the Big Bounce (1969) (15 page)

This is all there is to it. Fourteen cabanas

Cabanas?

That's what he calls them. And the motel.

Who's he?

Mr. Majestyk.

Oh, the one you were with at the Pier?

That's right.

Where does he live?

In a house. Around the other side of Number One.

Show me.

It's just a house.

A beam of light spread out from the bole of a fir tree to flood Mr. Majestyk's garden, illuminating the neatly trimmed shrubbery and border of white-painted rocks, the pale clean trunks of birch trees, the pair of flamingoes feeding beneath the birdhouse.

Beautiful,
Nancy whispered. They were crossing the lawn in the darkness beyond the spotlight.

He's home,
Ryan said. He's probably watching television.

I'm sure he is,
Nancy said. I love the lamp in the window.

His daughter decorated the place for him.

I want to see it.

They were nearing the far edge of the lawn and now Nancy started toward the house, approaching the dark side that faced the empty field. A window was open, showing a square of rose-colored light through the screen.

Ryan caught her arm. The door's on the other side.

I don't want to go in.

She pulled away from him and there was nothing he could do but follow her to the window. He stood next to her, against the wall, as she looked in.

Mr. Majestyk was in his reclining chair facing the television set. He was watching a Western movie, watching intently, with a can of beer and a cigar. He would lean forward to take a sip of beer, his eyes holding on the screen, and the back of the Recline-O-Rama chair would rise with him, following him to an upright position. Dragging on the cigar, he would lean back again, pushing, bumping hard against the chair, and both Mr. Majestyk and the chair would settle back again.

Wow,
Nancy said.

Ryan could hear the movie dialogue, a familiar voice, a quiet, Western drawl, then a woman's voice. He recognized the drawl; he knew it right away. He edged close to the window and looked in, across the room, past Mr. Majestyk to Randolph Scott in the good hat that was curled just right in front. He couldn't remember who the woman was, not bad-looking but sort of old. She sounded tired, like she had given up, saying she didn't care what happened to her. Then Randolph Scott saying, When you get done feeling sorry for yourself, I'll tell you something . . . you're alive and he's dead and that makes the difference.

I love purple and silver,
Nancy whispered. And lavender.

He had seen the picture before. He remembered it now, a good one. Richard Boone was the bad guy. He and a couple of others hold up the stage and take Randolph and the woman and her husband prisoner, holding them for ransom because the woman's dad was rich. The husband's a coward and gets shot and you know they're going to shoot Randolph and the woman once they get the dough, unless Randolph does something.

The pictures,
Nancy said. Those are the authentic dime store reproductions I was telling you about.

Shhh.

With white imitation antiqued frames. Beautiful.

Mr. Majestyk and his chair sat up. He twisted around, looking over his shoulder, listening, and they ducked away from the window.

There was silence. Ryan stood in the dark with his back to the wall. He heard horses inside, the sound of their hooves fading away. There was no music or dialogue now. Something was about to happen. Maybe the part where Randolph goes in the cave after the guy named Billy Jack that was a good part the guy in there after the woman while his buddies are away. Randolph sneaks up behind Billy Jack and is about to belt him when Billy Jack turns and you think right away there's going to be a fight; but, no, Randolph jams the sawed-off shotgun under Billy Jack's chin and wham the guy's face disappears quick, the way it would happen, without one of those fakey fights.

Nancy was looking in the window again. Beautiful,
she whispered and giggled.

Let's go,
Ryan said.

Just a minute.

He's going to hear you.

Wham, the shotgun went off and Ryan looked in. Yeah, that was the part. Randolph had the sawed-off shotgun now and the babe was holding her hands over her mouth, probably wetting her pants.

God, where do you suppose he buys his furniture?

Come on, let's go.

You have to see it to believe it. The lamp in the picture window

Come on.
w
ith the cellophane on the shade. Hey, did you hear the one do you know who won the Polish beauty contest?

Ryan shook his head, pretending to be patient, letting her talk.

Nobody,
Nancy said.

She laughed out loud and Mr. Majestyk twisted around in the chair, rolling out of it as the back popped straight up. He started for the window but turned abruptly and hurried across the room and through the double doors to the porch.

He's coming,
Ryan said. On the other side of the house the screen door slammed.

Nancy was looking in the window again. You're right. I think it's time to cut.

Wait a minute

Before he could reach out for her, she was across the narrow space of lawn and into the field, into the darkness of the heavy brush, out of sight. For a moment he could follow her sound. He wanted to get out of there quick, go after her. But he hesitated. He waited. When he moved off, it was around to the front of the house. Mr. Majestyk was coming through the illuminated garden, past the two flamingoes.

Hey, was that you?

What?

Somebody laughing.

What do you mean?
Ryan said.

I mean, somebody laughing. What do you think I mean?

Maybe somebody on the beach.

Christ, it was like right outside the window.

I don't know, I didn't hear anything.

Mr. Majestyk was staring at him. You come around from that side, you didn't hear anything?

I was taking a walk.

You can't hear when you're walking?

I didn't hear anything. How many times do I have to tell you?

You didn't see a girl? It sounded like a broad laughing.

I didn't see any girl or anybody.

I don't know,
Mr. Majestyk said. Maybe it's me. Maybe I should get my goddamn ears checked.
That seemed to end it. Mr. Majestyk paused, about to turn and go back inside. He looked at Ryan again. Hey, you want to see a good movie?

I saw it,
Ryan said.

As he heard himself and saw Mr. Majestyk frown he wanted to keep talking, but there wasn't anything to say and a little silence hung there between them.

How do you know you saw it?

I was walking by, I heard the TV. I remembered, you know, it sounded familiar. What they were saying. It's a Western, isn't it? Randolph Scott?

You hear a TV inside somebody's house,
Mr. Majestyk said, but you don't hear somebody laughing outside, right where you're at?

I didn't hear anybody. You want me to write it down and sign it, for Christ sake?

Take it easy.

Your ass, take it easy. You believe me or not?

Forget it.

I don't forget it, you're calling me a liar and I don't like it.

Hey, come on I haven't called you anything.

Ryan stood facing him. You believe me or not?

Okay, I believe you,
Mr. Majestyk said. You want me to write it down and sign it?

Forget it,
Ryan said. He walked past Mr. Majestyk, out of the light into darkness.

If Jackie didn't follow her the beach way, Nancy decided, he would come over in the car, race over to arrive before she did, and be waiting with some nifty remark like, Where you been?
From then on all his moves would be toward the bedroom. Naturally. If a girl asked you to steal $50,000 with her, she wasn't going to say no to falling into bed, for God sake. Ryan would think that way and there was no reason he shouldn't. Nancy looked at it as part of the plot, the romantic portion of The Great Cucumber Payroll Robbery. Or, Nancy and Jack at the Seashore. Though it was really a lake. Or, Two Mixed-Up Kids Trying to Make Out. They would make out. Nancy was reasonably sure of that. But if anything did happen, Ryan would be left with the bag and she would deny, if she had to, ever having seen him before. That part, if it ever happened, would be called Tough Bananas, Charlie. Or, Some You Win and Some You Lose.

It would be too bad if it happened, because she liked Jack Ryan. She liked his looks. She liked his face and his eyes and the smooth, tan leanness of him. She liked the way he stood with his hands on his hips, a little phony but not too phony. She liked the quiet way he talked and some of the dry things he said. It was too bad Jack wasn't Ray. If Jack Ryan were Ray Ritchie, the whole view of her situation would be different. It didn't mean she would stay with Ryan forever, she would have to think about the future; but at least the present would be more fun. It really was too bad Jack wasn't Ray. It was too bad all the Ryans and the Ritchies in the world couldn't trade places.

When she got home, she would turn on one lamp and the record player and watch Jackie lead up to it. He would probably be very quiet and move slowly but not waste much time, either. Maybe they should go for a swim first, with nothing on: the ultimate test of how poised he really was.

Nancy climbed the stairs to the front lawn. The pool did look sexy with the underwater lights turning the water green. If she knew for sure he was here watching, she could give him a little preview before the main feature. There were no lights on in the living room. Of course not, he'd be sitting on the couch in the dark, with a good view of the front lawn and the pool, going over his nifty remark and the way he'd say it. He could be watching her right now.

He was watching her; she could feel it.

Nancy walked to the edge of the pool. She took off her sneakers and dipped one foot into the water. She peeled off the tan sweater and shook her hair. She unbuttoned her blouse and felt the water again with her toes, taking her time. He would be on the edge of the couch now. As she took the blouse off he would see she wasn't wearing a bra and that would bring him out of his seat. Okay, Jackie, Nancy thought, get ready. She unbuttoned her shorts and peeled to bare hips. Give him a little, Nancy thought. She turned slowly toward the house with her hands on her hips. She turned back, just as slowly, and dove in.

She swam across the pool underwater, came up, went down again, and pushed off against the side. In the middle of the pool she came to the surface and swam to the deep end with slow, easy strokes. To the shallow end and back would give him time to come down to the pool. She made her turn and stroked leisurely toward the diving board and now saw the figure coming out from the house, out of the deep shadow of the patio. She dove underwater, giving him time to reach the edge, and came up breaking the water smoothly, seeing the beer case he was carrying at his side, wondering why he had brought out a whole case of beer and realizing in the same moment that it wasn't Jack Ryan, that it was a man she had never seen before, a dark figure standing now at the edge of darkness, the lights of the swimming pool reflecting on his sunglasses.

Hey, come out of there.
Frank Pizarro grinned. I got something for you.

Nancy stared up at him, one hand on the pool edge. Get out,
she said.

Listen, don't yell or scream or nothing, okay?

Mr. Ritchie has private police who come by here and I think it's just about time

They come see you swimming like that, uh? Goddamn,
Pizarro said. I don't blame them.

Tell me what you want,
Nancy said. And then leave.

I got something to sell you.

You're trespassing,
Nancy said. You're wasting your time and mine and if you're still here when the police come, you're going to have a very hard time explaining it. They'll arrest you and put you in jail without asking questions. Just your being here will be enough to convict you.

Pizarro waited patiently. It's wallets,
he said.

What?

It's wallets. I got some wallets I sell you for five hunnert dollar.

Nancy hesitated. He could be high on something or he could be psycho. She said quietly, I don't need a wallet, so will you go, please?

Pizarro shrugged. It's okay. You don't want these wallets, then I got to take them to the goddamn police.
He set the beer case close to the edge and kneeled on it, hunching down closer to her. These wallets come from a place that was robbed. You understand?

She had decided there was no sense in trying to understand him; but she wasn't sure what to say to threaten him, to make him leave. She said, Yes, you should take them to the police. They'll appreciate your help.

Sure,
Pizarro said, I can tell them who stole the wallets. Or I can leave the case somewhere the police will find it. With the name of the person written down inside.
Pizarro watched her. You know what I mean?

I know the private police should be here any minute

Hey,
Pizarro said. No more bullshit about the private police, all right? I been here three hours waiting and this private police you got never come by.
Pizarro grinned, trying to see her clearly through the distortion of the water. Come out of there, okay,
he said. So I can tell you something.