Cat Chaser Page 9

  “We have to,” Mary said.

  “Good.”

  She said, “I’ve never done anything like this before. Have you?”

  “When I was married? No.”

  “Did you ever have an affair with a married woman?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ve never done it either. We’re amateurs. I’ve never even thought about it.” She paused. “No, that’s a lie. I used to look at you and think about it a lot.”

  “I did too.”

  “I used to stare at you and when you’d look over I’d say let’s get out of here and go somewhere, be together.”

  “I would have gone.”

  “Would you?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Boy, we’ve come a long way.” She said then, “Where will we meet?”

  “You can always come to the Coconuts. Andres’s sister and her boyfriend love it.”

  “We’re not like that, are we?”

  “I was kidding.”

  “We’re not shacking up . . . Are we?”

  “No, there’s a big difference.”

  “God, Moran, I’m gonna have trouble handling this Sneaking around, not telling anybody. I’ve got to get it settled with Andres, but I don’t want to involve you.”

  “He was suspicious before he even had a reason.”

  “He’s not dumb. But I’ve got to make him understand why I’m leaving and that it’s got nothing to do with you.”

  He said, “What about your friends at Casa de Campo?”

  She said, “Oh, my God.”

  “You forgot to call them.”

  “I haven’t even thought about them. When I left the embassy party I said I might change my plans and Marilyn, one of the girls, gave me a look—ah-ha, have fun. I’m pretty sure they have an idea what’s going on, but you’re right, I ought to call, get our stories straight.”

  “Are they close friends?”

  “Not really, but we get along, play tennis a few times a week.”

  “They wouldn’t call your home—I mean to see if you’re there.”

  “No, but I’d better let them know where I am.” Mary said then, “Shit. They went home today.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “Call one of them tomorrow, at home.”

  “I’d better. How long are we staying?”

  “You mean it’s up to me? You don’t sound too worried.”

  “I am though. I’m starting to get nervous. And this is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

  Moran went to sleep; maybe for only a few minutes, he wasn’t sure. Lying on his side he held Mary’s back curled into him, his knees fitting into the bend of hers. He said, “Mary?”

  “What?” She was close to sleep.

  “Rafi’s left-handed. You said tonight you were sitting with two southpaws and he didn’t know what a southpaw was.

  “Remember?”

  She didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Moran opened his eyes to see the balcony in sunlight, the sheer draperies stirring, puffing in the breeze. Facing away from Mary he felt her move and get out of bed saying, “Yuuuk, I drank too much wine.” Moving toward the bathroom her voice said, “What time is he going to call?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he won’t . . . Mary?”

  “What?”

  “The guy I shot was right-handed.”

  She said, “You can remember that?”

  He heard the bathroom door close. He lay staring at the clear sky framed within the balcony, hearing the water running in the bathroom, thinking of the swimming pool then and winter ballplayers. The bathroom door opened again and Mary’s voice said, “I forgot. I brushed my teeth and drank the water.” She came into his view, her slim body in the nightgown clearly defined against the sunlight. “If I’m gonna die I don’t want it to be from drinking water.”

  Moran said, I can see him holding his weapon and he was right-handed. Somebody shoots at you you can close your eyes and see it anytime you want. He wasn’t that far away.”

  She turned from the sunlight, eyebrows raised in question, her face clean and alive.

  “He was wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap,” Moran said, “an old one. I can still see him.”

  In Boca Chica, twenty miles from Santo Domingo and twenty years ago, the home of a wealthy family close to Trujillo was confiscated soon after his death, turned into a clubhouse by the sea and passed along to a succession of young men who drank rum and looked for girls and sold goods on the black market. The house now stood in an old section of the resort community that was decaying, losing itself to debris and tropical vegetation. Nearby was a beachfront café that had once been a gas station but now seemed dirtier with its litter of paper cups and ice-cream wrappers that were never picked up. There was blue Spanish tile in the men’s room where, to Rafi’s recollection, the toilet had never flushed. Late in the morning he would walk from the house to the café for his coffee or sometimes a Coca-Cola and sit outside beneath the portico at a metal table. He made phone calls from the café and brought girls here that he picked up on the beach, to buy them treats and eventually talk business. In an informal way the café was his office.

  This morning he was interviewing a girl by the name of Loret. She was seventeen and had some good points, some not so good. She was attractive, she seemed intelligent enough—at least not out of the cane—but she was sullen; her normal expression was a frown, almost a scowl.

  “Smile,” Rafi said.

  Sitting with her can of Seven-Up, Loret bared small teeth. Her smile seemed defensive.

  “Relax and do it again . . . That’s better. Now relax your smile very slowly . . . There. That’s the expression you want on your face. Very nice. And sit up straight; don’t slouch like that.”

  For a girl so small her breasts seemed to fill her T-shirt and pull her shoulders forward with their weight.

  “What do you use on your hair?”

  “A rinse, I make it lighter.” It was a shade of henna, too bright for her tawny skin.

  “Maybe we’ll put it back the way it was.”

  “I like this,” Loret said, touching her wiry hair. “I don’t want to look Negro.”

  This increased her sullen expression and Rafi told her, again, to smile. “You want to be rich, you have to learn how to smile.”

  “What do I get?” the girl asked him.

  “The world,” Rafi said.

  She could have it. He’d settle for a home in the embassy section of town, a few servants, an armed guard at the gate he’d present with a cigar each evening as he drove out in his Mercedes.

  Rafi had been hustling since he was seventeen years old, since working the aduana trade during the revolution of ’65 when they looted the customhouse and the docks along the Ozama and sold everything on the black. TV sets, transistor radios, tires, Japanese bikes. It had been a training ground: learning how to get ahead when you begin with nothing. But he was up and down, spending half what he earned on his appearance, to look good in the hotel lobbies, and he had nothing of substance to rely on for a steady income. The few girls he managed worked when they felt like it and cheated him when they did. He’d threaten to cut them with a knife and they’d give him big innocent eyes. Loret’s look was more sulk than innocence.

  “Push your lower lip out a little more.”

  “What do I get for this?”

  He loved her more each time she said it. It was a sign she was moved by greed.

  “Push the lip out . . . Yes, a nice pout, I like that. Aw, you look so sad. Let me see a little more—you’re filled with a great sorrow . . . Yes, that’s good. Begin to believe you’re very depressed. You feel lost.”

  She said, “You better tell me what I get.”

  “Tell me what you want,” Rafi said. “But not yet. You’re too depressed. Something terrible happened to your sister that you loved very much . . .”

  He cocked his head at di
fferent angles to study the sad little girl. Not bad. The breasts were a bonus. She would have to be rehearsed, of course; still, he knew he was very close to what he needed. Work with Loret the rest of the day. Present her sometime tomorrow.

  In the meantime he should pay his respects. Call the Marine and tell him you’re onto something but don’t tell him what. You’ll get back to him later this evening. Yes, you want to look industrious. You don’t want to seem to be just hanging around.

  He called the hotel and asked for 537.

  When there was no answer he got the operator again and asked if Mr. Moran had left word where he would be.

  The operator said, “Mr. Moran has checked out.”

  “What do you mean he’s checked out? Give me the desk.” He was sure there was a mistake. But when he spoke to the clerk he was told, “Yes, Mr. Moran has checked out.” What about Mrs. Delaney? “Yes, she also.”

  Rafi said, “Did Moran leave a message—I’m sure he did—for Rafi Amado?”

  The desk clerk said, “Just a moment.” He came back to the phone and said, “No, there’s nothing for you here.”

  9

  * * *

  HE TALKED TO JERRY for a few minutes, left him whistling “Zing Went the Strings of My Heart” and as soon as he was in the bungalow Nolen’s smiling face appeared at the door.

  “You’re home. When’d you get in?”

  Moran said, “When did I get in?” He dropped his bag on the kitchen counter. “You’re watching me get in.” He had left Mary exactly fifty minutes ago at the Miami airport where they stood holding, kissing in a crowd of people, as though one was seeing the other off. She got in a taxi and Moran wandered through the parking lot looking for his car, the white Mercedes coupe he’d owned for seven years.

  Nolen said, “You wouldn’t have a cold one in that fridge there, would you?”

  “If you left any,” Moran said. “Take a look.” He wanted him to leave so he could call Mary. It could be the wrong time to call but he missed her and he couldn’t imagine de Boya answering the phone himself; a servant would answer. And pretty soon his voice would become familiar to the help. Here he is again for missus. He’d have to make something up, give himself, his voice, an identity.

  Nolen uncapped a couple Buds, placed one on the counter for Moran and slipped up onto a stool.

  “I skimmed the swimming pool.”

  “Good.”

  “Didn’t find any used condoms or anything. No alligators. The two broads from Fort Wayne left and the old couple with the Buick. In fact everybody’s gone. We had a couple broads from Findlay, Ohio, work for Dow Chemical, they were here for three days. I asked ’em if they heard the one, the salesman from New York who’s in Findlay, Ohio, on business and runs into a foxy broad at the Holiday Inn? One drink they’re in the sack, it’s beautiful. But this guy’s a good Catholic so he looks up a church right away, goes to confession and the priest gives him five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for his penance. He leaves for New York, meets another good-looking broad at La Guardia. They drive into town together, go to her apartment and jump in bed, it’s beautiful. But now he’s got to go to confession again before he gets home. He goes to St. Pat’s, tells the priest what he did and the priest gives him a rosary. The guy says, ‘Father, I don’t mean to question you giving me a rosary, but I went to confession in Findlay, Ohio, for the same thing and I only got five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.’ The priest looks at him and screams, ‘Findlay, Ohio!’ Like he can’t believe it. ‘Findlay, Ohio—what do they know about fucking in Findlay, Ohio!’ . . . Otherwise,” Nolen said, “there’s nothing new.”

  “How about old business?” Moran said, taking clothes out of the bag. “I’m a little more interested in what was going on when I left.”

  “The lovers?” Nolen said. “They broke up.”

  “And when we last saw the guy who broke them up,” Moran said, “you were treating him to one of my beers.”

  “Jiggs,” Nolen said. “He’s all right, a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, good old Jiggs Scully,” Moran said, “hands out phony business cards for laughs, but as it turns out works for de Boya.”

  “I’m gonna have to explain a few things to you,” Nolen said.

  Moran picked up his clothes and dropped them in a wicker basket. “Will it take long?”

  “George, that’s not nice . . . See, you’ll be interested to know that Jiggs doesn’t exactly work for de Boya. De Boya borrows him from time to time, for heavy work.”

  “The piano player, Mario, that’s heavy?”

  Nolen shook his head. “De Boya didn’t hire Jiggs for that one. The sister did, Anita.”

  “I see,” Moran said, telling Nolen he didn’t see at all.

  “You know the song ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do’? It’s like that,” Nolen said. “Anita doesn’t want to go through a lot of shit with Mario, she just wants to cut it off clean. So she hires Jiggs. The piano player thinks her brother sent him and he’s not gonna have a tantrum or argue with the brother and get his legs broken, he wasn’t that deeply in love. I said to Jiggs, ‘You ever hear the guy play? You gonna break anything break his fingers.’ But evidently the brother did find out about it and he sent Corky along. You got it now?”

  “Have I got what?”

  “Corky is Corky Corcovado. He’s Dominican, he works for de Boya. But Jiggs, Jiggs you call when you need him.”

  “Not the number on the card he gave me,” Moran said.

  “As a matter of fact,” Nolen said, “that is his number. But the girl on the switchboard won’t admit it if she doesn’t know who you are. You call him, you have to be a regular.”

  Moran thought a moment. “She said Dorado Management.”

  “Yeah, it’s sort of a euphemism. She said Ballbusters Incorporated it would’ve been closer, but that doesn’t sound right on the phone, it’s too graphic.”

  Moran waited, letting Nolen talk. The guy was onstage.

  “Dorado either manages or controls all the businesses—the restaurants, the furniture stores, dry cleaners—that were into them for shylock money and couldn’t make the payments. We’re talking about the wise guys. You understand?”

  Moran nodded. “Yeah, go on.”

  “So Dorado, the wise guys, foreclose and take over the business. All I’m saying is things like that go on, you know that, Miami’s very heavy into all kinds of shit. It doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re talking about, nothing. Except I want you to appreciate where Jiggs Scully’s coming from, his background. He’s like a bill collector. He’s on call. Dorado has an outstanding debt or, say, they believe one of their drug dealers is skimming they call Jiggs and he straightens it out. De Boya is something else entirely. I assume he’s been into deals with Dorado Management and that’s how he got to know Jiggs. But I don’t know anything about the deals and I don’t want to know. Forget I even mentioned it.”

  Moran said, “What’re you getting into?”

  “I’m not getting into anything.”

  “You gonna start wearing a black overcoat. Pack a gun?”

  “They don’t wear overcoats down here, George. I’m telling you who’s who, that’s all. You want to know who Scully is, I’m telling you.”

  “You think he’s a nice guy.”

  “I think he’s funny,” Nolen said. “He says funny things.” Nolen grinned. “He says, ‘Something’s wrong, what they teach you in school. How come, I’m an altar boy, I go to mass and communion every morning of my young life, I end up working for the fucking guineas, the fucking spics, carrying their bags?’ “

  “That’s pretty funny,” Moran said.

  “You have to hear him, the way he says it.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t bother me too much I never saw the guy again,” Moran said. “And if you’ll excuse me—I want to rest and get cleaned up.”

  “Hey, that’s right—how was the trip?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.” Moving Nolen to the door.
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  “Yeah, good. You gonna be around?”

  “I don’t know yet. I might go out.” Practically pushing him through the door.

  “I want to hear all about it, George. What was your platoon down there? Ass Chaser? You get much this time?”

  “Get out of here,” Moran said and closed the door on him.

  She had told him her phone number and he’d memorized it on the spot. He dialed and waited, standing at the counter, anxious, without a story for the maid or whoever answered. A woman’s voice with an accent said, “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Mrs. de Boya, please.”

  “May I say who is calling?”

  Shit . . . “Tell her Mr. Delaney.” When she came on he said, “Mary?”

  She said, “Who’re you supposed to be, a relative?”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Not around here. They’re all up in Michigan.”

  “Then I’m visiting . . . I miss you already.”

  “I do too. I ache.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Not comfortably. He’s home.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m outside on the deck, having a glass of sherry. I’m nervous.”

  “I can hear a boat,” Moran said. “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I just walked in the door.”

  “I mean have you seen him.”

  “Yeah . . . we said hello. That was about it.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  “On the cheek.”

  “I’m not good on the phone. I miss you.”

  “I miss you more. God, I miss you. Let’s go back.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Let’s meet somewhere.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “No, let me think . . . Do you know where Matheson Hammock is, the park?”

  “Yeah, just south of you, on the bay.”

  “Drive out to the point. To the left of where you go into the beach.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow at . . . what time?”

  “Six A.M.”