Glitz

17

TURNING ONTO ATLANTIC AVENUE Vincent said, “I’ve tailed cars for a living, but I’ve never been tailed myself, that I know of.” He glanced at the rearview mirror.

Linda turned in the front seat to look back. “All I see are headlights. Are you sure?”

“When the same car turns the same corners you do, it’s a good bet.”

“I thought you were lost. Which one is it?”

“It’s three back. Looks like a Chevy, light color, maybe yellow.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I think it’s a guy who usually drives an Eldorado, but somebody broke his window so he borrowed a friend’s car. Or else it’s a friend of the guy who drives the Eldorado.”

Linda said, “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

Vincent drove straight to Spade’s Boardwalk now; he left the Datsun with the valet parking attendant. It seemed to surprise Linda. And when he brought the blue canvas carry-on into the hotel with them she said, “I thought we were just having dinner. Are we spending the night?”

Vincent smiled. It had crossed his mind. He checked the bag with the bell captain, La Tuna sounds coming from the lounge across the lobby. He asked Linda if she’d like to go in and mambo and she asked if he’d like a kick in the balls. Was she touchy or being funny? Sometimes it was hard to tell when she was serious. Up a gold elevator to a dining room of crystal chandeliers and scenes of Versailles on the walls, heavy silverware, gold linen, candlelight… Was she impressed? Vincent was. They drank scotch and looked at menus, silent, but it was okay; he was comfortable with her and in no hurry. He felt a glow; he believed it might be fun to have a lot of money. Linda could be wealthy, she had the right look in the navy-blue dress. The pale skin and dark hair, fine bones, a $500-an-hour model. Cosmetics, shampoo…

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

She brought her napkin up. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“You get cleaned up you’re a knockout.”

She narrowed her eyes in those long lashes, said, “Thanks,” gazed at him another moment, suspicious, and returned to her menu. “What’re you going to have?”

“Liver and onions. Or the Dover sole. I don’t know anything about you,” Vincent said. “You started playing piano when you were about nine…”

“Eight.”

“You grew up in New York.”

“New Orleans. I played trumpet in the Tulane marching band… I prefer the cornet.”

“You fooled me. I thought you had kind of a Brooklyn accent. Just a little. You played the trumpet, huh?”

“You making conversation?”

“I’m interested.”

“You know something you’re not telling me. You’re trying to act cute and you don’t know how.”

“I feel good, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Well, I had a pretty good day. How was yours? You get an audition?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in at Bally’s, if I want it. But I’d have to go with a guitar and drummer they want me to use. Which is okay, I guess. At least I’ll be working.”

“You like it here, Atlantic City?”

“Compared to what? The Holiday Inn in Orlando? If I can play just a little of my music for an audience that listens part of the time and isn’t too drunk, that’s as good as it gets in a bar. Most of what I have to play, you take it out of a can and heat it over a low fire. Some of it’s okay, some riffs you can have fun with, fool around. But you do the same kind of pop stuff every set, the computer music, key in a little bossa nova-I feel like an engineer, I ought to be wearing a white lab coat with a row of pencils in the pocket. Once in a while, I play with my own guys we throw the charts away and break loose, take some chances. Who’s doing that and getting paid? Nobody. McCoy Tyner, Gil Evans, maybe a few other guys. Let the audience keep up if they can-why not? They can tap their toes if they want, but it’s a head trip too. Where’re we going-who knows? Let’s find out, feel it and play it, look for an opening and break out… Do you know what I mean? The manager gets nasty, I go, ‘Wait a minute, they came to hear me play, right?’ The manager goes, ‘They came to drink and be entertained, but mostly they came to drink.’ And hands me a bunch of requests that read like Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. So… What was the question?”

“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” Vincent said, “doing Linda Moon instead of Carmen Miranda. I got to admit, though, I enjoyed that.”

“You would,” Linda said. “I’m surprised you don’t wear a double-knit suit with white stitching. Cops being known for their daring fashion statements.”

“Let’s have another drink.”

“I’m ready.” She was looking him over, his new sportcoat, white cotton shirt. “You’re not a bad dresser, really.”

“I’ll take my tie off and open my shirt, you want me to.”

“No, you won’t, you’re too conservative.” She raised her eyes to his. “It’s okay. I like a change now and then.”

Driving back to Linda’s rooming house Vincent said, “I never saw a skinny girl eat so much. Where do you put it?”

“I’m not that skinny,” Linda said. She looked at a street sign as they passed it and said, “I think you should’ve turned,” though didn’t seem to care. “Are you a little high?”

“Just right.”

“I get mellow when I drink. I mel-low.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“All the streets are named after states…”

“North and south.”

“Except they aren’t in order, they’re all mixed up. North Carolina, Pennsylvania… Shouldn’t we have turned?”

Vincent glanced at the rearview mirror, at headlights and reflections on wet pavement. “He’s with us again.”

Linda turned in the seat to look back. “The same car?”

“Yellow Monte Carlo… I don’t think I should take you home. He probably saw me pick you up…”

She was quiet a moment. “You’re saying, what, I should stay with you?”

“I think it’d be safer.”

“For who? If the guy’s after you why would it be safer for me to be with you?”

“You don’t want to go home,” Vincent said, “and I don’t think you should be alone. They’re bad guys.”

“I think you hired somebody to follow you. Is that it, Vincent, to get me in your room?”

He said, “Let me tell you about Ricky Catalina and what a sweetheart he is.” He gave her a profile, a brief one on the way to the Holmhurst, told about meeting Ricky and taking him to Gardner’s Basin, but didn’t go into detail or mention the blue canvas bag.

As they walked up to the hotel entrance Linda said, “He’s after you because you broke his car window?… Why did you?”

They went inside. Vincent turned to look through the glass door, in time to see the yellow Chevy creep past.

“Get his respect,” Vincent said. “Show him I have a violent nature.”

“Is it fun,” Linda asked, “being a cop?”

“Some times more than others. I’ve never given a traffic ticket or busted a hooker.”

On the way up the stairs Linda said, “You forgot your bag, you checked at Spade’s.”

“I’m leaving it there for safekeeping.”

She gave him her narrow look. “You’re not telling me everything, are you? I won’t ask what’s in the bag.”

“It’s up to you.”

“What’s in it?”

“Twelve thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars.”

“Oh, my God.”

They walked down the third-floor hallway, silent.

“You didn’t win it.”

“In a way I did.”

She stopped. “That’s why he’s after you.”

Vincent brought her along by the arm. “He thinks I probably have it, but he’s not sure.”

“He’s tailing you to find out.”

“All he has to do is ask.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Wait-whose is it?”

“I told you, collection money. Numbers, sports bets, card games-all illegal, the sources.”

Linda said, “Wow,” her voice hushed. “But you can’t keep it. Can you?”

“Why not? I turn it in the state keeps it, or it goes in the Police Recreational Fund. But they’re not gonna return it, we know that. And we know Ricky’s not gonna go to the cops and file a complaint. So…”

“What’re you going to do with it?”

“I’ve got an idea… But you can have some if you want.”

“Jesus, Vincent-”

He got his key out, opened the door, touched Linda to go in ahead of him. He closed the door, double-locked it. When he turned Linda was close enough to touch, her coat off her shoulders, holding it, looking at the polished stainless-steel urn standing on the dresser.

She said, “Is it going to bother you?”

“What?”

“Iris being here.”

His hands moved over her shoulders to take her coat, get it out from between them.

“I’ll put Iris in a drawer.”

Teddy opened his eyes, saw the roof interior right there over him and thought he was in Monroe Ritchie’s bunk. Nope, he was parked down at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, the windshield, the first floor lit up, the two upper floors dark except for a couple of windows. The Datsun was still parked in front. It was ten past three by the luminous dial in the dashboard. His mom had probably got up to make wee-wee and looked in his room. He’d have to have a story for her. How about-“See, I had to wait till this fella was asleep before I went up to his room and shot him.” And his mom would say, “Oh, you.” But there was the idea, the way it came to him just waking up, and he thought, You could look into it. You been fooling around all this time, you gonna do it or not? The woman could be there with him or she went home, took a cab. Would it matter? No, he didn’t think it would. She could watch. Jesus. That idea excited him a little-the woman laying there naked, watching-the way the idea of pushing Iris naked off the balcony had excited him. Yes, he was getting excited; he could feel it.

He opened his camera case, got the Colt automatic but didn’t stick it in his pants till he was out of the car. Nice evening. Morning now. Should he lock the doors? No-what if he had to leave in a hurry? Should he have the motor running then? No-what if somebody stole the car while he was in there? There was a lot to think about in a deal like this; you didn’t just walk in and shoot somebody. He smoothed down his suede jacket over his gun and approached the hotel. The bar looked busy. He entered the lobby. Nobody around. And you couldn’t see into the bar from here, there was a partition.

Up to this point he believed he was going to knock on the cop’s door, say “Bellboy,” if he had to and stick the .38 in the cop’s face when he opened the door. Not foolproof at all. What was he delivering, flowers? A message that could be stuck under the door?

But wait just a minute here-looking around the empty lobby, looking at the desk and the room mailboxes behind it, nobody anywhere around. There you go. Teddy got a key to 310 and headed for the stairs.

A light, over the parking lot across the street, showed the window, the wall where the dresser stood; it revealed the foot of the bed, the spread hanging off, and reached almost to the door. In the silence she kissed his chest, came to his beard and whispered, “Where’s your mouth? There it is, right… there.” Whispering, “I love your mouth. I can kiss your mouth, Vincent, and know it’s you.” Whispering, “You lied to me, Vincent, but it’s all right. I still love your mouth.”

“When did I lie to you?”

“You don’t have a violent nature. You have a nice one. But that’s all I know about you.”

“I’m rich. You know that much.”

“That’s right, I forgot.”

“I’m conservative.”

“I might’ve been wrong.” She said, “I won’t ask if you’re married.”

“Okay.”

“Are you married?”

“I was… My wife died.”

She said, “Oh,” and was silent.

He told her he was here now, right here, nowhere else. Touching her, aware of an intense feeling of tenderness, he believed he was falling in love-not unlike the way he had fallen in love with Ginny, the nurse who removed his catheter. He told Linda he had never made love to a piano player before.

She said, good, and moved her hand over his shoulder, his chest, fingers moving lightly over his ribs, feeling each one, down to his hip, feeling him, finding out things about him, touching smooth scar tissue. Whispering, “I could play you, Vincent. Very slow… funky… bluesy. Stretch the note till you think it’s going to break… Stretch it some more.” Whispering, as her hand moved to his groin, “Ah, there it is, my instrument.”

“Play it,” Vincent said, “you’ll get a standing ovation.”

“What would you like to hear?”

He didn’t answer. She seemed to feel his body tense slightly and raised her head. His finger, one finger, came to her mouth and touched it. They moved apart. She watched him roll to his stomach and reach over the side of the bed to the floor. His hand came up holding a gun, then went down and came up again, his white jockey briefs hanging from the barrel.

Teddy’s hand came away from the door to 310. He’d turned the knob both ways as quietly as he could, checking; it was locked. As he got the key out of his jacket he realized it was going to take two hands: insert the key with one, turn the knob with the other. Shit-he had to stick his gun in his belt. He looked down the length of the hall toward the stairs, a long haul if you had to get there in a hurry. Then the other way, about thirty feet to the dead end of the hall and the EXIT sign lit up over the door to the back stairs.

He wished he knew which way to turn the key. He wished he knew if there was a second lock inside, a deadbolt, the kind you set at night. Would a cop use it? He didn’t even know if the cop had a gun or not.

The palms of his hands were moist. Well sure. He’d knock on a door and say he was with International Surveys and his palms would be like this. It was part of it, always a little scary.

Teddy slipped the key into the lock, turned it easily with just a tiny click of a sound. He put his other hand on the knob. Okay, he’d open the door just barely, pull his Colt, bang in there… In this moment, right in front of him, so close, he heard the deadbolt released and felt the knob turn in his hand-turned by somebody right there on the other side of the door-Christ, and felt goosebumps as he jumped back, brought up the Colt with his arm extended straight out…

The way Linda saw it, from the offside of the bed, where Vincent had motioned her to get over there and get down:

She saw him in his undershorts with the gun held close to his shoulder, jockeys snug and compact against dark skin, a white band below his hips, sexy, really nice buns. It amazed her to think that, the way her heart was beating. He stood against the wall next to the door, reached over to slip the deadbolt, took the knob in his hand to yank the door open… God, and the sound was deafening, the gunshots, three in quick succession and the sound of glass breaking as the window shattered. There was an aftersound in the silence, a ringing in her ears, and she was aware of running steps in the hall and a door banging. Vincent moved into the doorway, careful rather than hesitant, the way he looked out. She heard his steps then, lighter, barefoot. By the time Linda got to the doorway and took a look, Vincent was at the end of the hall. He pushed open the EXIT door very carefully, paused to listen a moment and was gone. She looked down the hall in the other direction. It was quiet. Not a sound, not a single door opened.

Linda came back in the room, put on her coat and hugged it to her, shivering, telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of. But it was so quiet now. She stood close to the broken window to look down at the street, the light reflecting on wet pavement.

A car door slammed shut. An engine came to life, its revs increasing to a high whine, a sound of panic, and now a light-colored two-door appeared out of the dark end of the street, lights off, and shot past the hotel toward Pacific Avenue. She saw Vincent now, Vincent without a doubt: a figure in the street light in white skivvies, holding something in his hand, extending his arm… Then lowered it as the sound of the car faded. He walked toward the hotel. A much darker figure appeared, a man who had come out of the hotel. The man stood waiting, watched Vincent approach and spoke to him as he walked past. Vincent, coming toward the entrance now, looked back to say something, then was out of view.

Linda got back in bed, pulled the covers up against the chill in the room and watched the crack of light along the edge of the partly open door. She tried to guess what he would do. Phone someone, the police. Get dressed. Pack his bag…

He came in and got in bed with her making sounds to let her know he was cold, shivering, making his teeth chatter, overdoing it. She pressed her body against his, a leg between his legs and moved her hand over him. He was cold, his nipple hard, but he felt good. She knew his body in one night, the familiar parts. She wanted to ask him questions. She heard his voice low, close to her:

“A drunk comes out of the hotel, he sees this guy in his underwear with a gun. What does he say?”

She said, “Wait, let me think.” But she couldn’t wait and she couldn’t think. She said, “Quit trying to be cool. Who was it? Did you see him?”

“It wasn’t Ricky. Maybe a friend of his, but I don’t know… I don’t think so. The guy didn’t do it right.”

She said, “Vincent, somebody tries to kill you-you don’t know who it is?” He didn’t answer. “Did you talk to anybody? I mean from the hotel, the manager?” He told her no, only the drunk, outside. She said, “I can’t believe it. All that noise, nobody even looked out in the hall.”

They were silent, holding each other. Maybe both with the same thoughts, Linda wasn’t sure. Close to her Vincent said, “A drunk comes out of the hotel and sees this guy in his underwear with a gun…”