Cinderella (24 page)

    Sitting on four fucking keys of cocaine, you think there'd be buyers coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

    Well, you can't take an ad in the paper, can you?

    FOR SALE

    FOUR KILOS COCAINE

    NINETY-PERCENT PURE

    CALL OWNER AT…

    No way.

    You kept your ears open, you listened, you didn't trust anybody with the secret. In the state of Florida, you could find yourself on the bottom of the ocean if somebody thought you had four keys of coke. So you had to play your cards very close to your chest. Meanwhile sitting there with what you knew was worth seventy, seventy-five a key. All that shit and no way to translate it to cash.

    Until now.

    So where the fuck was Vincent?

    Thought it might be him when the lawyer knocked on the door.

    How the hell did a
lawyer
get into this?

    If he really
was
a lawyer.

    Man, this was weird.

    Well, he'd given her a card, she guessed he was a real lawyer.

    Summerville and Hope.

    On impulse, she dialed the number-

    "Good evening, Summerville and Hope."

    -and immediately hung up.

    So who hired the lawyer?

    Larkin again? It sure as hell wasn't Fat Louie in Miami. You steal a man's cocaine, he doesn't go to any kind of law. No, it had to be Larkin again. Guy coming around with a picture of her. Knocking on the door here at the condo, you know this girl? Vincent later described the picture. Polaroid color shot of her in the ice-blue gown she'd worn first for Amaros in Miami and later here at the Jacaranda Ball. Went there with a girl she'd met at the Sheraton. She hadn't told Vincent about that night with Larkin. Hadn't told him she'd stolen the Rolex. Didn't want to risk his shrill faggoty rage. Didn't want to piss old Vincent off, fags could get meaner than pit vipers.

    The look on his face.

    "Amaros," he said.

    She knew it wasn't Amaros, she knew it was Larkin.

    Larkin trying to find her for what she'd given him.

    Directly traceable to Amaros.

    Nice little present from Amaros, the shit.

    She didn't say anything.

    She figured four keys of coke was worth getting herpes.

    Maybe.

    "When did he take your picture?" Vincent said.

    "I don't remember."

    "Well, damn it, remember! Can't you see he's traced us here?"

    Voice high and strident. Very nervous now. Started pacing back and forth. This was like Friday a couple of weeks ago, the fourth, the fifth, somewhere in there. Biting his lip while he paced. Nervous as a cat. Eyes flashing.

    "I don't remember," she said again.

    Damned if she was going to tell him about Larkin and the Rolex, have to listen to his fuckin' faggoty screams.

    Which was why she was a little nervous about talking to Klement now, before she'd had a chance to discuss this. She didn't want Vincent taking another fit. A fag throwing a fit was something to behold. But shit, if there were some real buyers out there…

    
Was
the lawyer from Larkin?

    Knew names she'd used since she was for Christ's sake sixteen years old!

    She looked at her watch. She hoped he'd get home before she had to call Klement again.

    When he wasn't there by six-thirty, she started getting a little worried. Had he had an automobile accident or something? Last client at two-thirty, so it was now six-thirty, so where was he?

    She dialed the number at the Springtime restaurant.

    "Mr. Klement, please," she said.

    "Whom shall I say is calling?"

    Same bitch from this afternoon.
Whom.
My
ass,
whom, that's whom.

    "Sandy Jennings."

    Jenny Santoro sort of ass-backwards, she thought.

    "Hello?"

    Klement's voice.

    "Did you check with Merilee?" she said. "Am I real?"

    "When can we meet?" Klement asked.

    "We can't," Jenny said. "You tell me what your end is, and then you give me a number to call. That's how it works."

    Cover your ass. She'd learned all about covering her ass in Los Angeles. It was even more important to cover it here. Four keys of high-grade? Shit, man.

    "Sorry," he said, "I don't do business that way."

    "You're not the one holding," she said.

    "True."

    "Do we talk or not?"

    "My end is ten percent," he said.

    "Five or forget it"

    "I hate haggling like a fishmonger."

    "So do I."

    "Seven and a half then."

    "Fine. How do I reach your people?"

    "Have we got a deal?"

    "Yes. Payment on delivery."

    "No. I don't want to be there."

    "Then get your end in advance."

    "I beg your pardon?"

    "From your people. As soon as we set a price."

    "Most professionals don't do this sort of business on the telephone."

    "Lucky I'm an amateur," Jenny said. "Let me have the number."

    Klement gave her the number.

    

    

    Only once before had Vincent been tempted by a male client, and that was when he was working for Vidal Sassoon in New York. The man's name was Melvyn-with a
y
, no less- and he was as queer as a turnip, but oh so gorgeous. Great blond locks and cornflower blue eyes and muscles he doubtlessly
flexed
every weekend at Cherry Grove-oh, what Vincent wouldn't have given for a tumble with young Melvyn.

    At the time, Vincent was spending his weekends with two good friends of his who owned a house in Pound Ridge, near Emily Shaw's Inn. He made the mistake one Wednesday afternoon, while Melvyn-with-a-Y was in having his golden fleece shorn, to suggest that he might enjoy coming up one weekend, meet some of the boys, party a bit, did Melvyn think he might enjoy that? Melvyn lowered his baby blues and put one hand on Vincent's arm, and said, "Oh dear, that's
so
kind of you, but I'm involved just now."

    The person he was involved with, as it turned out, marched in that very afternoon to make certain his sweet little boy was having his hair properly trimmed. The grandest old drag queen who ever lived, wearing a black cape and high-heeled boots and blood-red lipstick that made him look like Dracula.

    Vincent swore off that very minute.

    Never again would he come on with a client.

    Cut the hair, make the chitchat, and let it go.

    But at 6:47 that night, while Jenny was on the phone asking for cabin number three at the Suncrest Motel, Vincent was in a room at Pirate's Cove, making love with a man named George Anders, who'd been his two-thirty client.

    Anders was a married orthodontist.

    Giggling, Vincent told him he had a very bad overbite.

    At exactly that moment, Susan Hope walked onto the deck of the restaurant at Stone Crab Shores and spotted Matthew sitting at a table overlooking the water.

    A wide smile broke on her face.

    Swiftly, she walked to him.

    

    

    With twenty-five cents and the accent of the man on the other end of the line, you could start a banana plantation in Cuba.

    "Sondy Hennings?" he said.

    "Yes," she said. "Martin Klement asked me to call you."

    "Ah,
si
," he said.

    "Is this Ernesto?"

    "
Si
."

    No last name. Martin hadn't given her one, and she didn't ask for one. She didn't care how many names of hers he had, first, last, it didn't matter, the Sandy was a phony and so was the Jennings.

    "I understand you're looking to buy some fine china," she said.

    This was what Martin had told her to say on the phone. Fine china. What bullshit, she thought. Ernesto was thinking the same thing. Domingo was sprawled out on the bed, looking through the July issue of
Penthouse.

    "That is correct," Ernesto said.

    "I have four fine plates that may interest you."

    "How fine?" Ernesto asked.

    "This is 1890 china we're talking about," she said.

    "Ninety?" he said.

    "That's right."

    Fooling nobody, she thought. We're talking ninety-pure and we both know it and so does anyone listening, fine china my ass.

    "How much do these plates cost?" he asked.

    "Seventy-five dollars," she said. "I want three hundred dollars for the four plates."

    "That's expensive," Ernesto said.

    "How much are you willing to pay?"

    "Fifty," he said.

    "Well, so long then."

    "Wait a minute," he said.

    And then silence except for static on the line.

    It was going to rain again.

    She could visualize wheels turning inside his head, gears meshing but she didn't know why.

    Was he trying to figure a more reasonable comeback price? Fifty was ridiculous. You sometimes got tricks, you told them it was a hundred an hour, they started bargaining with you. Make it sixty, all I've got is forty, whatever. You said "Well, so long then," they always came back with "Wait a minute."

    Only the pause wasn't as long as this one. She waited. She waited some more.

    "Where'd you get these plates?" he asked at last.

    Funny question, she thought. All that huffing and puffing and this is the question he comes up with?

    "Funny question," she said out loud. "Where'd
you
get your money?"

    "My money is Miami money," he said.

    "So are the plates."

    "You got them in Miami?"

    "Listen, are you interested at seventy-five a plate or not?"

    "We may be interested. But we have to make sure they're quality plates." This came out: "Burr we ha' to may sure they quality place." Another pause. "Where did you get them in Miami? From the Ordinez people?"

    "You're asking too many questions," she said. "I'm gonna hang up."

    "No, no, please,
por favor,
no, don't do that,
senorita"
Another pause. "How does sixty sound?"

    "Low," she said.

    "Can we talk about this in person?"

    "No."

    "It would be good to see you face-to-face."

    "When we deliver. First I need a price. So does Mr. K. He's in for seven-and-a-half finder's."

    "We?"

    "What?"

    "Who's we?"

    "My partner and me."

    "Who is your partner?"

    "Who's
your
partner?" she said, and hung up.

    She pressed one of the receiver-rest buttons, got a dial tone, and called the Springtime again. When Klement came on the line, she said, "What is this? A setup?"

    "What?" he said. "No. What?"

    "Your people are asking too many questions. I want a price and no more questions."

    "How much are you really looking for?" Klement asked.

    "With no bullshitting back and forth?"

    "Your best price."

    "Sixty-five. With no haggling."

    "I'll tell them."

    "Times four. Less your seven and a half."

    "I understand."

    "I want to close this five minutes from now."

    "I'll see what I can do."

    She called him back five minutes later.

    "They've agreed to your price," he said. "They're waiting for your call."

    

    

    The rain started so suddenly it caught everyone on the deck by surprise. One moment there was sunshine and then all at once raindrops were spattering everywhere. The outdoor diners grabbed for drinks and handbags, sharing for a moment the camaraderie of people caught in either a catastrophe or an unexpected delight. There were cries of surprise and some laughter and the sound of chairs scraping back and a great deal of scurrying until the deck-within moments, it seemed-was clear of everything but the empty tables with their white cloths flapping in the wind, and the empty chairs standing stoically in the falling rain.

    The rain came in off the water in long gray sheets.

    Susan said, "I'm soaked."

    She looked marvelous. Summery yellow dress scooped low over her breasts, cinched tightly at the waist, flaring out over her hips. Not quite soaked, but her face and hair wet with rain, a wide grin on her mouth.

    Waiters were bustling about, showing diners to tables inside. There was the buzz of excited conversation, everyone marveling at how swiftly and unexpectedly the rain had come.

    "It reminds me of something," Matthew said.

    "Yes, me too," she said, and squeezed his hand.

    "But I can't remember what."

    "Mr. Hope?" the headwaiter said. "This way, please."

    He led them to a table close to the sliding glass doors. Outside, busboys were hurriedly gathering up glasses and silverware. The wind was fierce. The tablecloths kept flapping, as if clamoring for flight.

    "Something in Chicago?" Susan said.

    "Yes."

    "Something that made us laugh a lot?"

    "Yes."

    "But what?"

    "I don't know. Is your drink okay?"

    "I spilled half of it on the way in."