Cinderella (26 page)

    "What… do… we… call… the… blonde… girl… in.. Spanish," Ware wrote, speaking the words at the same time. "And what answer do you want him to give?"

    "Cenicienta," Amaros said.

    "Would you spell that, please?" Ware said.

    

    

    The wire transfer took exactly seven minutes. It took longer | than that for Amaros to get Ernesto on the phone at the Sun-crest Motel to tell him that the money was on the way. It was raining in Calusa when the bank on First Street got the wired instructions. In fact, it was raining all over Florida that day. The hurricane season was supposed to be from July to October but people were beginning to say it was coming early this year. They said that every year at about this time.

    In his second-floor apartment at Camelot Towers, Vincent paced from sofa to rain-streaked windows to sofa and back again. It's a wonder he isn't wearing a track in the carpet, Jenny thought.

    He was very disturbed that this lawyer Matthew Hope had been here yesterday. He kept wanting to know exactly what she had said to this lawyer. She had to repeat word for word, as closely as she could remember, everything the lawyer had said and everything she had said to the lawyer. The last time she'd seen Vincent so upset was when he was talking about the man who came around with the picture of her, the one she figured Larkin had sent but which she didn't say because Vincent didn't even know Larkin existed. Or that she had a gold Rolex in a safety-deposit box at the Sheraton where she was registered as Julie Carmichael. She didn't worry about keeping things from Vincent. She suspected he kept a lot of things from her, too. Listen, they weren't joined at the hip, and after tomorrow she didn't plan to see him ever again.

    "We have to get out of this town as soon as possible," he said now. "We do the deal tomorrow, and we split. It's getting too hot here."

    She hated it when he tried to sound like a gangster. The words sounded ludicrous coming from his faggoty lips. Though she'd read someplace that homosexual murders were the most vicious of any murders committed anywhere. That sounded ludicrous, too. She could just imagine Vincent trying to shoot somebody, he'd probably shoot himself in the foot. Or stab him. Or anything.

    "What time are you supposed to meet them?" he asked.

    "Twelve noon."

    "Where?"

    "They're staying at a place called the Sunset Motel."

    "Where the hell is that?"

    "On the North Trail, near the airport, they said."

    "That's all motels, that stretch near the airport," Vincent said.

    "So what's wrong with that? There's nobody here this time of year."

    "I'm just saying." He kept pacing. He was wearing very tight jeans, you could see the bulge of his machinery there at the crotch. What a waste, she thought. "Are they expecting me?" he asked.

    "I didn't say anything about you. They're expecting four keys of cocaine is what they're expecting."

    "You told them cash?"

    "They
know
cash. If they're in the business, cash is
all
they know. I told them to bring two-hundred-and-forty thousand, five-hundred. That's the two-sixty less Klement's seven-and-a-half percent."

    "How?"

    "How what?"

    "What kind of bills?"

    "I didn't specify."

    "You should've told them hundred-dollar bills."

    "You should've been here instead of out sucking some guy's cock," Jenny said.

    Vincent shrugged.

    "They might bring thousand-dollar bills, something ridiculous like that," he said.

    "So what? They don't change thousand-dollar bills in Paris?"

    "Paris?"

    "That's where I'm going once we unload this shit."

    She had never told her dream to anyone before this moment. Well, she'd told Merilee that she'd be getting out of the country, but she hadn't mentioned Paris, the little house on the outskirts of Paris. She was afraid she'd get laughed at if she ever told
that
to anybody. But she was so close now, so close. Vincent looked at her for what seemed a long time, as if trying to visualize her in Paris. She was beginning to think saying it out loud had been a mistake. Not because Vincent was laughing at her, which he wasn't. But maybe God would take it away from her somehow. Steal the dream. Because she'd talked about it.

    "Amaros can find you in Paris the same as anyplace else," Vincent said.

    "Thanks, that's very reassuring. The son of a bitch gave me herpes, I hope he
does
find me. I'll cut off his cock, the little prick."

    "That's redundant," Vincent said. "And
also
grossly inaccurate."

    "Don't go fairy on me, okay?" Jenny said. "I hate when you sound like a fairy."

    "I
am
a fairy, darling."

    "Terrific. Go confess to your mother. Just don't
mince
your fucking words that way."

    "I'm heading for Hong Kong," Vincent said. "Let Amaros chase me there if he wants to. I'll hire two Chinese thugs to behead him."

    "You keep thinking Amaros is after us…"

    "Oh,
please,
dear, who
else
is sending around private investigators? And now a lawyer? Everything legal and aboveboard, oh, yes, until he zeroes in on us. Then we can expect a visit from a goon squad. He wants his
nose
candy back, Amaros does. He doesn't like us having stolen his
nose-"

    "Me. I'm the one stole it. Never mind us, Kimo-Sabe."

    "The private eye came to
this
apartment. That makes it
us.
The lawyer came to this apartment. That makes it
still
us. And if the goons come it'll
still
be us. Which is why I'm going to Hong Kong."

    "How do you know he was a private eye?"

    "Who are you talking about, darling?"

    "The guy who came here with my picture."

    "He
said
he was a private eye."

    "That's not what you told me."

    "When?"

    "That day. When I came here that day. The day he showed you my picture."

    "I'm sure that's what I told you."

    "No, you said some guy had been here with my picture, and you were sure Amaros had sent him."

    "Is that what I said?"

    "That's what you said."

    "Well, who can remember so long ago? Anyway, just let him
try
to find me in Hong Kong."

    "I'm more worried about those two spies tomorrow than I am about Amaros," Jenny said. "I don't mind going to this shitty little motel they're staying at, I figure that may be safer than anyplace else, you know? We ask them to come here or over to the Sheraton, they may come back later, you know? Try to steal the money
back,
you know? This way, we give-them the stuff, we take the bread, and we disappear."

    "Exactly," Vincent said.

    "It's just who the hell knows who they are? They may be rip-off artists, drift into town, ask some questions about who's got dope, and then give you a bop on the head and take off."

    "Well, you never know who you're dealing with," Vincent said.

    "Is just what I'm saying," Jenny said. "In L.A., I had guys you'd go up to their room, fancy hotels, am I right? The Beverly Hills? The Beverly Wilshire? Even the Bel-Air, you can't get fancier than that. Or the Hermitage. You'd go up to their room, they'd get you in the room, big bastards some of them, like gorillas, you know, they'd lock the door, the bastards. I used to carry a single-edged razor blade in my bag, but some of these guys they'd beat the shit out of you before you could bat an eyelash, rape you, steal all your fuckin' money, throw you out in the hall…"

    "Oooo, that sounds marvelous," Vincent said.

    "Cut the fog shit, willya please? I'm trying to be serious here. That's why a lot of girls work with pimps, for protection against these fucking weirdos, you know? What I'm saying is suppose I go in there tomorrow and these two guys haven't even got carfare, never mind sixty-five a key? Suppose what they're planning is a plain and simple Smash-and-Grab? Smash
me,
grab the coke, and it's off to the races. That's what's worrying me."

    "Yes," Vincent said.

    "So here's what I think we should do," Jenny said.

    

    

    "The thing is," Jimmy Legs said to his brother, "I think she still has the watch, didn't try to hock it or nothing, leastways according to Harry Stagg, who knows every fence in this city and also there's only two pawn shops."

    "Yeah," Larkin said.

    He was making the spaghetti marinara sauce he planned to use tonight. He had come home at noon today. Rainy days, he didn't know why it was, nobody came around shopping for boats. Also, what the hell, the owner of the place was entitled to half a day off every now and then, wasn't he? He was chopping onions, which made his eyes tear. Jimmy was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, sipping on a gin and tonic. The sliding glass doors that led to the deck were crawling with rain-snakes. Beyond the deck, the sky was gray and ominous.

    "Mama made the best marinara sauce in the whole world, may she rest in peace," Jimmy said.

    "Yeah," Larkin said. "So you think she's still got the watch, huh?"

    "Oh, yeah, no question."

    "Then maybe you oughta run over this condo."

    "What condo?"

    "On Hacienda Road there."

    "What about it?"

    "This shyster lawyer?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Matthew Hope?"

    "Yeah?"

    "He comes here, he tells me the dead guy was-"

    "Who, the P.I.?"

    "Yeah, Samalson. He tells me he tracked her to this condo. Place named Camelot Towers on Hacienda Road there, I forget the address."

    "So whattya mean? She's
there?
Is that what you're saying?"

    "Well, I don't know if she's
there
or not. That's an address she gave when she went to see this doctor. Samalson planned to go back Monday morning, but then, you know, he got boxed."

    "Yeah."

    Jimmy sipped at his drink.

    Larkin chopped onions and cried.

    "It was the garlic made it so good," Jimmy said. "She used to put in a lot of garlic."

    "Yeah, I'm gonna put in garlic," Larkin said.

    "Keeps the Angel of Death away, garlic," Jimmy said and burst out laughing. Larkin laughed, too, crying at the same time.

    "So what it was," Jimmy said, "he caught it before he had a chance to check it out, huh?"

    "Well, Sunday night."

    "Before he checked it out."

    "Yeah."

    "So you want me to run over there, show the picture?"

    "You still got the picture?"

    "Yeah, Stagg gave it back to me. His real name's Stagione, you know that?"

    "No, I didn't know that."

    "That's why no
honest
Italian should change his name," Jimmy said.

    "What do you mean?" Larkin asked, bridling.

    "Because everybody thinks only wanted desperadoes change their names. Or escaped cons. Them and Jewish movie stars. Paul Newman is Jewish, you know. You think that's his real name? Newman?"

    "I don't know," Larkin said. "It could be Jewish, Newman." He was still annoyed that his brother had brought up the fucking name change again.

    "So's Kirk Douglas," Jimmy said. "His real name is Israel something. Bob Dylan, too. And you remember John Garfield? The pictures he used to make? He was Jewish, too. I gotta tell you, for a Jew he was
some
fuckin' gangster. Bogart, too."

    "Bogart was Jewish, too?"

    "No, no, who said he was Jewish?"

    "I thought you-"

    "No, Bogart was a good
gangster.
It's
Garfield
who was Jewish. Jules Garfinkel was his name. Or Garfein. How'd you like a fuckin' name like
that?"

    "Largura's no prize, either," Larkin said.

    "Papa just turned over in his grave," Jimmy said.

    "Then whyn't you just lay off the fuckin' name, okay?" Larkin said.

    "Don't get so fuckin' excited, okay?"

    "Okay," Larkin said.

    "Okay," Jimmy said.

    The men were silent for several moments, listening to the sound of the falling rain and the rattling palm fronds.

    "So you want me to run over there or what?" Jimmy asked.

    "Well, I don't think it'd hurt, do you? Run over the condo, ask around?"

    "No, no, it might be good."

    "So when you think you can do that?" Larkin asked.

    "Maybe tomorrow afternoon sometime, this rain ever stops. No, wait, it'll have to be Sunday, I got something to do tomorrow. Which reminds me."

    Larkin was dropping tomatoes into boiling water now.

    "What are you doing there?" Jimmy said.

    "Taking the peels off."

    "How is that taking the peels off?"

    "You'll see."

    Jimmy watched.

    "I don't see no peels coming off," he said.

    "You have to keep them in boiling water for a minute or so," Larkin said.

    "Then what?"

    Larkin was looking at his watch.

    "Fuckin' cheap Timex," he said, shaking his head. "I catch that cunt…"

    "So where are the peels coming off?"

    Larkin drained the hot water from the pot and put the pot under the cold water tap. Jimmy watched as he slipped the tomatoes out of their skins.