Cinderella

9

Ernesto figured what they should do first thing this morning was start spreading the word around. This was Monday already, they’d been here in Calusa four days already, this was ridiculous. They had contacted this Martin Klement person at his Springtime restaurant, just the way Amaros had told them to, but they hadn’t heard anything from him since, so what they had to do now was let the word out they were looking to score. Ernesto figured unless the girl was a pro, she wouldn’t know how to get rid of four keys of coke, she’d be looking for buyers.

“She’ll be shopping around looking for a buyer, am I right?” he said to Domingo. He said this in Spanish. Whenever the two were alone together, they spoke Spanish.

Domingo said, “Maybe she plans to snort the whole four keys all by herself.”

Ernesto said, “That isn’t why a person steals four keys of coke, to snort them. A person steals four keys to sell them is what a person does.”

Domingo said, “Maybe, but even so I think it’s risky to say we’re looking for big cocaine. We don’t know what the narcotics situation is here in Calusa.”

It looked to him like a very clean town on the surface, but in Spanish there was a proverb that said, Las apariencias engañan. In English, this meant, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Domingo didn’t know what was going on here in the city of Calusa, Florida. Perhaps it was a very strict town, policewise, in which case they could find the Law on their motel doorstep if word got around that they were looking to buy dope in quantity.

On the other hand, it could very well be the kind of town where you could buy four keys of coke right on Main Street, in which case somebody already had the trade nailed down and they might not like the idea of two Miami Beach dudes strolling in talking a big dope deal.

“These are all things to be considered,” Domingo said, “if a person is interested in staying alive and staying out of jail.”

Actually, the most recent figures from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement didn’t mention anything about narcotics in Calusa County or in the city of Calusa itself. It reported that the crime rate in the entire state of Florida had begun to climb again only recently, after two years of decline, and it defined “crime rate” as the number of “serious” crimes committed per 100,000 people. Serious crimes included murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, larceny, and motor vehicle theft. Selling four keys of cocaine on Main Street either wasn’t a serious crime or else the FDLE had no figures on it. In any case, there were 13,236 serious crimes committed in Calusa County in the year just past, an increase of 11 percent over the 11,928 reported during the year before that. Sixteen murders, most of them involving people who knew each other, had been committed in the county during the past year. Rapes went up from 97 to 127. There were similar increases in every category except auto thefts.

Calusa County Sheriff Alan Huxtable said that rapid population growth might have accounted for the increase in the number of crimes. He also pointed out that completion of the interstate highway might have been another contributing factor.

“We’ve traced some of these crimes back to I-75,” he said. “People come into Calusa to commit a crime, and then go back into the other counties. The interstate just brings a lot of undesirable people through.”

Ernesto and Domingo hadn’t read the newspaper article in which Sheriff Huxtable was quoted, otherwise they might have taken offense. They did not consider themselves undesirable people. They were here, in fact, looking for an undesirable person who had stolen four keys of cocaine from their employer, taken the stuff out of Dade County, in fact, and into Calusa County, where for all they knew it had already been sold to someone who’d already run it up to New York in the back of a pickup truck carrying lettuce and tomatoes.

Ernesto and Domingo were merely two righteous citizens trying to correct an outrageous wrong.

It didn’t sound like a warning until a moment before he walked out of Matthew’s office.

At the start of their conversation — this was at ten-fifteen on Monday and Matthew was feeling too good to be bothered by anyone or anything — Daniel Nettington was quietly telling him that he’d been visited by a big black detective at eight o’clock last night — a goddamn Sunday, could you believe it? Cops had no respect.

Daniel Nettington was Carla Nettington’s philandering husband.

Daniel Nettington was the star of the porn show Otto had recorded in the bedroom of a woman named Rita Kirkman.

Carla had told Matthew her husband was forty-five years old. He looked a good deal older. His graying hair was combed sideways across his forehead in a vain attempt to hide his encroaching baldness. His teeth and the index finger and middle finger of his right hand were nicotine stained. His small brown eyes were embedded deep in puffy flesh. He was an altogether unattractive man, and Matthew could not for the life of him imagine why: (a) Rita Kirkman kept pressing him to leave his wife and/or at least take her out to dinner, and (b) Carla Nettington would care if he was sleeping with the entire state of Florida.

“This black detective,” Nettington said, “informed me that the man who was killed had been following me. That my wife had gone to you, and that you had hired this man to follow me.

He seemed inordinately fond of the verb “to follow” in all its declensions. The verb “to follow” incensed him. He was outraged by the fact that Otto Samalson had been following him. That Otto had been killed was a matter of only secondary importance.

“This was all in the file this black detective got from Otto Samalson’s assistant, a Chinese lady from what I understand. A regular little United Nations, huh?”

Matthew said nothing.

“According to what I was told by this black detective, whose name is Cooper Rawles...”

“Yes, I know Detective Rawles.”

“Yes, I gathered that. According to what he told me, I was being followed for something like ten days before this man met with his accident. Is that true, sir?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Matthew said. “Otto Samalson was murdered.”

“Yes,” Nettington said. “And because he was following me, it now appears I’m a goddamn suspect here.”

“Is that what Detective Rawles told you? That you’re a suspect?”

“I don’t need a black detective to tell me I’m a suspect when he comes to my home — on a Sunday night, no less — and begins asking questions about where I was the previous Sunday, June eighth, at a little before eleven, which happens to be when the man who was following me got shot and killed on US 41. Now what I want to know, Mr. Hope...”

“Yes, what exactly is it you want to know?” Matthew said.

“And I don’t want to hear any bullshit about the confidentiality of the lawyer-client relationship,” Nettington said, “because it so happens I’m an attorney myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I’m sorry to hear it. What law firm do you work for?”

“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Nettington said, and then immediately answered the question anyway. “I don’t work for a law firm,” he said, “I’m house counsel for Bartell Technographics.”

“I see,” Matthew said. “And does your work ever take you out of town?”

“Rarely,” Nettington said.

“A pity,” Matthew said.

Nettington looked at him.

“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about,” he said. “My wife tells me she’s got some kind of tape — she hasn’t heard the tape yet, but there’s some kind of tape supposed to be between me and some woman, God knows what she’s talking about — is there such a tape?”

“I’m not in a position to discuss that, Mr. Nettington.”

“There’s either a tape or there isn’t one,” Nettington said.

“That is a safe assumption,” Matthew said.

“So is there one?”

“I can’t answer that, and you know I can’t.”

“If Carla’s already told me—”

“That’s your allegation, Mr. Nettington.”

“It’s what Carla said.”

Matthew said nothing.

“That there’s a tape.”

Matthew still said nothing.

“Where is this tape?” Nettington asked.

Silence.

“I don’t think the police have it, ’cause the black detective didn’t mention it. It was only Carla who mentioned it. Said you’d told her there was an incriminating tape.”

Silence.

“I’d like that tape,” Nettington said.

Silence.

“If it exists.”

Silence.

“Does it exist?”

Silence.

“What I’m prepared to do,” Nettington said, “is pay a goodly sum of money for that tape. If it exists.”

“If the tape exists,” Matthew said, “it’s already been paid for, Mr. Nettington.”

“Which means it does exist,” Nettington said. “What you just admitted is that my wife already paid for it when she hired you to put a private detective on me, which means the son of a bitch did manage to plant a bug in there somehow, didn’t he?”

“In where, Mr. Nettington?”

“In Rita’s house, you know damn well where, Mr. Hope. If you told Carla the tape’s incriminating, then you know what’s on it, and you know where it was made.”

“In any event...”

“I want that tape,” Nettington said.

“Mr. Nettington...”

“Do you hear me? I want that tape.”

“Yes, I hear you,” Matthew said. “Tell me, Mr. Nettington, when Detective Rawles asked you—”

“Don’t change the subject,” Nettington said.

“When he asked you where you were on the night Otto was killed, what did you tell him?”

“I told him exactly where I was.”

“Which was where?”

“If you’re so curious about that, ask him. Or don’t you two get along?” he said, and grinned wolfishly. “Would you like to know what he said about you?”

“Not particularly.”

“He said you enjoyed playing cops and robbers. Said if you ever came to visit me, I should call him right away.”

“So you came to visit me instead,” Matthew said.

“I called first,” Nettington said.

“So you did.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence.

“But if there’s nothing further,” Matthew said.

“Will you let me have that tape?” Nettington said.

Matthew sighed.

“You ought to reconsider,” Nettington said.

Which was when it sounded like a warning.

He looked at Matthew a moment longer, his gaze unwavering, and then he got up and walked out of the office.

They had decided between them, he and Susan, that it might be best if their daughter didn’t find him there when she got home. Joanna was a very smart cookie, and she was apt to put two and two together if she came home and found Mummy and Daddy munching crumpets and sipping tea together in the living room.

They were neither of them ready to answer questions about what had happened this weekend or about just what the hell was going on here. Neither of them knew just what the hell was going on here, but even if they suspected — after two nights and days of making love around the clock and never once leaving the house — that something was in the wind, they didn’t feel like sharing it with Joanna just yet. Anyway, what could you say to your fourteen-year-old daughter about something like this? Mummy and Daddy have been fucking our brains out all weekend, darling, how nice to see you? No. Better for Daddy to disappear in the night like a terrorist with an unexploded bomb, handle the questions later, if and when they came up. Matthew knew the questions would come up sooner or later.

In Calusa this year, school had ended on the ninth. Last year, it had ended on the twelfth. Each year in Calusa, the kids were out on the second Monday in June, and back again early in August, which should have been a criminal offense. Joanna was sleeping late now that school was out; she called him at the office shortly after Nettington left. The moment he came onto the line, she began singing “Happy Father’s Day to You,” to the tune of “Happy Birthday to You,” the lyrics a bit strained but the sentiment heartfelt.

“Hi, baby,” he said. “What time’d you get back?”

“Around eleven, I figured it was too late to call. Dad,” she said, “I want to apologize about the weekend.”

“No need,” he said.

“It’s just that Mom was so insistent... well, you know how she gets when I’m about to see you.”

“No,” he said cautiously, “how does she get?”

“Well, she’s always trying to finagle me out of it. Well, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“I told her I’d be embarrassed to death, calling you and telling you I was going away for the Father’s Day weekend, so she said she’d call and square it with you, which I know she did, but I still feel rotten about it.”

“Did what, honey? Called me, did you say?”

“Well, yeah. I almost called you, anyway. When I went home to pack. But Mom said she’d already taken care of it, and it might be best to leave well enough alone — what she said, actually, was ‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ referring to you, Dad, the sleeping dog — that you’d taken it calmly, and I might wreck it if I called.”

“Called me a sleeping dog, huh?”

“Well, you know Mom,” Joanna said.

“Said I’d taken it calmly, huh?”

“I hope you did, Dad. Were you very angry?”

“No, no. Mom was there when you went home to pack, huh? You didn’t just leave a note on the table or anything?”

“What?” Joanna said. “A note? No. What note? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“I should have called myself, I’m such a coward.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Matthew said, “Grown-ups Inc. took care of it.”

“Who?”

“Grown-ups Inc. Don’t you remember? When Mom and I used to—”

“No,” Joanna said. “Grown-ups Inc.? Is that real or something you made up?”

“Well, something we made up, actually.”

“You and Mom?”

“Yes.”

There was a sudden silence on the line.

“So how was the weekend?” Matthew asked.

“Good,” Joanna said.

“I understand Diana’s brother went along.”

“Did Mom tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“She shouldn’t have. I wish she hadn’t, Dad. She probably said I have a crush on him, am I right?”

“Well, she hinted that might be the case.”

“I wish she hadn’t,” Joanna said again.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have.”

There was another silence.

“When am I going to see you?” he said.

“Can you take me to dinner tonight?”

“I’d love to. What time shall I pick you up?”

“I’ll check with Mom. I think she has a date with Peter the Pest, maybe I can spend the night.”

“Oh?” Matthew said. “Does she?”

“I think so. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Fine,” he said.

“I bought you a nice present,” Joanna said, and hung up.

In most civilized cities, people didn’t begin drinking until four-thirty at the very earliest. In New York, for example — according to Frank Summerville — the bars didn’t start filling up till about five-thirty. But Calusa was a resort town in season and a retirement town all year round, and tourists and senior citizens sometimes discovered time weighing heavily on their hands. So what better place to while away the late afternoon hours than in a bar where, during Happy Hour, you got two drinks for the price of one? Happy Hour in Calusa began at 4:00 P.M.

At four-oh-seven that afternoon, at which time Joanna was on the phone again to say it was okay for tonight, Jimmy Legs was in a bar called The Yellow Bird, listening to a piano player slaughtering some very good Cole Porter tunes, and waiting for a man named Harry Stagg to join him. Jimmy was not here to while away the time. Jimmy had business to discuss with Harry, and the business was finding a hooker who had copped his brother’s gold Rolex.

Stagg came into the bar at about four-ten, five minutes earlier than he was due. He was a very punctual person, Stagg, and he was also very tall — though, actually, everybody looked tall to Jimmy. He was wearing a white linen jacket over pastel-colored slacks the same color as his open-throated shirt. He was wearing white Italian-looking shoes with no socks. He looked like one of the cops on “Miami Vice.” Needed a shave, too, just like that cop on “Miami Vice.” That was a show Jimmy hated because it made cops look like heroes instead of the pricks they really were. “Hill Street Blues,” too. Propaganda. He stood up as Stagg approached the table.

“Hey, how you doin’?” he said, and took Stagg’s hand. The men shook hands briefly. Stagg looked over at the piano as if wondering what had died inside it. He ordered a Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks from the waiter who came over to the table and then looked over at the piano again.

“Where’d that guy learn to play?” he asked Jimmy.

“San Quentin, sounds like,” Jimmy said.

“It does sound like it,” Stagg said. “They remodeled this place, din’t they? This used to be called Franco’s, dinnit?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah, Franco’s, I think. So now it’s The Yellow Bird, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a big difference, Franco’s and The Yellow Bird.”

“Yeah.”

The waiter brought two Johnnie Walker Reds on the rocks to the table.

“I only ordered one,” Stagg said.

“The second one is complimentary, sir,” the waiter said.

“I’da known that, I’da ordered the black,” Stagg said.

The waiter smiled. “Next time, sir,” he said, and walked off.

“They should tell you in advance it’s two for one,” Stagg said. “Give you a chance to order premium stuff.”

“Nobody tells you nothin’ nowadays,” Jimmy said.

“Whole fuckin’ world’s fucked up,” Stagg said. “Terrorists, all kindsa shit.” He sipped at the Scotch and then said, “So what’s on your mind?”

“There’s somebody I’m lookin’ for,” Jimmy said. “She’s a hooker stole my brother’s watch.”

“Oh, okay,” Stagg said. “Because first, when you said you were lookin’ for somebody, I thought Why’s he comin’ to me, am I the Missing Persons Bureau? But then you say she stole your brother’s watch, and I get it.” He took a pad from the inner pocket of the white jacket. He took a pencil from the same pocket. “What kinda watch?” he asked.

“A gold Rolex,” Jimmy said. “It cost eight grand in Tiffany’s, New York.”

“That’s some watch,” Stagg said.

“Solid gold,” Jimmy said. “The band and everything. Eight grand in Tiffany’s.”

“That ain’t cornflakes, eight grand.”

“My brother’s ready to kill her,” Jimmy said, “a watch like that.”

“Well, let me see I can find it for you, the watch. Maybe he won’t want to kill her once he gets the watch back. Lots of people, they say they’re gonna kill people, they only mean they want their goods back, you know? Let me ask around, see what I can find out, okay? I give it my best shot, we see what happens, okay?”

“His initials are on the back of the case,” Jimmy said.

“Good, I’m glad you told me that,” Stagg said. “What are his initials?”

“D. L. For David Larkin.”

Stagg wrote down the initials, and then said, “There’s a Larkin Boats on the Trail. Is that the same Larkin?”

“Yeah, that’s my brother.”

“No wonder he can afford a watch costs eight grand,” Stagg said. “What’d he do, change his name? ’Cause your name’s Largura, ain’t it?”

“I’m the one changed my name,” Jimmy said, and smiled.

“So did I,” Stagg said. “My name used to be Stagione, that means ‘season’ in Italian, I changed it to Stagg. That’s better than Stagione, Stagg. Harry Stagg, I like that better than Harry Stagione, don’t you?”

He blinked at Jimmy and then said, “Whattya mean you changed your name? From Larkin? To Largura?”

“Yeah, I wanted an Italian name,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t like havin’ a Wasp name.”

Matthew picked up Joanna at seven o’clock.

No sign of Susan anywhere around the house.

In the car, he casually asked, “Did your mother go out with Peter?”

“Yes,” Joanna answered.

Peter the Pest.

Suddenly jealous of Peter the Pest, né Peter Nelson Rothman, the main man in Susan’s life for the past... what? Two, three months? None of Matthew’s business, of course. She was no longer his wife, she was his former wife, his ex wife. Still, it wasn’t right, was it, for a situation to have become so transparent that your fourteen-year-old daughter could automatically assume that if Mommy had a date with Peter the Pest then she’d be free to spend the night at your house because when Mommy dated Peter she spent the night at his house.

Well, listen, it was none of his business.

Free country, woman wanted to date the town’s...

The thing he couldn’t understand, though, was how she could do this the very night after they’d...

Well, listen.

No strings on her, she was entitled to whatever...

But, damn it, she was the one who’d...

Well, what the hell.

But truth was truth, and she was the one who’d engineered their weekend together. Told Joanna she’d call him to explain about the Palm Beach trip, never called, was waiting instead to pounce when he got to the house Friday evening, fresh out of the shower and looking good enough to eat. Oh my, didn’t Joanna call you? She said she would call. Well, just so it shouldn’t be a total loss, let’s go to bed together, okay?

So tonight she was seeing Peter the Pest.

Who once, on the tennis court, told Matthew he could beat him no matter what Matthew did.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Peter said. “You can hit the ball wherever you want, anyplace on the court. When I hit the ball back, I’ll hit it directly to your forehand, right where you’re standing. And I’ll still beat you.”

Matthew was offended.

He told Peter he didn’t want to play with him anymore, and walked off the court.

But that wasn’t why she shouldn’t be dating him tonight. It was simply... well.

Well, damn it.

Really.

“So will you be sleeping over?” he asked.

“No, she’ll be coming home early,” Joanna said.

Matthew tried to keep from smiling. It was not easy.

He thought Jesus Christ, I’m falling in love with my own wife!

All through dinner, Joanna was uncommonly silent.

Matthew had known this kid for a long, long time, and he knew better than to pry when she was in one of her dark and pensive moods. Usually, he waited her out. Eventually, she told him what was bothering her. Tonight she did not seem about to tell him anything.

She had ordered clam chowder and the soft-shell crabs. He had ordered oysters on the half shell and the broiled swordfish. That was at seven-thirty. It was now close to eight-thirty. She had said perhaps three dozen words in the last hour.

“Could we get some lemon wedges?”

And...

“My fork is dirty.”

And...

“Can I have a little white wine or will they take a fit?”

And...

“Please pass the salt.”

And...

“I wonder if they have brewed decaf.”

Silence now as they drank their coffee.

He decided to break his own cardinal rule.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“You haven’t said much all night.”

I’m tired,” she said. “Too much sun. I was on the beach all day.”

“Sure there’s nothing you want to tell me about?”

“Nothing.”

Silence again.

“Did you enjoy yourself in Palm Beach?”

“Yep.”

More silence.

“Joanna, what is it?” he said.

“What is what?” she said.

“Whatever it is.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, I know it’s something.”

“Okay, you want to know what it is?”

“Yes.”

“I found your tie.”

“My what?”

“Your tie. I found your tie at the house.”

“What house?”

“Mom’s house, whose house do you think?”

“What tie? You found my...?”

“The blue tie with the pony on it, the blue Ralph Lauren tie.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know the tie I mean?”

“Yes, I know the tie.”

“I found it out by the pool,” Joanna said. “You know where the two lounge chairs are? That’s where I found the tie. On one of the lounge chairs.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a long silence.

“Were you at the house this weekend?” Joanna asked.

He hesitated.

“Dad?”

“Yes,” he said. “I dropped by after work Friday.”

“Mom didn’t mention it,” Joanna said.

“Well,” he said.

“Did she ask you to come over or what?”

“Joanna,” he said, “what business is this of yours?”

“Well, I just think it’s odd, that’s all.”

“It is,” he said.

“I mean, was there something you had to discuss with her? Something about me?”

“No,” he said, and hesitated. “Joanna,” he said, “this really is none of your business.”

“’Cause you usually discuss things on the phone, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“In fact, you usually wait outside in the car for me, you toot the horn and wait, you know? So it just seems odd that you’d go to the house to talk to Mom, if that’s why you went there. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, Dad, that you don’t get along too well, you know what I mean? I mean, a person wouldn’t exactly call you pals, you know what I mean? So I think it’s really strange, I mean actually peculiar that you’d go over to the house while I’m away in Palm Beach!”

“Lower your voice, please,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and looked quickly around the room to see if any of the other diners had reacted to her somewhat strident outburst.

“There was some kind of mix-up,” he said calmly. “I didn’t know you were going to Palm Beach. I went to the house to pick you up. Your mother invited me in, and we had a few drinks together. Okay?”

“Then why is that none of my business?”

“Because it isn’t,” he said.

“And also, why didn’t you tell me on the phone when I talked to you earlier today that you’d seen Mom over the weekend? And how come you’re saying there was a mix-up and you didn’t know I was in Palm Beach when on the phone you didn’t seem too surprised when I was talking about her calling you and telling you all about Palm Beach? So what’s going on, Dad?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said.

“Okay, fine,” Joanna said, and took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table. “Could you get the check, please, Dad? I want to go home. I’m really very tired.”

“Joanna...” he said.

“Get the check, okay?”

They rode out to Stone Crab Key in silence. The house was dark when they got there.

“Have you got your key?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. You want your tie?”

“There’s no hurry, I’ll—”

“Maybe you can pick it up some other time,” she said, “when I’m not home again,” and got out of the Ghia and ran to the front door.

He watched as she put her key into the latch.

She unlocked the door, opened it, and went into the house.

The lights came on.

He realized all at once that she’d told him she’d bought him a nice present.

Apparently she’d decided not to give it to him.

He waited another moment, and then pulled the car away from the curb, trying to remember what Susan had said about Electra.