Glitz

18

THE MOOSE, DELEON JOHNSON, would say, uh-huh; say, unh-unh; say, umh-humh; nod, nod some more. While Jackie Garbo walked back and forth in front of his desk, fat little curly-haired Hymie pleading his case.

“What’s happening to me? I been paying attention. Haven’t I been paying attention? I don’t get out a bed in the morning I know what I got on for the day. I got the fucking printout next to my bed, I open my eyes I know whose ass I’m gonna kiss, exactly what it looks like. I know the guy’s credit line to the dollar, what kind a scotch he drinks. I know if he wants one a the showgirls or he wants a midget with big tits, I know his taste. You pick me up, I come out a the house, what’ve I got in my hand? I got the fucking printout in my hand, right? I’m not paying attention? I grew up doing this. I can do it no-handed with my eyes closed. Our first year we’re gonna gross two hundred fifty million, I guarantee-highest gross per square foot of any casino in town outside a Resorts and maybe the Nugget, this cunt infers I’m drinking I don’t know what’s going on. ‘Oh, is that a martini?’ No, it’s a cream soda with a fucking olive in it. Twenty-five years I’m in Vegas, right? I think it was Johnny Carson, very dear friend of mine. He says, ‘You ever drive in Vegas? It’s terrible, it’s unbelievable.’ He says, ‘I put my hand out to make a turn and somebody grabbed my martini, took it right out a my hand.’ I could tell her that one she’d go, ‘Yeah?’ waiting for the punch line. You know what I’m saying? It’s a gag, but it’s Vegas. She doesn’t comprehend that. Tommy, he doesn’t know Come from Don’t Come. He starts talking, using words, not knowing shit and walks right into it. Pow, she lets him have it. She’s right, he’s in the fucking bag half the time. I don’t know for the life of me how he ever got where he is. Comes out a Fordham Law, the guy, I think what he is he’s a real estate salesman happen to be at the right place the right time. He’s not on the juice he can bullshit his way right into your heart, right? He sold me. I thought, fuck, the guy’s a natural. He must a sold her too, Nancy. But now she sees, Christ, he doesn’t know half a what she does. What’s she need this asshole for? So she’s swiping at his balls with anything she can lay her hands on”-DeLeon nodding, yeah, that’s right, yeah-“and I’m standing next to the schmuck, I could lose mine in the same swipe. For what? Do I need this shit?”

“You’re the man here,” DeLeon said. “They don’t have but a hotel, some restaurants without you.”

“We’re in the deli-listen to this.”

DeLeon, on the couch, glanced away from Jackie to Rosemary, Jackie’s secretary, fine red-headed woman, standing in the doorway waiting to cut in.

“We’re in there having a quick sandwich, I’m telling him all the heat I’m getting outside, these guinea fucks want a bring all their pals in here, let us comp ’em, we don’t even break even. The manager, listen to this, the manager happens to stroll by, Tommy says, ‘Irv, I notice those salamis hanging over there behind the counter’re wrinkled.’ He’s serious. Irv goes, ‘Yeah? Those’re aged, Mr. Donovan, that’s how they look.’ I’m telling him about a situation could put him out a business, he’s worried about the fucking salami. You want a hear some more?”

DeLeon held up his hand, nodded toward the doorway.

“There’s a gentleman in the lobby, Mr. Vincent Mora,” Rosemary said. “You want to see him?”

Jackie looked at DeLeon. “What’d I tell you? They put him off on me.” He said to Rosemary, “Sure, I’m not doing nothing. Bring him in, see if he wants a drink.”

DeLeon waited; Rosemary left and he said, “You want me here or where I can be reached?”

“I’ll see him alone,” Jackie said. “I buzz, you come in, quick. I nod, don’t be polite, I want him carried out.”

They shook hands. Mr. Garbo? Yeah. Mr. Mora? Standing, facing each other across the desk, Vincent with the blue canvas carry-on bag hanging from his shoulder. Drink? No thanks. Please, sit down. What can I do for you? Pleasant, to this point.

Vincent got comfortable, placed the canvas bag next to his chair. He said, “Let’s talk about Iris Ruiz.”

Now Jackie got comfortable, sat back in his leather chair.

“We could,” Jackie said. “Except I don’t see where I have to say one fucking word, sitting here in Atlantic City, to a cop twelve hundred miles out of his jurisdiction. Which happens to be Miami Beach. Gotcha.” Jackie grinned. “Twenty-five years looking at stone-faced dealers I see just a twitch, a blink, I can tell when I caught ’em by surprise. Are we straight so far? You’re a dick, or I understand you say you are, and you’re a friend of Iris or you know her. Okay, and then I say I don’t give a fuck who you are or what you want. Though I got a good idea what it is. What else?”

Vincent liked the way Jackie came right at him. Fat little guy with his pinky ring, his pictures of stars-wanting to sound tough, hip-with lifts in his alligator shoes. He made assumptions and liked to talk. And Vincent liked to listen. He had known many Jackie Garbos in Miami Beach; they were fun. You could act just a little naive and they’d perform for you.

He said, “The way I understand it, you were with Iris the night before.”

“The night before what?”

“She died. There was also a guy there by the name of”-Vincent dug into his jacket for a slip of notepaper, opened it-“is it Benavides?”

“You asking me or telling me?”

“It looks like Benavides,” Vincent said. “Anyway, he was there too. I think he stayed at this hotel.”

“You’re not sure?” Jackie came forward in his chair, reached for the phone. “You want to call Reservations and check? Come on, what kind a shit is this?”

“You flew him to Miami yesterday and he went out of there on Avianca, flight seven to Bogotá.”

“Wait a minute,” Jackie said. “You Drug Enforcement?”

Vincent shook his head. “I know some DEA guys though.” He looked at the sheet of notepaper. “Also present was DeLeon Johnson, formerly of the Miami Dolphins.”

“And still mean and aggressive,” Jackie said. “You want to meet him?”

“I understand he works for you?”

“Guards my body, does whatever he’s told. Who else you got? Let’s see where we’re going here.”

Vincent said, “I’ve got a LaDonna Padgett?”

“Very dear friend of mine.”

“How about Frank Cingoro? Is he a friend too?”

Jackie didn’t answer. His eyelids seemed heavier as he stared at Vincent. He brought his hands slowly from the desk to his lap.

Vincent said, “Frank Cingoro… No comment? How about Ricky Catalina? Ricky a friend or just one of the many assholes you associate with?”

“Maybe I been misinformed,” Jackie said. “You’re with the Miami Beach Police…”

“You asking me or telling me?” Vincent waited a moment, then smiled.

So did Jackie. “You’re not here in any official capacity.”

“You mean, like I’m on loan to the police here?” Vincent shook his head. “Hardly ever happens.”

“So you’re on your own. Is that correct?”

“You could say that.”

“Okay, you come here, you’re a city cop, you know your way around. Am I correct? Back home you got a car and a boat, nice house. Find it tough to send the kids to college? On a cop’s pay…”

Vincent shrugged.

“It’s funny,” Jackie said, “I first saw you I put you down as a narc, the beard, the grubby raincoat. Now, you look very presentable. You don’t look like a narc at all. You look like a blackjack counter, fucking math teacher from Minneapolis. I get ’em coming from every direction, all the hotshots think they can beat the house, make a fortune. I get the card counters, all kinds a cheats, guys that stick wires down the slots. Or they try and run a con on me, which sounds like what you’re doing, my friend. All the dope traffic in Miami, you don’t score enough off a that? You got to come and lean on me, for Christ sake?” Jackie placed his elbow on the desk, raised a limp hand, diamond winking, and pointed a finger at Vincent. “Lemme see if I can make the connection, okay? You got time? I’m not keeping you from any skim deals you got going?”

Vincent said, “Go ahead.”

“You know Mrs. Donovan.”

“I met her once.”

“Made a point to meet her. Maybe score, catch her on an off day she forgot to tie her knees together. This’s in San Juan. Our story has taken us down to sunny Puerto Rico. True?”

Vincent nodded. It was moving right along.

“You’re there on a medical leave. Some dink shot you on the street.”

It was moving faster than expected. “How’d you know that?”

“Hey, I know what you prob’ly had for breakfast. Couple beers. You kidding me? I could see you coming all the way down the fucking street. Let’s get back to San Juan. You must have some cop friends there. Not incidentally the PR cops being world-class shakedown artists. You guys exchange notes? How to make it on the side? You could book Spade’s Isla Verde, hold a convention, bring in cops from all over… So what happened, let’s say the cops here notified the PR cops about little Iris, how she took the dive eighteen floors down to the street. Jesus. They’re looking for next-a-kin and they tell you about it down there and you say to yourself, hey, somebody fucked up. Since you prob’ly knew the type of work Iris was into… How’m I doing so far?”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad, your ass. That’s exactly how you got onto it. They put you in touch with some PRs up here, guys that know Atlantic City, how it works, what goes on in the dead a night. You get some names, some of the bad guys. You get lucky, see Benavides hanging around and you check him out with Miami. They give you his flight home, read his sheet to you-one of your pals in the DEA. You make a few assumptions and come running into my office, see if you can make out.”

Vincent listened, nodding, entertained and amazed; the guy talking about making assumptions.

“So what’d you put together?”

“You were at the apartment,” Vincent said. “With Iris.”

“When? Come on, gimme a date.”

“The night before she was killed.”

“The night before?” Jackie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“You were there. So were these other people.”

“Yeah, but how’s that worth anything? The night before may as well be the year before. What’s the difference? I mean even if there was a connection who’re you gonna get to say we were there?”

Vincent didn’t answer.

“Whoever was with her the night she was killed, that’s the guy you want to shake down, for Christ sake.”

“Who do you think it was?”

Jackie took a moment. He said, “I don’t believe this. What do you do down in Miami, you raid bingo parties? You been at this long, or what? You come in here to rip me off, now you’re asking my advice. As my dear friend Joan Rivers says, ‘Can we talk?’ I’ll give you the word, hotshot, tell you exactly where you stand here. You fuck with any those guys on your list you may as well kiss your ass goodbye, you’re done. You fuck with me-watch, I got this magic act I put on. You watching?”

Vincent nodded. The guy looked so small, his round shoulders hunched behind the big desk, his array of stars smiling down at him.

“I rub my balls and say the magic words, ‘Abracadabra, send in Jabara.’ And who appears?” Jackie looked toward the door to his office. “None other than Moosleh Hajim himself. Known to all his many fans as the Moose.”

Vincent turned in his chair, starting to rise. He recognized DeLeon Johnson from newspaper photos, television interviews, saw the smile coming toward him, the Moose much bigger in real life, looking seven feet tall today in his nifty light-tan suit. Vincent was standing, ready to offer his hand. He saw the smile. He saw the forearm coming at him and was able to turn his head but that was all, it came at him so fast. That forearm slammed into him and he saw pink lights popping, went over the chair to land on his hands and knees, head ringing, stunned. He heard Jackie say, “Get him out a here… Hey, his bag too. Throw him out’n the street.” Vincent felt himself lifted, held upright. In a few moments he was able to walk. They went through the outer office to the hall and toward the bank of gold elevators by the reception desk, the Moose holding the canvas bag in one hand, Vincent in the other.

As they waited for an elevator Vincent said, “I’m glad I’m not a quarterback,” closing and opening his eyes, trying to focus on the door’s bas-relief: a gold sunburst with a face in it. He said, “That’s what it’s like to get sacked, uh?”

DeLeon said, “I wouldn’t know. I never been the sackee.”

“Five times unassisted against the Lions, Eric Hipple. I was at that game.”

DeLeon turned his head without moving his body, looked down his shoulder at Vincent, but didn’t say anything. A gold door opened. DeLeon looked at him again as they got on the elevator and Vincent said, “If there was a ref in there you would’ve gotten fifteen yards. You know that, don’t you?” Going down in the elevator Vincent asked him how his knee was. DeLeon said it was pretty good. He said, “I can’t kick.” Vincent said, “Good.”

During his career in the NFL, defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, there were some quarterbacks DeLeon Johnson helped up after dumping them on their ass and there were some he left stretched out on the turf. The ones he helped up, some would give him a sad look as he pulled them to their feet, or shake their heads like to say, shit, why you picking on me today? There were one or two might comment with a straight face, ask him why he didn’t stay in Africa, man, play with real lions. This man, Vincent Mora, was like that. In the elevator he said he never missed a Dolphin home game. It seemed he didn’t take getting decked personally. They got to the lobby he said, “You know, what I planned to do was check in. But I never got to mention it.”

“This hotel, you mean?”

“Yeah, do some gambling.”

Right here DeLeon saw Mrs. Donovan across the lobby by the gift shop, talking to a security man with a walkie.

DeLeon said to Vincent, “Got a stake, huh? How much, twenty-five dollars?”

“Let me have the bag,” Vincent said.

“You keep all your spending money in this?”

Vincent said, “Over here,” going to the bell captain’s counter, nobody there at the moment.

Mrs. Donovan was coming this way now and not, DeLeon believed, by chance. The executive-floor receptionist had picked up her phone as they got to the elevators; would have called somebody who got hold of the lobby security man who then told Mrs. Donovan, her network keeping her informed. Was anything she didn’t know, it would surprise DeLeon.

Here he was a witness, being sure of this fact, and she walked up and surprised the hell out of him. Not when she said, “Can I be of help?” But when this man Vincent gave her a big grin and she said, “Well, how are you? It’s so good to see you again.” Meaning it. She didn’t just know him; there was more to it:

Vincent telling her, “I’ve been looking for you. I drove down to your house yesterday.”

She telling him, “Yeah, Dominga said you stopped by. I’m sorry we missed you.” Then telling him she was terribly sorry about his friend, Iris. That was awful. Telling him she and Tommy had both spoken to the police several times and that the police didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

The man Vincent said, “I talked to them too.”

She said, “Oh? You did?” Little hesitation there, like she was half-expecting him to hit her with a surprise. DeLeon caught it. Saw her maybe relax a tiny bit as the man said, “They’re working on it.” The woman said it was a shame, young girl like that… This good-looking stylish woman, top of her class, could be sympathetic; she could scare the shit out of Jackie, emasculate her hubby; and she could act sweet as could be, giving Vincent a big-eyed look now. “It’s so nice to see you again. Where are you staying?”

“I was thinking of coming here…”

“Well, we’d love to have you.”

“I don’t know if it’s okay.”

Getting to it now. DeLeon seeing the man look at him, about to lay it on, get snippy, sarcastic, treated bad by the help. But all he said, factual, was, “I’ve been asked to leave.”

DeLeon got ready as Mrs. Donovan gave him an executive stare, serious business, man. “What’s the trouble?”

“I’m suppose to escort this gentleman out. See, but now he tells me the reason he came in, he wants to do some business with the casino.”

Lady acted patient, a little cool, pulled her nice blond hair away from her face; very queenly now.

“Who asked Mr. Mora to leave?”

“Was Mr. Garbo. Just now.”

The man Vincent surprised him. He said, “Somebody must’ve told Mr. Garbo I was coming.” Said it with a little bit of a grin looking at Mrs. Donovan, like to see what she would have to say to that. Cat was sly. DeLeon liked him. Mrs. Donovan hung in, didn’t change her expression, frowning some, innocent; like she was thinking, My, who could it be? The man said, “I think Mr. Garbo, somehow he got the wrong idea about me.”

DeLeon thinking, Misjudged you. Ten to one that’s what the little show-off Hymie did.

Mrs. Donovan saying now, “Well, let’s not worry about Mr. Garbo. I’ll speak to him.”

Meaning-DeLeon smiled just a little-she was going to cut his curly head off.

Mrs. Donovan saying, “We’ll get you checked in. Okay? And I’ll see that you get a line of credit. I’m sure it can be arranged.”

The man Vincent brought the canvas bag off the counter saying, “I don’t need credit, I brought some money with me. Right here.”

Mrs. Donovan said, “Oh,” and nodded. “Fine.” Very polite. The gracious lady married to the man that owned the place. “How much would you like to deposit?”

Vincent held the bag in front of him, looked in it, looked up. “I guess about twelve thousand.”

Nothing to it, like he carried that much around. Beautiful. Man had style. Knew his timing, saying to the lady now, “Do I have to pay for the room or do I get comped?”

Beautiful.

And give Mrs. Donovan a hand. Cool, not blinking an eye. Coming right back to say, “For twelve thousand, Mr. Mora, you’re not in a room. You have a suite.”

DeLeon said, “Here, let me take your bag, my man.”