Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps (16 page)

place," I told him. "I've got to stick this goddamn thing down my pants." We pulled over next to an ice machine, and I opened the door and stepped out into the dissipated heat of midevening. A stray breeze died, and with it the promise of a cooler night. After the refrigerated air of the limousine, the outside air closed around me like a choke hold. I stuffed the gun down my pants and covered it with my shirt. Space rolled down his window and handed me something. It was a CD, brand new and still wrapped in plastic. "What's this?" I asked. "My new CD," he said proudly. "What's it called?" I wondered if I was actually having this conversation. "They're Going to Extradite My Love. Maybe I'm crazy," Hank said wistfully. "But I think this shit is my magnum opus." I glanced at the back of the CD. The names of a few of the songs caught my eye: "Let Me Be Your Pimp" was one of them. There was also a ballad: "Where Have All the White People Gone?" "I hope you're not getting too mainstream," I said. "Bro," he said solemnly, "once you been to the outer limits, you got to come back in. Know what I'm sayin'?" "Better than you think." "Hold on," Hank said. He leaned down and picked up a small leather case and unzipped it. It was stuffed with bills. "How much you need?" "Can you spare a hundred?" Hank looked at me over the rims of his shades and shook his head in mock disbelief. Then with two fingers he simply plucked out a half-inch slice of assorted bills and, without counting them, handed them to me through the window. I thanked him. 135

He flashed me the peace sign and smiled. "When you're done with the cops and shit, give me a call. You got my number. Now, chill. And remember, I ain't seen you." I gave a wave to Reginald and Darin, and the tinted window slid upward like a dark curtain going in reverse. In a moment they were all three gone into the traffic. To tell you the truth, I was kind of sorry to see them go. I walked away from the well-lit gas station and went east on Hibiscus Street toward the apartment building where Susan had moved after dumping Cortez. It was a quiet street with high hedges drowsing over narrow sidewalks like a row of sleepy sentries. The weight of the gun hidden under my pants made me feel more nervous than secure, and I was sorry that I had asked for it, since it confirmed in me the feeling that I had not come out of the sea the same man. I was into something else now, and the world around me seemed far too placid and self-satisfied, while in me every nerve seemed to vibrate with the dangerous possibilities alive in each moment. Where the hedges ended, a wrought-iron fence began. It surrounded the condominium where Susan lived. The build- ing was six stories high, set well back from the street, and looked like a green-plated icebox with row upon row of win- dows far too small to leap from if the mood should strike you. I walked around the fence's perimeter till I spotted her black Honda in its berth in the parking lot. I went back to the gate and rang the buzzer. Her voice asked who it was, and when I told her, there was a very long and important silence that hung like a divide be- tween us. Then the door buzzed, and I went through the gate and across a short path flanked by clumps of small purple flowers up to the glass door, where another buzzer on a timer went off just as I reached it. The lobby was far too bright, and the mirrors lining its walls were far too revealing. If a 136

cop had seen me then, I would have been spread-eagled over the hood of his car in thirty seconds, and that without refer- ence to the gun. I looked haggard and dark and hunted and hollow-faced. The elevator was a long time coming. I turned left on the sixth floor and saw Susan at the end of the hall, standing in her doorway. She watched me coming toward her, and the closer I got, the more she frowned, and I knew my looks weren't improving as I got closer still. She stepped aside, and I stood nervously in the tiny foyer while she locked the door behind me. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top with her law firm's name printed in blue letters on the front. I remembered they gave them out after the 10K race they hold each year in downtown Miami. "I guess you did the corporate run again this year. July, wasn't it?" I said. She looked me over without approval. Her eyes lingered on my high-water bell-bottoms, the cuffs of which ended just under my calves. Then her eyes came up, and it was only then that I realized she'd been crying. "I ran in that race once," I continued. "It's a 10K, right? You may not believe it, but I think one time I ran seven- minute miles. Of course, I was lighter then." I smiled. Susan didn't. "How did you get out of Krome?" she asked. "I don't think you want me to tell you that." "Probably not. Otherwise I'd have to call the police." There was something a bit wrong with the way she said it. The tone was off, her voice far away from her words. She seemed distracted, enough so that the sight of me standing there in all my lack of glory was merely a mild annoyance, when in reality my just being in her place was a threat to her license to practice law. I had expected a tirade and then, if I was lucky, a little help, but not this red-eyed look of emo- tional distraction. 137

"What's wrong?" I asked. "It can't be me. I just got here." She looked at me for a long moment. I thought she was on the verge of throwing me out, but her face softened, and she smiled. "You know," she said, "strange as it may seem, I'm actu- ally happy to see you." "That may change." She came forward and hugged me around the shoulders. That's when I really started to get scared, so much so that I forgot to hug her back and just stood there like a column holding up the ceiling. Then I woke up and held her gently, her blond hair under my chin, and I felt my shirt get wet from her tears. If it weren't for the fact that I was already a fugitive, I would have run for the hills. Susan pulled away and looked down at my attire. "I won't ask where you got those clothes--and by the way, you need a bath. You smell like three nights in Central Park." "Sorry, but I've been having a strange evening. Listen to me, Susan. I'm not here. We're not talking right now. None of this is happening. Okay? The last time you saw me was this afternoon." "You busted out of Krome." "Right." "You're a complete ass. Come into the living room." There was nothing fancy about the room. Hardwood floors with a faded-out Persian rug under a lacquered coffee table with a glass top. A black sectional couch, an ottoman next to it, and a tall, healthy-looking ficus standing guard by the window; a fireplace with yellow roses instead of a fire; bookshelves free of all books save for a few lonely volumes crowded in one high corner like orphans huddled on a preci- pice. There was also a desk with a computer, a printer, and a small lamp, and next to that a treadmill facing the window. Even after a year, there were still unpacked boxes along 138

the walls. In my time I had seen many rooms like this one. It was the apartment of a young woman who worked long hours and was seldom at home. I went and sat down on the ottoman. There was so little give in the cushion that I may well have been its first customer. There was music playing, but it was turned down so low it sounded like a woman whis- pering to herself. Susan returned carrying a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses, which she handed to me before plopping down on the sofa. I poured us each a drink. I suppose I should have been happy that I wasn't her first problem of the night, but I was a little worried now that it seemed clear she wasn't angry at my having shown up. You know you've been living wrong when even simple hospitality scares you. "How come you're glad to see me?" I asked. "I'm not ex- actly helping your career by being here." "Fuck my career, all right?" "Mine, too." I raised my glass. She drained hers, and I poured her another. She took a sip and set the glass down. "You can't stay here," she said. "I don't intend to." "You've grown some since your mother bought you those pants." "They were on sale." "You lied to me this afternoon. Didn't you?" "The part I told you was true." "What about the part you didn't tell me? The part that made you break out of Krome when all you had to do was wait the weekend." "I know. I left out a couple of things." "This would be the time to put them back in." "The less you know, the better off you'll be," I told her. "Client-attorney confidentiality goes only so far." 139

"Does that mean you've committed a felony?" I hesitated for a moment. "Maybe. Maybe not." She started to say something, then stopped and stared at me with a look of puzzlement. "Why do you keep squirming around like that? You got some kind of rash or something?" The butt of the .45 had been digging into my groin, and no matter which way I sat, I couldn't get comfortable. Finally I gave up and just put the damned thing on the table. Susan stared down at the gun, then looked up at me. "Have you lost your mind? Where'd you get that thing from?" "I borrowed it from a friend. It was the only one he had." "You have to leave now," Susan said definitively. "Really, Jack, this is too much." She stood up. "Okay," I said. "I'll admit I'm in a little trouble. I did a favor for a friend, and it kind of backfired on me. I think they might be in trouble, too. I came here because I just needed to get inside someplace safe for a little while. Then I have to get back to the beach. I need a shave and a change of clothes. Then I'm going to try and set things right." "How? With that?" She pointed at the gun. "I hope not, but I'm dealing with some rough people." "Tell me one thing: Is this about drugs?" "No. Definitely not." "What then? You have to tell me something." "It's personal." "I'm your lawyer, remember?" "Maybe I should fire you. I'd be doing you a favor." I could see she was angry now. Whatever was bothering her hadn't added to her limited patience. "I need a lift back to my place. I've got to get some other clothes before I go look for Vivian." "Vivian? I thought she ditched you for a guy named Matson." 140

"She did." "What happened?" "She got herself into some trouble, and I tried to help her out. Matson ended up being a bit more of an asshole than I thought he was." "So did you. He was some kind of movie producer, wasn't he?" "That's right. He was." "What's this all about, Jack? You should have stayed at Krome." "I should have stayed in New York." "You can't go back to your apartment. For sure they'll have sent a man out there by now. You know how it works after that." "I know. Anyway, I have a few stops to make first." "Where do you think your little girlfriend is?" She gave the word girlfriend a nasty twist when she said it. "I'm not sure. Probably somewhere in South Beach." Susan sat staring at me, and judging by the expression on her face, I would say she considered me too far gone to reason with. She was right, but it wasn't just Vivian I'd be looking for. I would be looking for Williams, too. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head and made a half turn to her right so that her joints made a crack- ing sound. Even under those conditions it was hard not to notice the shape she was in. Her arms looked strong, but the triceps weren't straining to break the skin. Under her jeans the slight bulge of her quadriceps told me she had kept at the wind sprints I'd prescribed for her. Those and a weight workout once a week had been all those legs of hers had re- quired, that and trying to kick me upside the head whenever she had the chance. "What are you looking at?" she asked. "I did a good job on you." 141

"Let's go," she said. "I want you out of here in twenty minutes." "Where are we going?" "Come with me into the bedroom." "Thanks, but I don't have the time right now. How about a rain check?" Susan didn't dignify the remark with an answer. I stood up and followed her down the hallway. So great is the sensitivity of men that they will notice a woman's ass even on their way to lethal injection. I had always considered the fact that I'd never made a pass at Susan one of my great- est accomplishments as a human being. Now I was wonder- ing if I'd been ill. By the time I reached the bedroom, Susan was already standing before the open door of her closet. I glanced around the room. There wasn't much to look at. A red futon mattress against the wall, the sheets swirled and swept into a whirl- pool at the center of the bed. There was an old-style rock- ing chair that sat with the air of a departed mourner facing the louvered windows, and along the other wall there was a white dresser with framed photos across its entire length. Unpacked cardboard boxes lined white walls hung with a few diplomas and official-looking certificates, and every- where the air of loneliness kept at bay by a life of haste. Susan's place was not so much a home as it was a pit stop between the office and the car. It was hard to believe she had lived here for as long as she said. I watched as she tugged a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt from their hangers. She turned and tossed them to me without a word, as though she were throwing them out the window. I felt the anger coming off her, and mixed with that anger was something else, maybe frustra- tion. I caught the shirt and pants and laid them across my arm like a valet. 142

Without looking at me, Susan moved next to the dresser and began rummaging through a bottom drawer, and I began to think of the time when I'd had a drawer like that in Viv- ian's place and what that drawer had meant and what it had not meant. She came up holding a pair of briefs and a pair of white sweat socks and threw them my way with the air of a woman glad to be rid of things not her own, as though the clothes were visitors who had overstayed their welcome. I caught the briefs but bungled the socks. When I straightened up, she was looking at me, and when I looked at her, I could see that the tears were on their way back. "You can take a shower in there," she said, pointing at the door to the bathroom. The door was as white as the barren walls and blended into them like snow on snow. "Whose clothes are these?" I asked. "My boyfriend's. Ex-boyfriend, I should say." "Your boyfriend?" "A lawyer at the Justice Department. About a week ago, he stopped calling. Turns out he forgot to tell me he was married." "How'd you find out?" "His wife was nice enough to call me. Just about an hour ago. Now you show up. Just take your shower and go, all right? I've had enough of men for one night." I started to say that I knew that and to thank her for her trouble, but she had already turned her back and was closing the door to the bedroom behind her. I showered with a soap that smelled of fresh-cut flowers and used two pink razors to scrape the hard days from my face and neck. I wiped the steam from the mirror and was glad to see I no longer looked quite as insane, but instead like a man who only needed a week or two of sleep. Then I went into the bedroom again and began to get dressed. Ev- erything fit except for the pants, which were a little wide in 143