Under Cover of Daylight (12 page)

“These guys, Gray. I’ve got till Saturday.” Pleading now. He had her. Or maybe not; she wasn’t dead sure. But she’d try this anyway.

One of the construction guys next door had turned a radio way up, letting the neighborhood hear the Beatles doing “Yellow Submarine.” The racket of hammers maybe falling in a little with the beat. “And our friends are all aboard!”

“I’ll find my way out,” he said. “And oh, by the way, I was awfully sorry to hear about your mother.”

At the door he wasn’t mad anymore, a dippy smile. A wink.

I
RVING
M
C
M
ANN SAT
in a golf cart on the fourteenth green. Milburn in his own golf cart, glancing up at the stars printed in a clear sky.

“Fucking mosquitoes, Irv. I’m going in.”

“Not yet.”

Milburn mashed another one on his forehead, like he’d just solved a burning problem. Waved others away from his ears.

“We can talk inside, Irv, please. This business, talking out here, afraid the condo is bugged, this is melodramatic horseshit. We’re in bugs up to our asses out here.” Milburn laughed.

“Shut up.” Irv took a slug from his flask.

“Give me some of that, at least.”

Irv slipped the flask into a pocket flap in the cart.

Milburn swatted more mosquitoes, banging his ear and cursing.

“This bitch,” said Irv. “First we give her the budget plate; then I agree to take half up front ’cause she’s a friend or something of Grayson. I figured what the hell. But it’s no way to do business, whining now that she doesn’t have the other half yet.”

“So you fucked up. Let’s just wet her and write off the loss.”

“Maybe we will,” Irv said. “Or maybe not.”

“Aw, shit, I’m going in. I can’t take these fucking suckers.”

Irv placed his shiny little .32 on the dash of his golf cart. “We’re having a business conversation,” he said. “You don’t walk away from business conferences.”

Milburn stopped thrashing at the mosquitoes, stared at Irv.

“Jesus H. Christ, Irv. Where do you get all this stuff? We’re out here talking, and I’m donating blood to the environment and you tell me you’re going to shoot me if I don’t stay. And fuck if I don’t believe you would and just roll me into a sand trap and that’s it.” Milburn slapped his neck, his arm, his neck again, fanned his hand around his head. “You with all your goddamn garlic, you could sit in the middle of the Everglades and nothing’s going to take a taste of you. Maybe a dago mosquito.”

“We have a decision to make,” Irv said, raising the .32 and sighting it at the sliver of moon. The case against Milburn moving into the final stages.

“I got my own blood all over my hand, my shirt, these black, greasy little fuckers.” Milburn wriggled a finger under the corner of his eye patch and scratched at the bandage. “And this eye. It’s fucking killing me.”

“Take some more drugs.”

“There aren’t enough drugs in Florida to make this fucker quit.”

“I told you, jerkhole, you should’ve had the thing out. The doctor’s standing there practically promising you you’ll die of infection if you don’t. And you’re whimpering for him just to do whatever he can short of taking it out. Man, it was fucking embarrassing.”

“It’ll fix itself. If I can stand the goddamn pain, I know it’ll fix itself.”

“If you can forget your fucking eye for a fucking minute,” Irv said, “there’s a major business possibility here. I see a small window of opportunity that’s opened up, and we’re either going to keep on with status quo or get in that goddamn window now.”

“Tell me. Get it over. I just as soon you shoot me as take much more of this shit.”

“That old lady, the boat lady.”

Milburn brushed mosquitoes from his arm, twisted to scratch at his shoulder blade.

Irv said, sighting the .32 at the flag on the fourteenth hole, “This old lady. You wonder why an old lady like that is dead now? Huh? Like why her own little girl wants her button pressed? Inheritance? That’s OK. Nothing unusual there. But what’s Grayson got in this? This is a guy from Ivy League country, business tycoon. This guy has bucks, so if some boat captain needs to be dead to make him happy, then somewhere there’s a lot of money changing hands. This guy is not going to risk getting shit spattered on his suit unless there’s a whole duffel bag of cash changing locations.”

Milburn moaned, slashing at more mosquitoes. Irving panned the pistol around slowly until it was staring at Milburn.

“Shut up, Milburn.”

“OK, I’m just shutting up and letting you say whatever it is that’s so fucking important I got to bleed to death to hear it. I got to get malaria and hookworm and who knows what else so I can hear it out here. The great plan, the great next step. Go on.”

Irv nudged his golf cart forward, circled around Milburn once, twice. Came to a stop beside him. Their carts parked parallel, an inch or two apart.

Irv clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back to look up at the stars. He could feel Milburn shivering in the dark beside him. Had him on the run again, or on the waddle anyway. Not even much fun in it anymore.

“Know what I like about you, Milburn?”

“Yeah.” Shiver, shiver.

“Yeah,” said Irv. “Not a goddamn thing.”

“Maybe we should dissolve.”

“
You
should dissolve,” Irv said.

“OK, I will.” Milburn budged his cart ahead, but Irv cut him off in less than a yard.

“Here’s what I think we should do,” Irv said, his hand on Milburn’s steering wheel. “I think we should cruise down to Key West Saturday. Take the Scarab. Pay some calls. Sniff the wind, wet our finger, and put it up in the air. Just see what it is some old lady boat person has to die about. See our bitch employer, check her assets, pay some visits. Do some undercover shit. Costumes. You know, run some goofs.”

“What’s the point, Irv? For a lousy three thousand. Who cares?”

“I’m not talking about three thousand,” he said. “Mr. IQ, don’t you listen ever? I said I’m thinking of crawling through this window of opportunity, get out of the liquidation business for a while, just check the want ads, see who’s hiring. Move up to leading man, that sort of thing.”

“OK, Irv,” Milburn said, sweeping mosquitoes from his arms, his other hand brushing across his shoulders. “Whatever the fuck you want, man, it sounds good to me.”

“Oh, I’m just so thrilled,” cooed Irv, Scarlett O’Hara, southern fag. He floored his golf cart and spun around Milburn, around and around. “I just can’t tell you how my heart spills over with pleasure knowing I have pleased my wonderful pal.” Around and around.

Everybody else in Coral Gables, in practically all of Miami, was putting up bars, lacy steel grillwork over windows, caging in porches, keeping the family silver safe, and color TV sets. But Sarah’s mother was still oblivious, front porch was still bare, windows still vulnerable. Her damn front door was even unlocked.

Sarah stepped into the foyer and could hear the TV going in the den. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. They were watching it for the second time since Christmas that year. Second time she knew of. Sarah’s mother and Father Monahan of the Church of the Little Flower, old friends, they got together to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
every time one of them spotted it in the
TV Guide
.

Sarah thinking, Oh, shit, not tonight.

It was quarter till ten, fifteen minutes left, so Jimmy Stewart knew by now he was alive, and now he realized how his sugarcoated little town would have looked if he’d never been alive, and he’s hurrying home through the snow to hug his wife, kiss his children, make amends, accept whatever pains are still his due. And the town is all gathered in his living room, about to pay off his debt for him, and Sarah stepped into the den.

Father Monahan turned his head and glanced back at her, slick ribbons running down his cheeks. He nodded to her and smiled and opened his arms for a kiss, one hand holding his brandy snifter. She might have been a burglar, anybody, and Father Monahan probably would have done the same.

Her mother looked at the priest, then turned and saw Sarah standing there next to the dictionary stand and the Boston fern.

Her mother said, “Wait till the commercial.” She had tear trails, too.

Sarah knew she should just walk. Give Father M’s hand a squeeze and just go. Get out of that room before she strangled on her mother’s perfume, go back to her apartment and think this out. Just as the malignant bank president appears in Jimmy Stewart’s living room, the commercial breaks in. Some young lawyer with his shirt sleeves rolled up, asking them if they’ve ever been hurt through someone else’s negligence. One of Sarah’s colleagues, a fellow seeker of justice. Give these guys a little more time, and they’d come on the screen riding alligators or strapped to the fuselages of biplanes.

Sarah came around in front of their chairs and turned down the sound. Father Monahan wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his black coat while her mother blew her nose. Sarah stood there watching these two with the color TV light the only light in the room, the greens and blues playing on their faces. A ceramic bowl half full of popcorn on the table between them.

“How are you, Sarah? It’s been months,” the priest said.

“I’m not good,” said Sarah.

Her mother craned to watch the TV around Sarah’s body.

“What is it, child? You look terrible.” Father Monahan put his brandy snifter on the side table and moved to pull himself up out of the recliner. Sarah held up her hands to keep him put. She didn’t need that, a hug from the family priest. He caught himself and eased back in the chair.

“Mother,” Sarah said. “Mother.”

Her mother cut her eyes briefly to Sarah’s, and she could see how angry her mother was at this interruption.

“Kate Truman was murdered,” Sarah said.

“My God,” Father Monahan said. “This is your friend?”

“Yes,” she said, “more than a friend.” Still looking at her mother.

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” her mother said. “Didn’t I warn you about something exactly like this?”

“I should go,” Father Monahan said, and began to rise again. But Mrs. James put her hand on his arm and kept him there.

“The movie’s not over,” she said.

“If you’d like me to stay, Sarah,” he said. “You need a good ear, or anything?”

Her mother said, “This Kate Truman is just an acquaintance of hers. A radical down in Key Largo, protesting things.”

“She was a lot more than an acquaintance, Mother, you know that. And she was murdered. I got a call just now. I’m going down tomorrow, and I may have to be there for a while, I don’t know. But I came over here tonight to tell you where I’d be and because I ...”

“Because you’re upset,” Father Monahan said, and tried again to stand, but Sarah’s mother put her hand on his shoulder, held him down.

“We’ll talk about this,” her mother said, “if we must,
after
the movie. In a few minutes.”

Sarah said to Father Monahan, “I’m all right. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just go.”

“No, no, I insist.” Father Monahan pushed himself to his feet and moved to the TV and punched it off. He took Sarah’s hand and peered through the dark into her face.

Sarah’s mother aimed the remote gun at the set and switched it back on. The town was all talking at once in Jimmy Stewart’s living room. Donna Reed and the children were all smiling; Jimmy Stewart was shaking his head, amazed at everything. Happy as no man on earth had ever been before.

She used the remote switch to turn down the sound, and said, “He knows about your going down there, about your fantasy. Dallas didn’t have an accident. Dallas was kidnapped. Dallas was murdered. He’s heard it, Sarah, and he has some thoughts on the subject.” She turned to the priest. “I think you ought to tell her what you told me, Bryan.”

“Now, now,” Father Monahan said. “Sarah’s had a shock. She’s grieving.”

“Father Monahan thinks you should see a counselor, a trained psychologist. Don’t you, Bryan?”

He sighed.

Sarah’s mother watched the TV intently as a hat full of money was set in front of Jimmy Stewart, more than enough to pay off his debts. What was the message here? Sarah wondered, as the three of them watched the movie end and the ten o’clock news update come on. Die and come back to cash in? If Sarah died right now, it would be just these two passing the hat for her. Some consolation that was.

“Father Monahan says this is neurotic, hanging on to Dallas like this, denial, trying to keep him alive, pretending someone murdered him. Living this fantasy life. He’s seen this sort of thing before. Didn’t you say that, Bryan?”

Father Monahan switched on a desk lamp, turned, and gave Sarah what he meant to be a sympathetic look. But Sarah saw now he was drunk. Face red, eyes not fastening tight to anything. Mouth open. It’d been happening more and more in the last year or two as the parish had grown increasingly Cuban and the pressure was growing to hold services in Spanish. His time was nearly up.

“Mother, what are you trying to do?”

Her mother kept her eyes on the news show, and said, “Am I going to have to die before you’ll take any interest in me?”

“Oh, God,” Sarah said.

“Now, now,” said Father Monahan. “Now, now.” Sarah caught the priest taking a wistful look at his brandy glass on the table.

“It wasn’t Dallas that died,” her mother said. “It was me, wasn’t it? I was in that car. Your father, he’s more alive than he ever was. And I’m sitting here and I’m the one that’s dead.”

Her mother wouldn’t look at her. Sarah came over and stood in front of the TV, close enough to kick her mother’s shins.

“I agree with Father Monahan,” her mother said. “You need help. Professional help.”

The priest sat back down in the recliner, swilled the rest of his brandy. Stared down into the empty glass.

“Look,” Sarah said. She turned and flattened the power button on the TV. “It’s not a fantasy. It’s not a delusion. I’ve met the guy that killed Daddy. I know him. I see him every time I’m down there. I have everything but a confession, and I’m very, very close to that.”