Pressure Drop (18 page)

Minns took a sip, almost dainty. “Ah,” he said, sitting back and folding his hands on his hard potbelly.

“How many hours did you give him exactly?”

“Hours?”

“The Hiram guy.”

“Oh.” Minns smiled. The crafty look reappeared, slightly lopsided now. “I gave him a pool checkout.”

“One pool checkout?”

“Yeah. But a long one. Plenty long for him—he didn't like the water much. I'd say an hour and a half, easy. Three hundred bills, quick and dirty. Plus a little theory in their room, after. Funny thing, he really knew the theory. Without being told, I mean. Narcosis, embolism, partial pressures, they knew it all.”

“They?”

“Him and his pal. A little frog, or something. They had a room at the Tangiers. Not far from here, and they got a pool.”

“Frog?”

“French dude.”

“What made you think he was French?”

“I saw his passport. It was lying on the table and it said France on it. I don't miss much, Mister—what did you say your name was again?”

“Nero. Howie Nero.”

“Nice to meet you, Howie.” Minns stuck his hand out across the table. Matthias had to shake it again.

“Since you don't miss much,” Matthias said, “did you happen to get his name?”

“Whose?”

“The Frenchman's.”

Wendell Minns thought. He actually closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. “What's that cat?” he asked.

“Cat?”

Minns' eyes opened, but his brow remained furrowed. “In the cartoons. With a funny name.”

“Garfield?”

Minns shook his head impatiently. “Nah. Before that. Way before that.”

“Sylvester?”

“Who's Sylvester?”

“A cartoon cat. With Tweety, the bird.”

“Oh, yeah. He's always trying to get into the cage. I like that one.”

“So that was the name?”

“What?”

“Sylvester?”

“Nah. This cat don't look nothin' like Sylvester. Smaller, and not so hairy.”

“Not so hairy?”

“Skinnier, maybe. And older.”

“Older?”

“Like he came first, you know?”

“Do you mean he was a character from earlier cartoons?”

“Yeah.”

“Felix? Felix the Cat?”

Wendell Minns slammed his palm on the table. “Felix! Felix the Cat! Bingo!” Minns picked up his mug and took a big pull, as though he'd earned it.

“So Hiram's friend was named Felix?”

Minns put his mug back on the table, carefully superimposing it on the previous condensation ring. “That's what I just tole you, i'n' it?”

“Felix what?”

“Huh?”

“What was Felix's last name?”

Minns blinked. “The Cat, right?”

“The other Felix. Hiram's friend.”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Then how do you know his first name was Felix?”

“Jesus Christ. Because that's what the other fella called him. He'd say, ‘Felix, can you give me a hand with this.' And shit like that.”

“A hand with what?”

“Like putting on the equipment. Beside the pool. The little guy knew something about diving. He knew the gear.” Minns leaned forward again. “He had that frog passport and shit, but you know what?”

“What?”

“He looked like a kike to me. Like one of those kike lawyers down to Miami.” Minns thought for a moment. “But what kind of kike got a name like Felix, right?”

“Mendelssohn, for one.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Do you have any idea why Hiram wanted his card so quickly?”

“Sure. So's he could rent tanks on his trip. I already told you that.”

“So you think it might have been a sudden trip?”

“Huh?”

“Did they talk about the trip at all?”

“Nope.”

“They didn't mention where they were going?”

“Nope.”

“Or talk about the kind of diving they would be doing?”

Minns, mug halfway to his mouth, paused. “I don't know about that.”

“What do you mean?”

Minns brought the mug to his mouth and drained what was left. “Shit, this is good beer.”

Matthias ordered another. He didn't bother ordering one for himself and Minns didn't notice. “What kind of diving were they talking about?”

“Deep diving.”

“How deep?”

“Deep. The little guy kept asking me how deep you can go with scuba, what the record was, all that shit.”

“What did you tell them?”

“What I tell everyone—only an asshole goes deeper than one-fifty.”

“Good advice. How deep did they want to go?”

“Search me.”

“But you told them that anyone with just an hour in the pool had no business going anywhere near one-fifty.”

“An hour and a
half
,” Minns said. His eyes were red now, and Matthias found himself wondering if Minns was armed. “An hour and a fucking half,” he said, thrusting his face forward into the green light and crinkling his eyes, approaching once more the mammalian-reptilian border.

“First-rate,” Matthias told him, meeting his stare.

“First-rate?”

“Instruction,” Matthias explained.

Minns averted his eyes. “Gotta piss,” he said. Minns pushed himself to his feet and moved carefully to the back of the restaurant and out of sight.

Matthias didn't wait for his return. He paid the bill, rose and walked to the door. That meant passing the bar, where the prostitute sat on the last stool. The Shirelles were singing “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” The woman raked her fingernail lightly on Matthias's wrist as he went by.

“You busy this afternoon?” she asked.

“Afraid so.”

“That's too bad. You're a big good-looking man. I could give you the special rate—twenty bucks.”

“I'll have to pass.”

She held on to his arm. “Fifteen bucks. And I'll be quick, if you're really in a rush. I'll have you up and down in two minutes. Money back if I don't.”

“Sounds inviting,” Matthias said. “But not today.” He freed himself and went outside. He took a deep breath. He had always liked the Shirelles and he wouldn't let his lunch at Al's change that.

The Hotel Tangiers was less than a mile from the restaurant. At one time, some of the rooms might have had an ocean view: now newer, bigger hotels had squeezed themselves into the space between the Tangiers and the beach, blocking off all but the occasional narrow vertical of blue.

Matthias entered the lobby. It was small, barely accommodating the registration desk, the two old men playing gin rummy and the dead rubber plant that bent over their heads. Matthias walked up to the desk and rang the bell.

The gin players sighed. One of them got to his feet, shuffled across the room, through the waist-level swinging door and behind the registration desk. He was short, with a bald head, pink and peeling from the sun, and pale watery eyes that were almost colorless.

“You want a room, Mister?”

“No. I'm looking for somebody.”

The little man raised his voice and said to the other card player, “He doesn't want a room. He's looking for somebody.” But there was no answer: his partner had fallen asleep, cards splayed open on his lap.

“He's not here now,” Matthias said.

“He's looking for somebody who's not here,” the man called across the lobby.

“But he might have been here on September first of last year. And I'd like to check your register.”

The man sniffed. “You're from the police maybe?”

“No.”

“So. Mister. You don't want a room, you're not from the police and you're looking for somebody.”

“You've got it.”

“I've got it, he says,” said the old man to the other old man, who made no response. “What somebody?”

“A man named Felix.”

“Felix. I don't know any Felix. Does this Felix have a last name?”

The old man had a scrawny neck that Matthias's hands would have fit around easily. Matthias wiped that image from his mind and said: “That's the problem. He's got several. So that won't be a help. But he always uses Felix. Because he was named after Felix the Cat, see?”

The old man's eyes brightened. “He was named after Felix the Cat?”

“Right. And he likes the image. So if I could just have a peek at the register …”

“You would know what, exactly?”

“Whether he stayed here.”

“But that was a long time ago.”

“Right. But it's a crucial piece of the puzzle.”

“What is this puzzle?”

“How to get him to pay the money he owes me.”

The old man grinned, revealing three teeth, two on top, one on the bottom. “I thought so,” he said. “That, or how to get your wife back.”

“You're very shrewd.” That had been Matthias's other thought too.

“So, how much are we talking about?”

“Enough.”

“Six figures maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Six figures.” The old man lingered over the phrase as though it were a snatch of beautiful poetry. “That's a lot of money.”

“It is.”

“So maybe this service I might be willing and able to provide for you …”

Matthias took out a ten-dollar bill.

“Twenty's better.”

Matthias added a five. “So's fifteen.”

“Six figures,” the man called across the room, “and he makes a tsimmes over five dollars.” But he accepted the money and showed Matthias the register.

Matthias turned back the pages fourteen months to the previous September 1. Only one person had checked in that day: H. Standish, Room 109.

“H isn't for Felix,” said the old man, shoving the money deep in his pocket, in case their deal was going sour.

“I'd like to have a look at one-oh-nine,” Matthias said.

“A look at one-oh-nine.”

“To get a mental picture.”

“A mental picture. I can tell it to you, a mental picture. Two double beds. Color TV. Sliding door to the pool. Got the mental picture?”

“Yeah, but it couldn't hurt to see it.”

The little man shrugged. “Okay. You're a nice guy. A nice guy with a problem. You want to see? You'll see.” He opened the swinging door and led Matthias down a poorly lit hall. Through a closed door, Matthias heard a TV voice say: “He was killed with an ice pick in Mexico City.”

Ahead of Matthias, the old man muttered, “Who was Trotsky.”

On TV, a woman said: “Who was Nanook of the North?”

“Remember,” said the first TV voice, “the category is ‘Reds.'”

“Feh,” said the old man. He took out a key and opened 109. “One of our nicest rooms.”

Room 109 was just as he had described, except for the plasticized yellow curtains covering the sliding door. Matthias pushed them aside, slid open the door and walked out to the pool. It probably could have fit inside Room 109: too small for swimming, too shallow for scuba instruction. Matthias knelt and dipped his hand in the water. It was cold. “There must have been two men in one-oh-nine.”

“So? Am I the vice squad?”

“That's not what I'm suggesting. I just wonder if you remember them at all. They had a scuba diving lesson in this pool.”

“Are you kidding?” the old man asked. “My memory's shot. I can't even count the cards anymore.”

“You remembered Trotsky.”

The old man showed his three teeth. “That was a long time ago. A long time ago I remember. It's not so long ago I have trouble with.”

“Here,” Matthias said, handing him a Zombie Bay Club card. “In case Felix's last name ever comes back to you.”

“It wasn't there in the first place,” the old man said, but he put the card in the pocket with the ten and the five.

Matthias followed him around the pool and into the lobby through another entrance. “Thanks,” he said, opening the door to the street.

“Don't mention it,” the old man replied, going behind the registration desk.

The door hadn't quite closed when Matthias heard the old man's partner say, “You should have held out for the twenty, putz.”

Danny was waiting near one of the Bahamasair counters at the airport. He wasn't wearing his orange sunglasses; Matthias could see his troubled eyes and the dark circles under them. He also saw that the boy had grown, and not just taller: his shoulders had broadened and muscle had begun to swell his chest. Matthias felt an urge to embrace him, but he held back. Shaking hands would be stupid, so he didn't do that either, and so no physical contact was made. Thanksgiving vacation: father and son. Matthias said: “Hi, Danny. Where's your mother?”

“She got tired of waiting.” Danny's voice was changing too.

They boarded the plane. They had it almost to themselves. Danny looked out the window, watching the Florida coast slip away. “Are you going to talk about it?” Matthias asked.

“About what?”

“What's bothering you.”

“Everything.”

“Like what?”

“Mom. Howie. Tucker.”

“Who's Tucker?”

“Howie's kid.”

“I didn't know Howie had a kid. How old is he?”

“A year older than me. Mr. Wonderful.”

“Mr. Wonderful?”

Danny didn't reply. The plane rose. The sun set. Florida vanished in a purple glow, and then the sea. Danny started crying, silently. “What is it, Danny?” Matthias said. “Did Howie do something to you?” He felt the awakening of a killing rage inside.

“No!” Danny said. “It's nothing like that.”

Matthias regretted his question at once. “Then what is it?” He thought of putting his hand on Danny's knee. Danny's leg moved away. Matthias said nothing further.

The plane had begun its descent when Danny said: “It's like that fucking fax machine.”