Rum Punch Page 20

  “If they’re all young guys,” Nicolet said, “the one I want isn’t there, so I’ll need to take prisoners. The only problem I see, they have about a hundred and fifty machine guns, a big M-60, grenades, and half a dozen rocket launchers. It could drag on. These guys have more firepower than we do.”

  The TAC guy said, “But can they shoot?”

  “I don’t want to find out,” Nicolet said. “Before they start firing rockets at us, I thought I’d go up there and toss in a flash-bang.”

  “The van’s in the way,” the TAC guy said.

  “It’s my cover,” Nicolet said. “Bounce it in there off the roof of the van. The concussion knocks them on their ass and we’d have about seven seconds to get the drop on them. I need those guys alive.”

  Zulu had his sunglasses off to read the pictographs printed on the side of the LAW rocket launcher, holding the weapon in the van’s headlight beam. “ ‘Pull pin,’ ” Zulu said. “ ‘Re-move . . . rear . . . cov-er and . . .’ ”

  “ ‘Strap,’ ” Snow said. “Say remove the rear cover and that strap there.”

  Zulu said, “Yeah, this thing,” and began reading again. “Now. ‘Pull o-pen un-til . . .’ Shit.”

  “Say to pull the motherfucker open,” Sweatman said.

  “It’s what I’m doing,” Zulu said. “You pull open your own one. Hey, like this.”

  His LAW rocket launcher was now thirty-six inches long.

  Zulu said, “ ‘Re- . . .’ The fuck is that word there?”

  Snow said, “ ‘Re- . . . lease.’ Yeah, it say to release the . . . something. ‘Release the safe-ty.’ Yeah, that thing right there. Release it.”

  Zulu said, “Push it?”

  Snow said, “Release the motherfucker however you suppose to release it. I think, yeah, you push it. Then the next word it say to aim. You ready to shoot.”

  Zulu said, “I am? What’s this next one say?”

  Snow said, “ ‘Squee- . . .’ I think it say ‘Squeeze.’ ”

  Sweatman said, “What’s it say on top there? That ‘Danger’?”

  Snow said, “Lemme see. Yeah, it say ‘Danger . . . rear blast . . .’ ”

  Something hit the top of the van. They heard it and then saw it, a round kind of long thing like a stick of dynamite, bounce past over their heads to land among cardboard boxes. They heard a sound like poof. For maybe two seconds they stood frozen before the concussion grenade exploded with a flash of blinding light and a bang so loud it slammed all three of them against the front of the van.

  They were on the pavement now with their rocket launchers and machine guns, dazed, blinking their eyes in the dust clouding the headlight beam, looking up at flak jackets and shotguns.

  Nicolet hunched down next to Zulu. He picked up a rocket launcher, glanced at the instructions, and laid the weapon across the jackboy’s chest.

  “Couldn’t read it, could you? You dumb fuck—we wondered what you were doing. See?” Nicolet said, “You should never’ve dropped out of school.”

  Ordell had Louis meet him at a bar on Broadway in Riviera Beach, all black in here, Louis looking over his shoulder sitting at the bar, Ordell telling him, “You all right, you with me.” Ordell was edgy too, in his mind, anxious and smoking cigarettes with his rum drink: wanting to drive by the storage place, see what it looked like, and having to drive down to Islamorada tonight, pick up Mr. Walker, and get him on a plane to Freeport. Everything at once. It would be good, though, to get out of town this evening and not show himself too much tomorrow either.

  He said to Louis, “The main thing I want to tell you: Melanie goes in the place where they try on clothes.”

  “The fitting room,” Louis said. “I make sure no suits are around before she comes out.”

  “Do that,” Ordell said. “But then don’t leave. You do, she gonna walk with the Macy bag. You know what I’m saying? Take the bag from her and split, don’t wait. She give you any trouble, punch her in the mouth. What I mean, you have to take it from her, dig? Else Melanie’s gone and it’s gone. All of it. Five hundred and fifty thousand, man.”

  22

  Thursday, on the Freeport to West Palm flight, Jackie spent fifteen minutes in the lavatory rearranging her bag. The five hundred thousand she put in first took nearly half the space. She tucked lingerie around the edges, covered the money with blouses and two skirts and tied it all down, tight. The remaining fifty thousand went in last, across the top.

  When she came out, a guy who’d been to Freeport to gamble said, “I’m waiting for a drink and you spend half the flight in the can. Soon as we land I’m making a formal complaint.”

  Jackie said, “Because I was airsick?”

  “How can you be a stew if you get airsick?”

  “That’s why I’m quitting.”

  “I’m still gonna make the complaint.”

  “Because I was airsick,” Jackie said, “or because I called you an asshole?”

  It confused him. He said, “You didn’t call me that.”

  Jackie said, “I didn’t? Okay, you’re an asshole.”

  It was her last flight.

  Ray Nicolet was waiting on the top floor of the parking structure. He took the wheels from her saying, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “You said that the last time.”

  “So? It’s true, isn’t it? We could meet someplace else when this’s buttoned up. What do you think?”

  “We could, if I’m not in jail.”

  “Faron called the State Attorney’s Office. You were no-filed this morning in circuit court.”

  Like that—hearing it in a dim parking structure among empty cars. She stopped and waited for Nicolet to look back and pause. “Are you saying I’m off the hook?”

  “Free as a bird. I expect you to deliver the goods though, finish the job. How much you have this time?”

  “What I told you,” Jackie said, “fifty thousand. He’s pretty sure he’s going to need bail money.”

  “If a bond is set, which I doubt,” Nicolet said. They reached Jackie’s Honda. As she unlocked the trunk he said, “Last night we scored what would bring him another two hundred grand, easy, and took three of his boys without firing a shot.”

  Jackie raised the trunk lid. “But you didn’t get Ordell.”

  “Not yet. One of ’em will give him up. Or the guy you met in the hospital, he’s ready to flip.” Nicolet placed the wheels in Jackie’s trunk and got in the car with the flight bag. It was on his lap unzipped and open by the time Jackie slid in behind the wheel.

  He said, “That’s fifty thousand, huh?” looking at the packets of hundred-dollar bills, each bound with a rubber band. “It doesn’t look like that much.”

  “I was told ten thousand in each pack.”

  “You didn’t count it?”

  “I never have. It’s not my money.”

  “He might’ve slipped some coke in here. Did you check?”

  She watched Nicolet’s hand feel through the packets of currency and into the folds of a skirt.

  “Mr. Walker promised he’d never do that again.”

  “Where your curlers?”

  “I didn’t bring them.”

  She watched his hand move to a pair of black heels wedged into one side. His fingers touched the shoes, then moved again to pick up one of the packets. He held it close to his ear and riffled the bills with his thumb.

  “Ten thousand, right.”

  Nicolet rubbed the bills between his fingers and handed the packet to Jackie. “There’s coke dust on it. You feel it? Half the money in Florida, I think if you tested it you’d find dust.”

  Jackie fingered the bills. Ten thousand in her hand. She smiled, saying, “Are you tempted?”

  Nicolet looked at her. “What, to put one of these in my pocket? If I did, I’d have to let you have one too, wouldn’t I? Or we could take what we want, there’s no receipt with it. Nobody knows how much is here but us.” He took the packet from her and dropped it in the flight bag
. “I’ve seen more money sitting on tables in dope houses, in cardboard boxes in property rooms. I’ve seen all kinds of dirty money lying around, and I’ve never been tempted to take any. How about you?”

  Jackie said, “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Try to skim off Ordell?”

  “Or me,” Nicolet said. “Once I mark it, this fifty grand belongs to ATF.”

  “How would I take any of it,” Jackie said, “if I’m being watched every second?”

  “That’s what I want you to understand, you’d be dumb to try. You put this fifty in your shopping bag, it’s what I expect to find when I look in Sheronda’s. You going with Saks bags again?”

  “Macy’s this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask Ordell.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Nicolet said.

  What do you wear to walk off with a half million bucks? Go casual, with running shoes, or dress up? Max gave it some thought and put on his tan poplin suit with a blue shirt and navy tie. His instructions were to hang around the Anne Klein display on Macy’s second level, women’s clothes, and watch for Jackie to walk out of the fitting room at approximately four thirty. Give whatever surveillance they had on her time to clear out. Then approach a salesclerk and tell her his wife thinks she left a shopping bag in one of the dressing rooms. With beach towels in it.

  He had read that a prompt man was a lonely man, and it seemed to be true: now a few minutes past four standing outside Gallery Renee, a newspaper under his arm, looking in at green paintings, no sign of Renee—until he heard her voice.

  “Max?”

  Sad, or maybe uncertain. She was behind him, standing in the middle of the concourse, Renee holding one of the busboy’s paintings upright on the floor.

  “It came this morning,” Renee said. “A process server delivered it, like a court summons.”

  “That’s what it is,” Max said.

  She seemed so small holding on to that big canvas, unaware of shoppers walking around her. It was a trait of hers, being unaware: stopping to talk in the middle of traffic, in doorways of public places, in a parking lot, a car waiting to take the space where she stood.

  “I was sadly disappointed,” Renee said. “I thought you might show more class than have a stranger inform me. After twenty-seven years, Max, do you think that’s fair?”

  He said, “Why don’t you come over here out of the way?” Shoppers were looking at Renee, then turning as they went by to glance at him. “Here, let me help you.”

  She walked into her gallery, Renee wearing a baggy, Arab-looking outfit, layers of material in tan and white, black stripes running through it. Max followed, stopping to catch the glass door swinging at him. He got the painting inside and leaned it against the table in the center, ready for more of Renee, her tiny head with its cap of dark hair sticking out of the Arab outfit, eyes brightly made up. Renee looking at the canvas now.

  “I was positive Ralph Lauren would buy one, after I schlepped it all the way over there. I said, ‘Hang something that has some life in it, energy, instead of those stupid English horse prints.’ ”

  “What do they know,” Max said, for some reason sympathizing with her. She was looking at him now, her expression telling him she was still sadly disappointed.

  “You could have come to me, Max, told me what you planned to do.”

  “I did come to you. You were busy with your cheese and crackers.”

  “I sold three of David’s paintings at the reception. Another one yesterday.”

  “You’re doing all right.”

  “Twenty-seven years,” Renee said, “as if they never happened.”

  He was thinking, No, they happened, they must have. But didn’t say anything. Why start? Get her to accept the fact and leave. It was ten after.

  Renee was looking at the painting again, the cane field, with kind of a lost expression, or vacant. She said, “We’ve had our differences. We’ve grown apart, there’s no getting around that. I have my art. You have . . . I suppose your business.” She looked at him now. “But we had some good times too, didn’t we, Max?”

  Was that from a song?

  Good times too, didn’t we?

  He tried to think of one in particular. There was that period in the beginning when he couldn’t keep his hands off of her and he thought she would get to like it, way back, before he had given up trying to think of things to talk about. Maybe there weren’t any, at least not memorable ones, the entire twenty-seven years but not counting the periods of separation. Those weren’t bad. The times with Cricket singing country to him, Cricket in what passed for moonlight . . . It was funny, he liked waitresses. Jackie was different. Intelligent but horny, in a quiet, unhurried way—reaching into his pants on the balcony and dropping her glass over the side, taking hold of him. He would never get tired of being with her. . . . He said to Renee, “Yeah, there were times,” and saw her chin quiver.

  She could do that, make it quiver anytime she wanted, and it seemed to always work; he’d feel guilty or sorry for her without knowing why.

  She looked at the cane field again saying, “What’s the use talking about it, you’ve made up your mind.” Renee sighed. “If this is what you want . . .”

  “Don’t you think it makes sense?”

  “I suppose.” She raised her head to look at him again, the chin no longer quivering. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to cost you.”

  Max said, “Renee, you never came cheap.”

  Frieda, the saleswoman in the fitting room with Jackie, stood in a fashion-model slouch, hand on her kidney with fingers pointing to her spine. She said, “The Isani’s absolutely darling on you.”

  Jackie looked over her shoulder at the mirror. “I’m used to a narrower skirt.”

  “Your figure,” Frieda said, “you can go straight or fluid and swingy. You’re traveling abroad?”

  “I thought I’d start out in Paris, drive through the wine country.”

  “Oh, you’re going by yourself?”

  “I may,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Mix and match with separates, that silk jersey I showed you? It travels beautifully.” Frieda picked up several dresses from the back of a chair. “You like a narrow skirt, why don’t you try on that Zang Toi, with the off-center slit?”

  Jackie glanced at her watch. “Okay. I know I want the suit. In fact I think I’ll wear it—get out of this uniform.”

  “The black silk, it’s a knockout on you,” Frieda said, and walked out.

  Louis and Melanie were by the Donna Karan New York display, Louis watching the opening in the paneled wall that said FITTING ROOM over it, down at the far end of the designer section. Jackie had said at the meeting to wait here and not come in before twenty-five after. It was getting onto that now. He was pretty sure he’d have a better view of the fitting room over by the Dana Buchman display. Once Melanie went in, he wanted to be sure he saw her when she came out. Women shoppers would creep by and he’d feel them looking at him. Like what was he doing here? Melanie kept busy. She’d hold up a blouse to look it over and then throw it back on the shelf. She never folded anything up again. She was all butt in her white tube skirt and denim jacket, but didn’t look too bad. He was surprised she was interested in clothes, because she didn’t seem to have many, always wearing those cutoffs. Louis was holding the Macy’s shopping bag they’d exchange for the one Jackie had. He was afraid if Melanie carried it she’d be shoplifting, stuffing things in the bag. They didn’t need mall security on them, guys in green sport coats and peach-colored ties. At least they didn’t pack. Louis had on his new light-blue sport coat. He wished this was over. Melanie made him nervous.

  He said, “Come on,” motioning to her, and crossed the aisle to the Dana Buchman display. He looked back, motioning to her again, and bumped into a woman as he turned to look toward the fitting room. Louis said, “I beg your pardon,” saw the woman’s lifeless eyes, and realized, Christ,
it was a mannequin. Melanie came up to him saying, “You talking to yourself, Louis?”

  He thought this would give them a straight-on view of the fitting room, but there was another display between it and them, mannequins standing around in poses. They did look real. Louis nudged Melanie and said, “Come on.”

  She said, “What’re we waiting for? Why don’t I just do it?”

  “She said four twenty-five.”

  “It’s almost that now.”

  Louis motioned to her and she followed him to a section that said MICHI MOON on a display board. Melanie, looking at the clothes, said, “Far out.”

  “Get ready,” Louis said, handing her the Macy’s bag, beach towels in it Jackie had told him to buy. Now he saw a woman with dresses over her arm come out of the fitting room and start hanging the dresses on different racks. There were a few women in the area prowling through the racks, only one guy; he was sitting in a chair over by Ellen Tracy reading a newspaper. He looked up, toward the rear area, and Louis said, “Jesus Christ, it’s Max.”

  Melanie turned from Michi Moon saying, “Who?”

  “That’s the guy I used to work for, Max Cherry. What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Melanie said. “Is he a cross-dresser? Ask him.”

  “He’s married, he could be here with his wife,” Louis said, and remembered that Max didn’t live with his wife, they were separated. Or he was here with his girlfriend, that could be. Louis glanced toward Melanie. She was gone, walking toward the fitting room. He looked at Max again, about fifty feet away, Max strolling off too, over to the Anne Klein section. Dressed up in a suit and tie, he had to be with some woman. Louis stepped to one end of the Michi Moon display. Melanie was already in the fitting room.

  “That’s cute. What’s the top, cotton?”

  “Linen,” Jackie said. “The skirt’s sand-washed silk.”

  “It’s nice, and I don’t usually go for a full skirt.”