Glitz

15

VINCENT FOUND THE HOUSE on Caspian where Linda was staying with the band: another wooden relic somebody had painted yellow about twenty years ago and since then said the hell with it, wait for the casinos. He was beginning to get the feel of Atlantic City and its surrounding geography and was getting to like it. At least it amazed him, held his attention, to see an old seaside resort being done over in Las Vegas plastic, given that speedline look gamblers were supposed to love. Here you are in wonderland, it told the working people getting off the tour buses, all those serious faces coming to have a good time. That was something else that didn’t make sense, nobody smiled.

He walked in the front door of Linda’s house and knew somebody was having fun; the smell of reefer almost knocked him over. The La Tunas were sitting around the living room in a cloud of smoke, laid out, accepting his bearded look, at least not worried. He waited in the hall. When Linda came downstairs he said, “I thought for a minute your house was on fire. Those guys blow weed they don’t fool.” Outside he said, “How can you live here?”

She said, “Where’m I gonna go? I’m paid up for the month and they don’t give refunds.”

He said, “You could stay with me, at the Holmhurst.” Not sure if he was kidding or serious.

Linda said, “I’d really be moving up, wouldn’t I?”

He opened the car door for her. “I forgot, I was gonna bring it in. Look what’s in back.”

Her black winter coat, lying on the seat.

Standing in the rain she reached up and took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. He held onto her to make it last a little longer than a thank-you kiss. She said, “Vincent, I’m going to have to start giving you some serious thought.” She sounded as though she meant it.

They drove over to the funeral home on Oriental where Vincent told the younger Mr. Bertoia they had come for the ashes of Iris Ruiz. The younger Mr. Bertoia left them and returned with a stainless steel urn the size of a half-gallon milk container. Vincent looked at it. He said, “Something you might consider, put the ashes in Taino Indian pottery.”

The younger Mr. Bertoia said, “Actually, what you’re getting are about eight pounds of bone fragments, not ashes. A body is cremated there aren’t any ashes, as such, just bones.”

Vincent said, “Thank you,” took the urn in one hand, Linda’s arm in the other. As they reached the front door she tried to pull free, but he held onto her, got her outside and in the car.

“Why do you let him bother you, guy like that?”

She said, “You thanked him.” Sounding amazed.

“What’d you want me to do?”

“Tell him off. Jesus, tell him something.”

“I couldn’t think of anything good.”

She was silent as they pulled away from the funeral home and turned corners toward Pacific Avenue. Vincent still couldn’t think of anything. Finally Linda said, “How about, ‘Why don’t you shove a hose up your ass, Mr. Bertoia, drain out the embalming fluid and maybe you’ll act like a living person. With feelings.’ “

“You want to go back?”

“You don’t like it.”

“I think it needs work.”

“But that’s the idea. See, it would be better if you could mention the embalming fluid first and end it with ‘So why don’t you shove a hose up your ass,’ like a punch line. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“ ‘You know what your trouble is, Mr. Bertoia?’… ‘Mr. Bertoia, the trouble with you is, you have the sensitivity of a… ‘ That might work. Tell him what an insensitive nerd he is.”

“You feel better?”

“Not a lot.”

“Tell me what I’m gonna do with Iris. Take her back to Puerto Rico?”

“You think she cares?”

“She’d probably rather stay here.”

“Even in her present condition,” Linda said. “I’ve got her clothes, a few pieces of costume jewelry, a hand-carved parrot that’s kind of nice…”

Linda was going to call on hotel entertainment directors and see if she could get an audition, beginning with the Golden Nugget. Vincent dropped her off. Then gave the doorman a quarter and asked him if he’d keep an eye on the car while he ran in and made a quick phone call. The doorman stared at Vincent, holding the quarter in the palm of his white glove.

He heard Dixie Davies say, “You sure you want to do this?”

Vincent said, “Let’s see what happens.” He sat in a phone booth off the lobby.

“Ricky’s out in the rain he must be making collections today, getting their cut from the horse books and the numbers. Maybe shylock payments too, I don’t know. He went in the Satellite Cafe on the Boardwalk about two minutes ago. Alone.”

Vincent said, “I appreciate it, Dix.” And said, “Wait. How about a guy named Ching? The Wheel?”

“Frank Cingoro,” Dixie said, “the Ching. He’s been here, he’s one of the few older guys still around. He used to kill people. Now they say he’s like an honorary consig, a counsellor, reactivated while Sal’s doing his two years.”

“He was at the apartment,” Vincent said, “the night Ricky was on the door.”

“Who told you?”

“Jackie Garbo was there too. From Spade’s. You know him?”

“The name,” Dixie said. “We’ll bring him in, get better acquainted.”

“Why don’t you sit on it for the time being?” Vincent said. “It could turn into an illegal gambling conspiracy and fuck up the main issue. Then where’s your homicide investigation?”

“Same place it is now,” Dixie said, “nowhere.”

“Satellite Cafe on the Boardwalk.”

“Near St. James Place.”

Vincent stood at the counter drying his face and hands with paper napkins. He could see the Boardwalk through steamy glass, that wide expanse of herringboned planking, empty in the afternoon rain. He turned, wiping a napkin over his beard, nodded to an old man, the only customer at this hour, watching him from a booth. The old man looked down through his glasses at the newspaper he held folded lengthwise. The cafe was narrow, done in yellow Formica and dark wood. Two waitresses sat at the end of the counter head to head, intent in their conversation. Vincent waited. The one facing him looked up. She rose, smoothing her yellow uniform and apron. Vincent took a stool as she came down the counter with a menu.

“Just coffee. Black.” He waited for her to place it in front of him and said, “I don’t see the boss.” The waitress stood without moving.

She said, “He’s busy,” and left him quickly.

Vincent smoked two cigarettes and looked at the menu for something to do before the door to the kitchen opened and the owner came out followed by Ricky. Vincent believed the older man wearing a sweater over his shirt and tie, and holding a dishtowel wrapped around his right hand, was the owner. He knew the other one as Ricky Catalina because he had studied him in four different sets of pock-marked mug shots, his black hair trimmed a little shorter in each set. As the owner and Ricky came past him, on the other side of the counter, Vincent could see the owner was in pain, holding the towel-wrapped hand tenderly, raised in front of him. The owner reached the cash register and stood frowning at it as though the keys were unfamiliar. Ricky nudged him with stiff fingers in the ribs and the old man pressed a key with his left hand. The drawer of the register opened.

Vincent got up from the stool and moved to the glass cigar counter where the register stood. He heard Ricky say, “You’re still light,” as the old man handed him money. Ricky was somewhat better looking than he’d appeared in his pictures, his complexion scarred but under control, a sallow color in this light. He was chunky, overweight, several inches shorter than Vincent who looked at his eyes now and saw the dumb glazed look of a guy who had conditioned himself to go through life pissed off. Vincent could see him swinging a hatchet at the man’s spine while his expression remained almost deadpan, showing little effort.

Vincent laid a dollar bill on the rubber mat next to the cash register. “One coffee.”

Ricky picked it up, dead eyes raising to Vincent, peering at him through heavy lids. Did he practice in front of a mirror? He added the dollar to the currency in his hand, folded the bills into a roll, twisted on a red rubber band and shoved the wad into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Where’s my change?”

“You had a coffee? It’s a buck.”

“The menu says fifty cents.”

“It went up.”

Vincent looked at the old man, saw the pain in his eyes. “What happened to your hand?”

“He had an accident,” Ricky said. He moved around the counter to the front door and looked back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Right?” The old man nodded, said yes, right. With some kind of accent. Ricky stared at him and seemed about to say something else, but pushed through the door and was gone.

Vincent took a moment. Both of the waitresses were behind the counter now, coming to the old man, touching him. He was pale, perspiring and could be in shock. “What did he do to you?” Vincent asked him. But the old man didn’t hear him and one of the waitresses said, “Please-” with anguish, and Vincent left.

He followed Ricky’s hunched figure along Boardwalk storefronts, lights showing now in the rain mist, to the end of the block and around the corner to a stairway that descended to St. James Place, where a Cadillac Eldorado was parked at the dead end of the street.

Ricky stood at the trunk of the car getting his keys out. He looked up. Vincent was on the stairs now. Ricky paused. As Vincent came down Ricky turned and walked a short distance up the street to a bar. He paused again to look back before going in. Vincent followed.

It was dark inside. Vincent ordered scotch. He said to the bartender, where’s everybody? The bartender shook his head, he said he only worked here; nobody wanted to come in, that was up to them. Ricky sat four stools away drinking a beer. Vincent studied the bottles on the back bar, trying to make out the labels, the brands. He could feel Ricky watching him. When Ricky got off the stool and walked to the back, into the men’s room, Vincent said to the bartender, “You got a little knife I can borrow? Like you cut lemons with?” The bartender held up a paring knife with a serrated edge. “Yeah, lemme borrow it, I’ll bring it back.” The bartender watched Vincent walk out with his knife. He didn’t seem to care.

Vincent knew the Eldorado’s doors were locked; he tried the one on the passenger side to make sure. Then looked around, peered into dim spaces beneath the Boardwalk that were like mine shafts with supporting timbers, saw trash, empty bottles-he needed something with heft he could hold in one hand-looked around some more and saw the bulldozer, the piles of rubble, where some type of small building had been razed. Vincent went over and poked around, selected a chunk of masonry that weighed about ten pounds.

When Ricky came out of the bar Vincent was standing close to the Eldorado’s rear deck, right hand inside his raincoat, his left arm covering it, folded across his chest.

Ricky came along the sidewalk, wary. “The fuck you doing?”

Vincent wondered if he was any good face to face, no gun. He wouldn’t be packing today, risk doing two years for nothing.

“Get away from the car.”

“Somebody smashed your window,” Vincent said.

“Where?” He came in a hurry now. Vincent nodded toward the driver’s side and Ricky moved past him, intent. Vincent followed, walked up next to him.

“What’re you talking about? The window’s okay.”

Vincent looked at it, his expression curious. He brought the chunk of masonry out of his raincoat to slam it in the same motion against the tinted glass and the window shattered in fragments. He turned to Ricky and said, “No, it’s broken. See?”

Ricky said, “You crazy?” With amazement. “You fucking crazy?”

Vincent liked the question and liked the way Ricky stood there in a state of some kind of shock, those dead eyes showing signs of life for the first time, wondering, What is this? His expression, his pocked face made him appear vulnerable, sad, the poor guy wanting to know what was going on here, perplexed.

Good. Vincent dropped the chunk of cement. Ricky glanced down and Vincent grabbed him by his jacket and his hair and slammed him against the car; told him to spread his legs, come on, spread ’em, and kicked his shins to make him lean, reach out. There were protests, Ricky wanting to know what the fuck Vincent thought he was doing. Vincent tightened his fist in Ricky’s hair, banged his forehead against the curved edge of the car roof and said, “Anything I want, Rick.” Reading it to him out of the unwritten manual. “Any fucking thing I want. Give me your keys.”

Vincent handed them back when they were both inside the car, Ricky subdued, behind the wheel. He backed into the lot where the building had been torn down, came out to creep toward Pacific Avenue and began to give Vincent looks, recovering, getting the dead stare back in his eyes. Vincent brought out his gun, laid the 9-mm automatic across his lap to point at Ricky and Ricky said, “Where you want to go, Northfield?”

“Atlantic Avenue.”

“You’re gonna be in deep shit we get to Northfield, man. Somebody’s gonna pay for my window. What’d you bust it for? You fucking crazy or what?”

“Take a right.”

“That ain’t the way you go.”

“Take a right,” Vincent said.

“Where we going, for Christ sake? Shit, I’m getting all wet.”

“Watch the road,” Vincent said, and listened to the beat of the windshield wipers as they followed Atlantic Avenue out of traffic, almost to its end, turned north through the rundown Inlet section, Vincent feeling his way, looking for the right kind of isolated place. He saw it finally as they approached Gardner’s Basin, entered the empty parking area that looked into the mouth of Absecon Channel. He told Ricky to keep going, right up to the breakwater and stop. There were commercial fishing boats moored in the basin, but no one around, no houses nearby or for several blocks.

“Where does that bridge go?”

Through the windshield, filmed with water and wiped clear, a distant arc that was barely visible in the rain came in and out of focus.

“Brigantine,” Ricky said, “where you think?” And said, “Wait a minute-”

“What’s that, way over there, a hotel?”

“Harrah’s,” Ricky said. “You don’t even know where you’re at. Who’n the hell are you? You’re from Northfield, right?”

“Think about it,” Vincent said. “What’re we doing here?”

Ricky narrowed his eyes, glanced down at the blue-steel Smith & Wesson. “You’re a cop. You got a cop gun.”

“What’d you do to that old man?”

“What old man?”

“In the restaurant. Guy a slow pay, you put his hand on the grill?”

“Fuck off. You want to take me in, take me the fuck in. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You got your mind made up I’m a cop,” Vincent shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I know goddamn well you’re a cop. Some new guy-you’re gonna show those other assholes can’t get me to say shit how it’s done… Right?”

Vincent shook his head, taking his time.

“I’m Vincent the Avenger, Ricky.”

“The what?”

“Just doing my job.”

“Wait. How you know my id?”

“I was sent for,” Vincent said.

“I never saw you before in my life. Where you come from?”

“Miami.”

“You were sent for…”

“I understand you fucked up, Rick. Killed some broad and then made a deal with the cops? That it?”

“You’re crazy.” Amazed. “What’re you talking about?”

“Threw her off a balcony, eighteen floors up?”

“What, the Puerto Rican broad? I never went near her. I was in Brigantine, I was there almost the whole fucking night, man. I can prove it.”

“Hey, don’t tell me,” Vincent said. “You should a straightened this out with Frank. You say you got a good story, I guess he thinks it’s a bunch a shit, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Frank? Wait a minute-Frank who? Who we talking about?”

“What do you call him, Ching? Chingo? I barely met him. He told me where to find you, told me how he wanted it done.” Vincent’s left hand went into his raincoat and came out with the paring knife he’d borrowed from the bartender. “Let me ask you something… See, the way I ordinarily do it, I put one right here.” Vincent touched the knife point to his forehead. “But Frank wants it done, you know, according to custom. I guess set an example. So I gotta ask you something.”

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

“My question is, do I cut your dick off and stick it in your mouth before I shoot you-”

“Hey-hey, listen to me a minute, no shit-”

“Or do I shoot you and then cut your dick off? I always wondered,” Vincent said, “since I’m not up on any your quaint guinea customs you guys’re into, leaving the dead rat, any a that kind a shit. I think I know which way you’d prefer…”

“There’s a mistake,” Ricky said. “Somebody’s made a big fucking mistake, man.”

“You’re right there,” Vincent said, “you should never a copped or let ’em offer you a deal. They give you immunity?”

“I never told ’em nothing!”

“Or you shouldn’t a done that to the Puerto Rican broad, one. As I say, I don’t know the whole story. They never go into detail, they say here’s the name of the fink, do him.”

“Man-listen to me. I can prove I never went near that broad.”

“That isn’t what Frank says.”

“Fuck him-he never even asked me about it. What’s he putting this together from? Fucking guy-he’s using this, try and take me out while Sal’s away. That’s what it is. I don’t know why the fuck I didn’t see it.” He looked at Vincent intently and said, “Listen to me, okay? You got nothing against me. Like you say, it’s a job, it’s nothing personal. It’s what you do, man, you get paid. I know where you’re at, man, but listen to me a minute. I didn’t kill the broad. It was anybody it was that fucking Colombian, Benavides, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it, man, I can prove it. There was two three other people I was with all night, five o’clock in the morning. The broad was killed like at one. See, it’s got nothing to do with that or talking to the cops ’cause I never fucking said a fucking word, man. They taped it, you can listen to it, what I said. It’s that fucking Ching, man. He wants my ass for some reason I don’t even know, so he says I dimed out on him. Bullshit. You see what I’m saying to you? You don’t give a shit one way’r the other, right? It’s got nothing to do with you. Okay, then how about this? You don’t care who pays you either, right? How much is the Ching giving you?”

Vincent had to think about it. It was an interesting turn, new possibilities being presented.

“Come on, gimme a number.”

“Twenty-five,” Vincent said.

“Bullshit. The Ching could get it done for nothing he wanted to. There guys-shit, I can name ’em, would pay him.”

“Yeah, but he sent to Miami,” Vincent said, “and here I am.”

“I don’t care he sent to fucking China, he’s not paying you any twenty-five. I’ll give you ten to get fucking lost, disappear. No, uh-unh-call him up. Tell him I wasn’t there, you couldn’t find me. Stall him two three days. That’s all you got a do.”

Vincent nodded. “Okay. Give me the money.”

“I don’t have it on me, for Christ sake. You think I walk around I got ten grand on me?”

“What’re you gonna do, send me a check? I think I’ll stay with the deal I got.” Vincent raised the Smith. “Get out of the car.”

“Come on, you know, for Christ sake, I don’t have it on me. We make an arrangement. I deliver it to you the next couple days, wherever you’re staying. Tell me where.”

“That’s some arrangement,” Vincent said. “I didn’t get to be thirty-nine years old, Rick, making deals like you’re talking about. I want to see the money.”

“I swear to God I’ll pay you. I give you my fucking word of honor, man-ten big ones, how you want it, hunnerts? Whatever you say. Two three days-I gotta get it together. I meet you… How’s the restaurant, the Satellite, on the Boardwalk? What a you say?”

“Where do you live?”

“You want a come to my house? I live on Georgia Avenue. You know where Angeloni’s is? Right near there.” He gave Vincent the number, Vincent watching, fascinated, as Ricky tried to get an expression of trust in his eyes.

Vincent said, “You want to show your good faith?”

“How? Tell me?”

“Gimme the money you got in your jacket.”

“It’s yours… Take it.”

“Now get out of the car.”

He did, but hesitantly, wary. “We got a deal?”

Vincent dropped a piece of glass out the window and moved behind the wheel. Ricky stood with his shoulders hunched against the rain, waiting. “See you the day after tomorrow,” Vincent said, “four o’clock. If you’re still around, in one piece.”

He drove back to St. James Place, left the Eldorado where he’d found it, key in the ignition-no hard feelings. His Datsun was in a lot up the same street. But first, back to the Satellite Cafe. The waitress behind the counter recognized him.

“How’s your boss?”

“He’s at the hospital.”

Vincent handed her the wad of bills, made her take it as she hesitated. She said, “Don’t tell me anything, okay? I don’t want to know.”

He used the pay phone to call Northfield and said to Dixie, “Ricky didn’t do it.”

“You sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me,” Vincent said. “But it’s okay. You’re gonna get a chance to bring him up on attempted murder. I hope attempted. Day after tomorrow it looks like he’s gonna take a crack at me.”

Vincent walked back to the corner, tired, till he got to the stairway, started down to St. James Place and stopped halfway, wide awake, remembering the Eldorado as he had seen it a little more than an hour ago, the same high-angle view from the stairs, Ricky standing there getting his keys out…

But to open the trunk, not the door!

Because today was collection day, right, according to Dixie Davies, and Ricky the bagman was making pickups from the horse books, the card-game and numbers guys, from whoever owed them a cut or a shylock payment. Vincent popped the trunk lid and there it was, the bag, a blue canvas carry-on with straps and buckles and handy pockets… and wads and wads of currency in the main compartment, rolled up in red rubber bands.

The bartender at the Holmhurst said, “Well, how we doing? We still a winner?”

Vincent was holding a double scotch to take upstairs with him. He lifted the blue canvas bag from the barstool.

“You wouldn’t believe how much I got in here.”

“I probably wouldn’t,” the bartender said.