"

  He thought of his former wife, Peggy.

  "Because," Angela said, "as Robbie puts it, 'Patti and I do our own thing.' ""Why are they married?"

  "Because it's too much trouble to get a divorce.

  Split up the fortune. If they can both do what they want, why bother? One of his girl friends--here's an example, a girl who thought he was serious about her came to the house one night. She got right to the point with Patti. 'When're you gonna give him a divorce?' Patti doesn't even know who she is. They go in and confront Robbie. He looks up from his book and says, 'Don't get me involved in this . . . ' "

  He thought of Peggy again. "My wife--I mean my former wife called last week . . ."

  But Angela was watching the proceedings.

  "Now they're paying their respects to Mary Sanford. Telling her how wonderful it is to see her. Little hand-kissing there . . . Gushing now, it's always good to gush a little."