McNally's caper

JOURNEY’S END

Now I knew I was changing. I knew how I was changing. Up to this point I had been a war correspondent, accredited to report but not to play an active role. Oh, I could, willy-nilly participate, but I could not influence.

But now I had planted myself on a dirt road in Georgia and fired a lethal weapon at duly appointed representatives of the law. It was really, in my mind, my first act of conscious illegality. I might have killed someone, although I doubted it. I couldn’t have cared less.

‘How old was he?’ Jack Donohue asked.

‘Thirty-two,’ Jannie said. ‘I think. Maybe he had a birthday. Maybe thirty-three or — four. Around there.’

‘You don’t knowT he said incredulously.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Sheesh,’ he said.

At the same time my role as war correspondent came to an end. I became dissatisfied with what I had written in Project X. It seemed to me I had not told the whole truth about Dick Fleming, Hymie Gore, Angela, the Holy Ghost, Clement, Smiley, Antonio Rossi. Or even Jack Donohue. Or even myself.

As a journalist, I had limned us all as two-dimensional characters, cardboard cutouts. But reading back over what I had written, remembering the contradictions and complexities of everyone involved, I yearned for a larger talent so I could do justice to their humanness. Not only their frailties and inconsistencies, but their constancy and brave humor.

‘Where was he from?’ Jack Donohue asked.

‘Somewhere in Ohio,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘He never spoke of it. Never went back, as long as I knew him.’

‘Have any family?’ he said. ‘ ‘A mother living, I think. Never mentioned his father. I had the feeling the father had deserted or maybe he was dead. Dick never said and I never asked.’

‘You didn’t know much about him,’ Black Jack said. Accusingly.

‘No,’ I said wonderingly. ‘I didn’t.’

Hadn’t wanted to, I almost blurted out. Hadn’t wanted to pry, probe, ask questions. If he had wanted to tell me about himself, he would have, wouldn’t he? Or was that a cop-out? Did he interpret my lack of curiosity as lack of interest? I thought him a very private man. Perhaps he was, not from choice but because that was the kind of friend he thought I wanted.

Donohue was right: I hadn’t really known Dick Fleming. Who he was, what moved him. I saw his body flung into the air, then crumpling, rolling. I wanted him back. I wanted to hold him naked in bed, stare into those guileless blue eyes, and whisper, ‘Who are you?’ I think he would have told me.

‘He had class,’ Jack Donohue said.

‘You have class,’ Jannie Shean said.

‘No,’ he said sadly, ‘all I got is front. I know it.’

At the same time I realized I had been hardened. I could feel it in my bones. I am speaking now not of Jannie Shean, a novelist, mother of Chuck Thorndike, Mike Cantrell, Buck Williams, Pat Slaughter, and Brick Wall. I am speaking of Bea Flanders, nee Jannie Shean, refugee, criminal, and most-wanted. I had learned the argot, habits, fears, precautions, cruelties, and cunning of the lawbreaker on the run.

When I had been casing the Brandenberg job, I had felt something of that: me against society, everyone’s hand raised against me. I had found a kind of wild exhilaration in it: rebel versus the establishment. Now I felt no excitement. Only a savage resolve. Simply to exist. Acknowledging that I had turned a corner in my life and could never go back.

‘He was a marvelous lover,’ Jack Donohue said. ‘You know?’

‘Yes,’ Jannie Shean said. ‘I know.’

‘He was so fucking elegant,’ Black Jack said.

He wanted to talk about Dick Fleming, to remember

him. Bea Flanders didn’t. I wanted to forget the dead and get on with the perilous business of living.

After that bullet-studded getaway at Whittier, we fled along backroads to Homerville, Donohue threading a maze of dirt lanes he remembered from his rum-running days. The Plymouth had no radio, but at Fargo we ditched the car and stole a Chevy pickup, the keys kindly left in the ignition. There was a scratchy radio in the cab, and we heard hourly broadcasts of the hunt that had been organized, the net drawing tight around us. ‘An arrest is expected momentarily.’

We took turns at the wheel, and north of Lake City in Florida ditched the Chevy pickup and caught a bus to Jacksonville. There, after spending half a day in a fleabag hotel, we bought a rackety heap in a used car lot. It was a ten-year-old Dodge. We paid cash, gassed up, and headed south on Route 95 again.

In all these switches and changes, we had carefully transferred all our luggage. There was never a question of leaving anything behind; we didn’t discuss it. We even brought along the suitcase containing Dick Fleming’s clothes, and toilet articles.

During the time we spent in Jacksonville, I found a drugstore that was open and bought hair bleach, dye, and some other things. We changed Donohue to a straw-colored blond, a process that took more than six hours. His eyebrows were lightened with white mustache wax and he donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

The next day, at St Augustine, Jack bought maroon slacks, white socks, leather strap sandals, and a short-sleeved sport shirt in a wild tropical print. He wore the tails loose, over his belt, not only to look like every other tourist on his way to Disney World, but also to conceal the revolver he carried at the small of his back.

We knew there had been no photos taken of Bea Flanders; the best they’d have would be a police artist’s sketch or a retouched photo of Jannie Shean. So I stuck with the curly red wig, heavy makeup, falsies under a tight sweater, and floppy slacks with wide cuffs above high-heeled shoes.

Also, for additional camouflage, we bought a cheap camera which Jack wore suspended from his neck on a leather strap. And I put away my Gucci shoulder bag, and carried a straw tote bag that had ‘Florida’ and a palm tree woven on the side. The only thing we lacked were three messy-faced kids, screeching and blowing bubblegum.

We spent the next night at Daytona Beach, and realized Christmas had come and gone. We went out separately the next morning and bought each other gifts. I gave Jack an electric shaver and he bought me a string bikini (too small) and a blue velour beach coverup (too large). But we kissed, and it wasn’t the worst day-after-Christmas I’ve ever spent.

We cut over to Orlando, traded in the ancient Dodge, and bought a two-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass. In all these trades and buys, Jack had to use his identification. We had no doubt that our trail would be picked up eventually. All we hoped to accomplish was to confuse our pursuers long enough for us to get to Miami. There we could hole up in a safe place and figure our next move. We were still carrying more than five thousand in cash, plus the big, valuable pieces from the Brandenberg heist. It was, we figured, enough to get us through with maybe another switch of cars before we arrived in southern Florida.

Got back onto Route 95 again and headed south past Cocoa, Palm Bay, Vero Beach. We stayed the night in West Palm Beach, dined well on broiled dolphin, and went to a disco late in the evening. We didn’t dance; just watched. Then we went back to our motel and made love.

It wasn’t the first time we had had sex since Dick Fleming’s death, but the intensity hadn’t diminished. We coupled like survivors, like the plague was abroad in the land and we had to prove we were alive. Between paroxysms I questioned Jack about his family, his youth, what he had done, how he had lived. Never again did I want to mourn a stranger.

But reticence had become such an ingrained part of him that I couldn’t break through. And even when he did reveal something — an event, an incident, a triumph, a failure — I never knew whether or not to believe him. He had told me to doubt everything he said, and he had taught me too well.

He did say this …

‘I used to go to the track all the time. In the grandstand, you know, or standing at the rail. And I’d turn and look up at the clubhouse, and I’d see these men and women. No different from me and you. I mean, in my head I knew they were no different. They ate and shit. They were going to die. But to me, they were different. The way they dressed. Moved. Watching the race through binoculars worth more than I owned. Laughing and drinking their champagne from those swell glasses. Class. I mean, they had class.’

‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘They had money.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe,’ he said. ‘But with some of them it was more than that. I mean, you can look at a good colt and see the breeding. The build, the way it carries its head, the way it steps out. You just know. Good blood there. Good breeding. Well fed and cared for, of course. That’s where the money comes in. But also, a thoroughbred could be hauling an ice wagon, thin as a pencil, bones sticking out, sores, and you’d still spot it. If you knew what to look for. It’s class, Jannie: the greatest thing in the world. And the people in that clubhouse had it.’

‘An accident of birth.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I agree. Not something they did. Something they were born to, just like that frisky colt bouncing along and tossing his beautiful head. But that’s what I wanted. To be. To have. All my life. When I was in the bucks, I bought the right clothes and went to the right places. I learned how to act. The small fork for the salad — right? But the headwaiter always knew, and I knew he knew. Slip him enough and you’d get a good table and good service. You’d think you were in, until you saw how he treated the class people. Maybe they didn’t even tip him dime one, but he kissed their ass. They were something special, you see. And no matter how much I paid him, he knew I was just a redneck in drag, with punk between my toes and calluses if you looked close enough.’

‘Just shut up and lie back,’ I said fiercely. ‘Let me pleasure you.’

‘All right,’ he said faintly.

After a while, just before he fell asleep, he murmured, ‘I’ll never make it.’

‘Sure you will. We’ll be in Miami tomorrow.’

‘No,’ he said drowsily, ‘not that.’

Jack drove the Cutlass on the final leg south toward Miami. For some reason, I couldn’t fathom, the closer we came to journey’s end, the slower he seemed to move. He cut over to Federal Highway #1, and we got caught in heavy seasonal traffic. We were stopped at traffic lights every mile or so, instead of buzzing along on Route 95 where signs warned of going too slow.

Also, when we halted for breakfast and lunch, he dawdled over his food. I asked him why he was stalling. He just shook his head and wouldn’t answer. I wondered if he feared what awaited us in Miami. I wondered if he was plotting to ditch me and take off with the Brandenberg gems. I even wondered if he was planning to kill me.

You see, in my new role as veteran criminal, I had learned mistrust. I carried a loaded pistol in my tote bag and slept with it under the pillow. The same gun I had bought from Uncle Sam ages and ages ago.

We were driving through Boca Raton when Donohue said: ‘Listen, babe, maybe it would be smart not to go right into Miami. They’re sure to be looking for us there. So why don’t we stay outside the city and only drive in to do our business — arrange for the plane and new ID and all. But we won’t actually stop in Miami. Just drive in and out. Cut the risk.’

I thought about that a moment. It made sense.

‘Where do you want to stay, Jack?’ I asked him.

‘Maybe Pompano Beach,’ he said. ‘I know the area. It’s like forty-five minutes, maybe an hour from Miami, depending on the traffic. We’ll take a place right on the beach.’

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘We can get some sun, do some swimming.’

‘Uh, I can’t rightly swim,’ he said. ‘Not more’n a few strokes in a mud crick. But I like the beach. Especially at night. I really go for the beach at night. Wait’ll you see the moon come right up out of the water. It’s so pretty. Just like a picture postcard.’

We turned left onto Atlantic Boulevard and drove toward the ocean. The bridge was up over the Intracoastal Waterway, and we waited about ten minutes in a long line of cars while a beautiful white yacht went by.

‘Four people on that boat,’ I said, ‘and they’re holding up about a hundred cars.’

‘So? They own a yacht; they’re entitled. This place we’re going to is called Rip’s. I stayed there a couple of times when I was playing the local tracks. I mean, it’s right on the beach. Step out the door and you’re in the water. Rip’s gets a lot of horseplayers and a swinging crowd. Guys boffing their secretaries — like that.’

‘Swell,’ I said. ‘We’ll fit right in.’

‘That’s what I figured,’ he said seriously. ‘We’ll try to get an efficiency. That’s got a refrigerator and a little stove. So we can cook in if we like. Mostly we’ll eat out, but we can have breakfast in and keep sandwich stuff handy.’

He wasn’t exaggerating about Rip’s being close to the water. It wasn’t more than fifty feet to the high-tide mark, a two-story structure of cinder blocks with a Spanish-type tile roof, all painted a dazzling white. It was built in a U-shape, with a small swimming pool and grassed lounging area between the arms of the U. I thought that was crazy: a swimming pool so close to the Atlantic. But I learned later that most beachfront motels had pools, and they got a bigger play than the ocean.

I went into the office with Jack to register. He signed the card ‘Mr and Mrs Sam Morrison.’ Residence: New York City. The clerk looked down at it, then looked up.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Mr Morrison? There was a guy here just the other day asking for you.’

Donohue played it perfectly.

‘Oh?’ he said coolly. ‘When was that?’

‘Let’s see … not yesterday, but the day before.’

‘A short, heavyset man? A real sharp dresser? Wears a vest, hat, bowtie?’

‘Yeah,’ the clerk said. ‘That’s the man. Said he’s a friend of yours. Wondered if you’d checked in yet.’

‘I’ll give him a call,’ Jack said. ‘I told him we’d be here, but we got tied up a couple of days with car trouble.’

We rented an efficiency, a ground-floor corner apartment. We could look out a big picture window, and there was sand, sea, and, if we could have seen it, Spain.

‘Is this smart?’ I asked Donohue. ‘Staying here? If Rossi has been around?’

‘Sure it’s smart,’ he said. ‘He’s already checked the place out, so he probably won’t be coming back. It’s safer than a place he hasn’t been yet.’ That made sense, logically. But I had been doing some heavy, heavy thinking. Part of the changes I was going through. I was evolving a new philosophy, and logic didn’t have much to do with it. Well … maybe not a philosophy, but an awareness of how things were, and how things worked.

It seemed to me I had come into a world totally different from the one I had known before. That had been a world that, despite occasional misadventure, was based on reason. Bills arrived and were paid. Traffic lights worked and most streets and avenues were one-way. I paid my rent, bought gas, had sex, wrote novels, traveled, read books, went to the theater — all with the expectation of waking the next morning and finding the world, my world, relatively unchanged. It was a stable existence. There was order, a meaningful arrangement of events.

I thought, in my ignorance and innocence, that all life was like that. It was the way society was organized.

But now I found myself in a netherworld where irrationality reigned. It wasn’t only that I had become a creature of chance and accident, although they were certainly present. It was that my world had become fragmented, without system or sequence. There was no clarity or coherence. I couldn’t find meaning.

Perhaps we would succeed in leaving the country with the Brandenberg jewels. Perhaps not. Perhaps I would marry, or at least form a lasting relationship with Jack Donohue. Perhaps not. Perhaps he would desert me or kill me. It was possible.

Anything was possible. And, I discovered, an existence without order, in which anything might happen, is difficult to live. Nerves tingle with rootlessness. The brain is in a constant churn, attempting to compute permutations and combinations. One unconsciously shortens one’s frame of reference. The pleasure of the moment becomes more important than the happiness of the future. The future itself becomes a never-never land. The past is pushed into fog. Only the present has meaning.

That’s how we lived for almost two weeks — in the blessed present. We woke each morning about 8:00, had either a small breakfast in our room or walked down to Atlantic

Boulevard for pancakes or eggs in a restaurant. Then we bought local and New York newspapers at the Oceanside Shopping Center and walked back to Rip’s.

There was nothing in any of the papers concerning us or the Brandenberg robbery. Nothing on TV. More recent crimes had been committed. There were wars, floods, plane crashes, famines. The north was gripped in a cold wave that sent thousands of tourists and vacationers flocking south.

At about 10:00, we went out to the beach or sat at the motel pool. Jack usually stayed in the shade of a beach umbrella, wearing Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved polo shirt. I broiled myself in direct sunlight, wearing my too-small string bikini, a scarf tied around my hair so I didn’t have to sweat in that damned wig.

I doused myself in oil (Jack obligingly layered my back), and I grew a marvelous tan, the best I’ve ever had. We rarely ate lunch, but usually had a few gin-and-tonics in the afternoon. We met a few people, tourists staying for a few days, and talked lazily of this and that.

Then, when the sun had lost its strength, we went into our little efficiency apartment and napped, or made love, or both. In the evening we showered, dressed, and went out for dinner, a different place every day. Later we might stop at a bar or disco for a few nightcaps. Then home to bed, usually before midnight.

It was a totally mindless existence. I felt that, under that hot sun, my brain was turning to mush — and I loved it. Occasionally, during our first few days at Rip’s, I’d ask Jack when he was going into Miami to make arrangements. ‘Soon,’ he’d say. ‘Soon.’ After a while I stopped asking, it didn’t seem important. The money hadn’t run out yet.

I think that, in a way, we were both catching our breath at Rip’s. I was toasting my body brown and swimming in the high surf. Jack was lying slumped in blued shadow, as torpid as a lizard on a rock. He wanted to go to the local horse and dog tracks, but didn’t. I wanted to go shopping, but didn’t. We simply existed, and woke each morning secretly pleased at our good fortune in being alive for another day.

But one morning we awoke and, while Donohue was checking his wallet, realized our cash reserve was shrinking.

Hardly at the panic level, but low enough to require replenishing. When money is going out freely, and nothing is coming in, the bankroll dwindles at a ferocious rate.

So Donohue decided to drive into Miami the next day. We discussed timing, procedures, and contingency plans. It was agreed that he would go alone, leaving the bulk of the Brandenberg loot in our apartment at Rip’s. But he would take one big necklace of startling beauty and value, just as a sample to show an interested fence, if he was able to locate one. Also, we would cut up one of the heavy chokers, prizing out individual stones. Those he would attempt to peddle wherever he could, for ready cash.

Til be back by 7:00 in the evening at the latest,’ he said. ‘Remember, that’s cut-off time. If I’m not back by then, or haven’t called, it means I’ve been nobbled. Then you grab what’s left of the ice and take off.’

‘Take off?’ I said. ‘How? Where to?’

‘Cab. Bus. Plane. Train. Walking. Do what you have to do. Just get out of here. Fast. Because if Rossi grabs me, I’m going to talk. Eventually. You know that, don’t you?’

I leaned forward to kiss him.

‘I know,’ I said, nodding. ‘But you said your luck’s running hot. You’ll come back.’

‘Sure I will, babe,’ he said, pouring on one of those high-powered grins. ‘I’m too mean to die; you know that.’

I looked at him critically. His bleached hair was now combed straight back from his forehead. His eyebrows were lightened, and he had grown a wispy moustache that we had attempted to dye with indifferent results. But I doubted if anyone would recognize him from a reported description.

I had an odd thought: that with his lightened hair and eyebrows, he resembled Dick Fleming. They could have been brothers.

We spent that evening cutting up the choker and prying out the diamonds. Then we went to bed early. Our sex that night was like our first time together when he had been fierce, hard, filled with desperate energy. He was a one-way lover again, taking what he wanted. He wore me out. Almost.

The next morning he left most of the remaining cash with me, wrapped the big necklace and loose stones in handkerchiefs and slid them in his inside jacket pocket. He carried a revolver in his belt and concealed an automatic pistol under the front seat of the car.

It was time for him to go. He paused a moment, frowning.

‘What is it?’ 1 said.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I may call you and tell you to bring the rest of the jewels to a certain place. You know?’

‘Sure.’

‘But I might be under a gun when I make that call. If I call you “Jan” or “Jannie,” you’ll know it’s okay and you can bring the stuff. But if I call you “Bea,” you’ll know someone’s forcing me to make the call. Got that?’

I nodded dumbly.

Then he kissed me.

‘See you around,’ he said.

‘Stop in any time,’ I said.

He smiled and was gone.

I went out to the beach and spread my towel, as far away from other sunbathers as I could get. I had brought along a quart thermos of chilled white wine, and I sipped that all afternoon and thought of nothing. Two men spoke to me, but I didn’t answer. After a while they moved away to easier pickings.

It was a smoky day, the sun in and out of clouds shaped like dragons. I lay there and felt myself, felt my skin burning and tight. I wanted to be naked. I wanted that sun inside me, searing and consuming.

I went back to the motel about 3:00 and took a hot shower to take the sting away. Then I put on a loose shift and did more typing. I had persuaded Donohue to let me buy a portable, promising to type only during the day. Now 1 continued converting the handwritten legal pads to typed manuscript pages.

It was a mechanical job: no thinking required. If I wondered why I was doing it, what importance Project X could possibly have other than representing a horrible danger if the cops ever got hold of it, I suppose I thought of it as the last slender link with my past, with a world lost and gone, evidence of a corner turned.

The truth, I now believed, was that I didn’t want to die in an alley, as Hymie Gore had, or to be blown away on a dusty backwoods road, like Dick Fleming, without leaving this account of what had happened to me and how it happened. Project X was really my last will and testament.

I finished my typing for the day. Straightened up the pages, locked the ms. away in one of the suitcases. Then I poured myself a vodka over ice and settled to wait for Jack Donohue.

By 6:00 P.M., I had started to think coldly of what I would do if he didn’t return. I would consolidate my personal belongings, trying to jam clothes, the Brandenberg stones, Project X, and the guns into two suitcases and maybe into one shoulder bag. Then I’d call a cab. I’d go to Ft. Lauderdale airport and get a seat on a plane going anywhere. It didn’t really matter. I’d just go as far as I could. When the money ran out, I’d cut up more of the jewelry and peddle the stones. I’d change my name and try to change my appearance again. I’d start a new-

There was a key in the lock. Jack Donohue walked in, looking drained. I burst into tears and flew to him. I almost knocked him over.

‘Jesus Christ, baby,’ he said, ‘take it easy. I’m still in one piece.’

He wouldn’t tell me what had happened in Miami until we had eaten, saying he hadn’t had a bite all day and was famished. So we went to a seafood joint on the Intracoastal and ordered red snapper amandine. I picked at my food, but Donohue gobbled and went to the salad bar three times. The place was too crowded and too noisy for a private conversation.

Then we returned to Rip’s and mixed tall brandies with soda. We took our drinks out onto the beach. We went barefoot, Jack rolling up his cuffs. There were a few other beach strollers, but it seemed to me the sand and sea belonged to us alone.

There wasn’t a full moon — that would have been too much — but we watched a silver scythe come out of the ocean, and that was as pretty as Donohue had promised. The surf was pounding. Black waves rolled in and then crashed into white foam. We could feel the spray on our skin, driven by a moaning wind. There were scudding clouds, hard stars, a sky that went on forever.

There was a chill in the air, even in Florida, but the brandy helped, and the sand was still warm beneath our toes. It was such a natural scene: beach, ocean, sky, clouds, stars, moon, wind. It could have been perfect. But there were people.

‘There’s good news and bad news,’ Jack Donohue said. ‘I’ll give you the bad first.’

‘Thanks.’

‘The guys I thought 1 could depend on, I can’t. The few I called hung up on me. The few I saw turned around and walked the other way. A few who would talk told me I’m poison. The word’s got around. The Corporation was very heavy on this: You help’Jack Donohue and you spend the rest of your life with busted kneecaps, pushing yourself along on a little platform on wheels. If you’re lucky. Listen, I don’t blame the guys; they’ve mostly got wives and kids. Or girlfriends anyway.’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Also the charter planes,’ he went on. ‘The outfits that will fly anyone anywhere for a price. The Corporation had tipped them, too. Jack Donohue goes nowhere. Ditto the fences. They won’t touch me. That Rossi had been one busy little boy. As far as Miami goes, I got leprosy.’

‘If we give back the Brandenberg jewels?’ I asked.

‘No go. The Corporation wants the Donohue jewels. My family jewels.’

‘How about the good news now? I think I could stand some.’

He halted and I stopped beside him. We took a few sips of our drinks, looking up at that sparkling night.

‘The good news is this: I unloaded about half those loose stones in jewelry shops. More than twenty grand.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said faintly.

‘So we’re not hurting for cash. But you know where I peddled most of the rocks? In the Cuban section. Miami is full of Spies. And not only Cubans, but from all over South America. A lot of loose money there. I figure the smart guys are getting out of those banana republics before they get stood up against a wall and shot. And, there’s a lot of cash around from the dope trade. They’re running gage and coke in every hour on the hour. All cash deals, of course.

But money like that is hard to spend or get to Switzerland, say. That’s why I was able to get top dollar for the loose rocks. You can go anywhere in the world with a diamond up your ass.’

I remembered what Antonio Rossi had told me when he was Noel Jarvis: how easy it was to take precious gemstones across a border.

‘But the best thing is this,’ Jack said. ‘The Spies have their own organization. They’re not under the thumb of the Corporation. Oh sure, I guess they make deals now and then, but the South Americans are running the drugs on their own. And they got their own lotteries, cathouses, loansharks, betting parlors, and so forth. They don’t need the Corporation.’

‘You think maybe we can make a deal with the Cubans?’ I asked.

‘I think maybe we can,’ he said slowly. ‘I got onto a guy named Manuel Garcia. That’s like John Smith, in American. I flashed that big necklace I was carrying and I saw his eyes light up. I told him what we needed: a plane out of the country, passports, and visas, complete new IDs, no hassle in the country we’re going to. He said maybe it could be arranged. He said he’d talk to his people.’

‘How much would they want? The big necklace?’

‘Oh hell no. More than that. He mentioned a hundred G’s, casual-like, before I told him it would be for the two of us. Then he said a quarter of a mil, knowing my woman was involved. I figure I can get it for less than that. Maybe two-hundred thou.’

‘You trust him? This Manuel Garcia?’

‘That’s the trouble with this business,’ he said fretfully. ‘You’ve got to trust someone to get what you want. No, I don’t trust that greaser. Jesus Christ, he wears perfume! But right now he’s the only game in town.’

‘How did you leave it? What happens next?’

‘This Garcia is going to talk to his people, to see if they can deliver. I’ve got a Miami number to call. Every day at noon. I ask for Paco. If they’ve got no word for me yet, Paco will be out. When they’re ready to talk money and how the whole thing will be set up, Paco will tell me when to come back to Miami and where to meet.’ ‘Two hundred thousand is a lot of money,’ I said slowly.

‘Sure it is,’ Donohue agreed. ‘Until you remember we’ve got a couple of mil in those suitcases. At least. Also, it’s not all profit for them. They’ve got to pay the paper guys, the clerks in the consulate, the pilot of the plane, the guys on the other end. Everyone’s got to be oiled. So the two hundred G’s isn’t all that much. Not if it gets us out from under the Feds, Rossi, and the Corporation.’

Til drink to that,’ I said, draining my brandy.

Donohue finished his drink. Then he took the empty glass from my hand. With a wild, whirling motion, he threw both glasses as far out to sea as he could. I saw the glint in the moonlight. Then the faint splashes as the empty glasses hit the water and disappeared. Then there was only the dark, rolling ocean.

‘You think it’ll work?’ I said.

it’s got to work,’ he said fiercely. ‘Got to!’

We went back to our daily routine — breakfast, beach, drinks, dinner, sex, sleep — except that each day at noon Donohue called the Miami phone number he had been given and asked for Paco. For five days Paco was out and hadn’t left any message. On the sixth day there was a different reply, and Jack motioned to me for a pad and pen, saying into the phone: ‘Yes. I’ve got it. Repeat that address. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh, I understand. Fine.’

He hung up and looked down at the scrawled notes he had made.

‘I go to Miami tomorrow. They claim they can deliver what we need.’

‘You want me to come with you?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘this is just to negotiate the deal. What they want, what we’ll pay, the timing, and so on.’

‘Are you going to take the loot with you?’

‘My God, no! I’ll leave it here with you.’

‘Just make sure you’re not followed back here.’

He looked at me disgustedly.

‘My pappy didn’t raise me to be an idiot.’

It started raining that night, and in the morning the TV weather forecaster spouted technical jargon about a stationary low-pressure area off the Florida coast. He remarked cheerfully that the rain would continue for at least another forty-eight hours, driving conditions were hazardous, small-craft warnings were in effect from the Palm Beaches south to the Keys. And of course he added: ‘Have a nice day!’

Jack Donohue took off for Miami in a heavy rainstorm whipped by a twenty-mile-an-hour wind that tore at palm fronds and rattled the motel windows. There was enough to eat and drink in our refrigerator; no way was I going to venture out until that crazy weather calmed.

After breakfast I started typing again, and just before noon finished transcribing my handwritten manuscript. Now I was up to date on Project X — 462 pages ready for posterity. I then tore up the pages written in longhand and dumped the pieces in the garbage. One copy of that damning manuscript was all I needed — or wanted.

I took time out for a sandwich and a can of beer, then got started on the luggage. I put aside all of Dick Fleming’s clothes and personal belongings, plus a few things we still had that belonged to Hymie Gore. There was a Salvation Army bin outside one of the local supermarkets, and I figured that would be a good place to dump what we didn’t want.

That left one suitcase for Jack, one for me, and a third for the Brandenberg loot. The guns went into two shoulder bags, wrapped in towels stolen from various motels along our escape route.

Then 1 tidied up, showered, washed my hair, did my nails. I was tempted to call Sol Faber, call Aldo Binder, call my sister. But their phones could be tapped — it was possible — and besides, what could I say — ‘It’s raining here; how is it there?’

All these activities, I told myself, were just a way of killing time until Jack Donohue returned. But there was more to it than that. I was preparing for departure; I felt it. The storm had hidden the sun and ended the days of mindless basking. We had caught our breath, rested, and let time dull the memories of what had happened. Now we had to move on.

Antonio Rossi wasn’t lolling in the sun or walking the beach at night, and I knew the Feds sure as hell weren’t. They were all busy, every day and every night. Sooner or later, if we stayed where we were, they would zero in on us.

It was as simple as that: We couldn’t hide; we had to run.

Donohue returned about 4:30 P.M. He was soaked through, his face drawn, his teeth chattering. He peeled off his wet clothes and got under a hot shower. By the time he came out, I had a cup of hot black coffee and a big glass of brandy waiting for him. He gulped both greedily, cursing when the coffee scalded his tongue. He solved that problem by pouring brandy into his cup.

We sat awhile without speaking, listening to the rain smashing against the windows. The wind was a low moan, like a child crying. Occasionally lightning flared over the ocean; thunder rumbled like distant guns.

I looked at Jack. He had stopped shivering, but kept both hands wrapped around his coffee cup. His wet hair was plastered to his scalp. He had lost his color; his face was pale and shiny. His eyes showed tiredness and strain. He slumped at the table, shoulders bowed, head hanging. My hero.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked finally.

He groaned. ‘I had lunch with those banditos. Chicken and rice, with a pepper sauce hot enough to bring the sweat popping. It didn’t seem to bother them, but it sure as hell did me in. I can still taste that crap.’

‘Where was. this?’

‘A little grocery store on a rat-trap street in the Cuban section. It had a small restaurant in back. Four booths. I think the grocery part was just a front. Lots of traffic, but no one bought any groceries that I could see. Might have been a betting drop, or maybe they were peddling happy dust. Anything is possible on that street.’

‘How did you make out?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he said, sighing. ‘What they want is this: that necklace I showed Manuel Garcia the first time we met, plus another one of equal value.’

‘My God, Jack, that’s almost half a million!’

‘Retail value maybe,’ he reminded me. ‘About thirty percent of that from a fence. And worth absolutely nothing wrapped up in a towel in our suitcase.’

I couldn’t deny that, but it was hateful that others should profit from our suffering and fear.

‘What do we get out of it?’

‘Passports, visas, Social Security cards, drivers licenses — the works. For Arthur and Grace Reynolds, residents of Chicago. That’s us. Plus a plane ride, all expenses paid.’

‘Where to?’

• ‘How does Costa Rica grab you?’

I thought a moment.

‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I don’t know where it is, exactly.’

‘Central America. Between Nicaragua and Panama.’

‘And we can live there?’

‘With the right papers, which they’ll furnish. The permits will have to be renewed every so often, but they claim they’ve got some local officials in their pocket and we’ll have no problem.’

‘We’re taking a lot on faith,’ I said.

‘We got a choice?’ he demanded.

‘You agreed to everything they asked for?’

‘Not all of it. We kicked it around for a while.’ He showed his teeth in a cold grin that had no humor in it. ‘Those were hard boys, babe. There was this Manuel Garcia plus two other desperadoes who I would not care to meet in a dark alley. When the argument was going hot and heavy, one of them took out a shiv big enough to gut a hog and started cleaning his nails. He just kept staring at me with those black button eyes and using this sticker on his filthy nails. Nice, civilized people. Made me feel right at home.’

‘I hope you had your gun handy.’

‘Handy? In my lap, babe, in my lap! Under the tablecloth. One wrong move and there would have been three greasy clunks, believe me. I think this Garcia knew it, because he told the other guy to put his blade away.’

‘What were you arguing about?’

‘First of all they wanted both necklaces before they delivered the papers and we got on the plane. I said no way. One necklace before we left and the other handed over to their man in Costa Rica when we got there safely. Garcia finally agreed. Also, I insisted that at the final meet here, Garcia come alone with the passports and stuff. I figured that would cut down the possibilities of a cross. But he said we’d have to have passport photos made, and his paperman would have to be there to trim them, paste them in, and put the stamp on them. So I okayed the one guy but no one else. Garcia agreed to that. Finally we argued about where the final meet would be made. Garcia wanted it right there at midnight, after the grocery store closed. I wasn’t about to go into the back room of that place after dark. So they jabbered awhile in Spanish. I know a few words, but not enough to follow what they were saying. Finally Garcia suggested an old wreck of a hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. I think that they use it for a dope drop. It’s somewhere between Golden Shores and Sunny Isles.’

‘Golden Shores and Sunny Isles?’ I said incredulously. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘What’s so funny? That’s what they’re called. So I said I’d look the place over this afternoon, and if it was okay I’d call him and the deal would be on.’

Manuel Garcia had given Jack very exact directions on how to find the deserted hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. It was just east of North Miami Beach, less than ten miles from where they had met in the Cuban grocery store. But still, Jack got lost twice and it took him almost an hour to find the place.

He had spent another hour driving around the area in the rain, reconnoitering approach routes and roads that could be used for an emergency escape. Then he had parked the car and inspected the wrecked hotel on foot, which was when he got soaked through.

He said he figured the hotel had been built in the 1920s, during one of the first Florida booms. Originally it had been an ornate white clapboard structure with a lot of gingerbread trim. There was a main building with a pillared portico, and two wings. But one of the wings had been destroyed by fire and was now just a mess of blackened timbers fallen into the basement. The rest of the hotel had been beaten gray by wind, sun, and rain.

All the windows were broken, part of the roof of the main building had collapsed, and the outside doors hung crazily from rusted hinges. Donohue said the hotel grounds were separated from other buildings and lots in the area by a high chainlink fence with a padlocked gate. There were No Trespassing signs posted all over.

But the fence had been cut through in several places, and Jack thought the grounds and falling-down building were used by local kids for picnics, pot parties and — from the number of discarded condoms he saw — for what he called ‘screwing bees.’

He said the hotel was on about a four-acre plot, and back in the 1920s there must have been lawns, gardens, brick walks, palm trees, and tropical shrubbery. But at some time, maybe during a hurricane, the waters of the bay had risen, inundated the grounds, and lapped at the base of the hotel.

‘You can still see the high-water mark,’ Jack said. ‘About halfway up to the second-floor windows.’

Now the ruined building was in the center of a mud flat — nothing left but patches of scrub grass and a few ground creepers. The palm trees were all gone, and any other plants of value had died or been stolen. Even the bricks from the walks had been dug up and carted off. The grounds were dotted with piles of dog faeces, so local residents were probably using the place to run their hounds.

The front door had a faded legal notice tacked onto it, warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. It was closed with a chain and padlock, but that was silly since all the first-floor windows were broken and the French doors leading to the wide porch were swinging open.

Jack went in and found more evidence of picnics, barbecues, and bottle parties. The place was littered with moldy garbage, burned and sodden mattresses, empty beer cans, and bird droppings. He saw birds flying in and out of the upper windows and heard them up there. He figured they were nesting. In the rain, the whole place smelled of corruption and death.

He went outside again and picked his way down to the bay, where more offal floated in the water. There was a rotting dock, the piles covered with slime and a thick crust of barnacles. There was no beach worth the name; just garbage-choked water lapping at garbage-clotted land.

‘I’ll bet Garcia and his laughing boys are using it for a drug drop,’ Donohue said. ‘A mother ship comes up the coast from Central or South America. It’s International Waters, so the Coast Guard can’t touch it. Small boats go out at night and the cargo is off-loaded. Or maybe they just dump it overboard in waterproof bales. The small boats pick it up and run it in. The cruddy dock would be a perfect place to unload the small boats and transfer the grass and coke to vans and trucks.’

‘Well … what do you think?’ I asked him. ‘How safe is it?’

He shrugged. ‘Not perfect — but what is? The thing I like about it is that there’s only one narrow road coming up to that front gate. There’s no way to get to the place except by that road. What I figure we’ll do is get there an hour or two before the meet. We’ll go through every room to make sure no one’s been planted to wait for us and then jump out and shout “Surprise!” Then, if it really is empty, we’ll pull out and watch the place from a distance through my binocs. If one car pulls up, and only two guys get out, then we’ll go in. But while we’re in there, one of us will be watching that road all the time. Another car comes anywhere near and we take off.’

‘Then what?’

‘We play it by ear,’ he said. ‘We’re going in there with enough guns to take Fort Knox.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘suppose this Garcia is there with the passport forger, just like he promised. We hand over the necklace and he gives us the papers. When do we get on the plane?’

‘He said he’d tell us when we hand over the rocks.’

I groaned. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘there’s a dozen ways he could cross us.’

‘A dozen? I can think of a hundred! The papers can be so lousy they wouldn’t fool a desk clerk. Garcia and his paperman can pull iron on us. They can let us go and mousetrap us on the road out. Maybe the plane will be rigged to blow up over the water. Maybe the pilot will bail out after takeoff and just wave goodbye. Maybe we’re being set up on the other end. We step off the plane in Costa Rica and the whole goddamned army is waiting for us. Jesus Christ, Jan, if they want to cross us, they can do it. You want to call it off? I haven’t phoned Garcia yet.’

I thought a long time, trying to figure the best thing to do. But there was no ‘best thing,’ no right choice. All our options were dangerous, all possibilities tainted.

‘I told you,’ Donohue said, ‘if yoif want to take half the ice and split, that’s up to you. I won’t try to stop you.’

. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll stick with you. But if we don’t go for this Costa Rica deal, then what?’

‘You know what,’ he said grimly. ‘We go on the run again, maybe across country to L.A. Never staying more than a few days in one place. Trying to keep a step ahead of Rossi and the Feds. Prying out stones and peddling them when our cash runs out. Is that what you want?’

I had a sudden dread vision of what that life would be like.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t stand that. There’s no chance at all that way. The Feds or the Corporation would catch up with us eventually; I know they would. All right, Jack. Call Garcia and tell him it’s on.’

‘It’ll be okay,’ he said, patting my cheek. ‘You’ll see.’

‘Sure.’

Donohue called the Paco number in Miami. He spoke a short time in guarded phrases. That day was Tuesday. The meet was set for 3:00 P.M. on Thursday. That would give us time to have passport photos made. After we handed over the necklace, and received our new identification papers, Garcia would give us the details of where and when to board the plane for the flight to Costa Rica.

After Jack hung up, we started on a bottle of vodka. Neither of us felt like eating. I suppose we were too keyed up. Read ‘frightened’ for ‘keyed up.’ Anyway, we drank steadily, talking all the time in bright, hysterical voices, laughing sometimes, choking on our own bright ideas.

What we were trying to do was to imagine every possible way Manuel Garcia could betray us and what we could do to prevent it. We devised what we thought were wise precautions and counterploys. We had no intention of crossing Garcia. We would play it straight. All we wanted to do was stay alive.

When we finally fell into bed around midnight, we were too mentally and emotionally exhausted to have any interest in sex. All we could do was hold each other, shivering occasionally.

We listened to the storm outside, heard the lash of rain and the smash of thunder, saw the room light up with a bluish glare when lightning crackled overhead.

That’s the way we fell asleep, hearing the world crack apart.

The next day the thunder and lightning had ceased, but the sky was low and leaden. Vicious rain squalls swept in from the southeast. Even when it wasn’t raining, the air seemed supersaturated. My face felt clammy, fabrics were limp and damp. Water globules clung to the hood of the Cutlass, and all the cars on the road had their headlights on and wipers going.

We got rid of all the last possessions of Hymie Gore and Dick Fleming. We found a place that took passport photos and waited there until they were processed and printed. We bought a few things we thought might be hard to find in Costa Rica: aspirin, vitamin pills, suntan lotion, water purification tablets — things like that. We really had no idea of what the country was like, where we would be living, what modern conveniences might be available. We were emigrants setting out for an unknown land.

In the evening we continued our packing, trying to discard everything not absolutely essential. Winter garments from up north were eliminated: gloves, scarves, knitted hats, wool skirts and shirts. We set aside the necklace we would deliver to Manuel Garcia and selected another we thought of equal value. It was about then we got into a brutal argument. It was about time; our nerves were twanging.

On the following day, Thursday, when we left for our meeting with Garcia at the deserted hotel, Jack Donohue wanted to take all our luggage (including the Brandenberg loot) in the Oldsmobile, checking out of Rip’s.

I said that was foolish. If we were bushwhacked at the hotel, we stood to lose everything. The smart thing to do, I said, was to go armed, taking only the single necklace we had promised. If everything went according to plan, we could then return to Rip’s and load up before we departed to board the plane.

‘Listen,’ Donohue said, ‘we’ve got to allow at least an hour for the trip from here to the hotel. What if we deliver the rocks and Garcia says we’ve got to get on a plane right away? Then where are we? No time to come back here and pick up our stuff.’

‘Then we’ll stall,’ I said. ‘Tell him no deal. Tell him we need at least two hours to get our luggage.’. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said angrily, ‘you think they run these Micky Mouse flights on a regular schedule? We get on the plane they’ve got lined up at the time they say or we don’t go at all.’

‘Then we don’t go at all!’ I said, just as furiously. ‘We’re not walking into that lion’s den carrying everything we own. That’s just plain stupid. We’ll go down there with-’

‘We’ll!’ he shouted.’We’ll do this. We won’t do that. Who the hell voted you the great brain? I call the shots!’

‘In a pig’s ass you do!’ I yelled, spluttering in an effort to get it all out. ‘You really did a swell job of calling the shots, you did! Heading for Miami when every cop in the country knew it was your home base. Getting Hymie and Dick killed because of some nutty dream that you’d be treated like King Tut once you got to Miami. And then you discover they don’t want to know you.’

‘You think I couldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for you?’ he screamed, white with fury. ‘Fucking woman! I had to nurse you along, hold your hand while you jumped a roof a ten-year-old kid could have stepped across. You’ve been a goddamned jinx. You and Fleming. All the way. Without you two schmucks, I’d have been out of the country right now, living high off the hog. What an idiot I was! I should have known better. I should have ditched the two of you in New York. Left you for Rossi to take care of. You’ve been nothing but trouble. You junked me up. And now you’re telling me how to run things? Take off. Go on, beat it. I’m sick of the sight of you.’

‘You shithead!’ I said. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed. Go ahead. I couldn’t care less. You’ve got no goddamned brains. Go on. Take all the stuff to Garcia and just hand it over. “Here it is, Mr Garcia, and I hope it’s enough.” And don’t forget to kiss his ass. But include me out, you fucking … peasant!’

We stood there trembling, glaring at each other. I think if one of us had said another word, we would have been at each other’s throats. Perhaps we both knew it, because we said nothing. Just bristled. Then Jack turned away. He walked to the window. He thrust his hands into his pockets. He stood there, staring out at the rain-whipped night.

I slumped into a chair, leaned back. I stretched out my legs. I lighted a cigarette with shaking fingers. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all. Just trying to regain control. Telling myself it was nerves. That’s all: just nerves. But I hadn’t cried, I reminded myself grimly. I was proud of that: I hadn’t wept.

Jack Donohue spoke first. He was still staring out the window, his back to me. And he spoke in such a low voice I could hardly hear him.

‘That week at Mrs Pearl’s,’ he said. ‘You and Dick and me. Together. That was the happiest time I ever had in my whole miserable life.’

I stubbed out my cigarette. I rose and went to him. I took him by the shoulders and turned him so that we were facing. Close. Staring into each other’s eyes.

it was the happiest time for me, too,’ I told him. ‘Absolutely the happiest. No matter what happens we had that, didn’t we?’

‘Yes,’ he said wonderingly. ‘That’s right. We had that. No matter what happens.’

He sighed deeply. ‘We’ll do it your way, Jan. Weil go down there tomorrow with just the one necklace. Fuck ‘em. Weil get on that goddamned plane when we want to. We’re paying for it.’

‘Whatever you say, Jack,’ I said gently. ‘You’re the boss.’

The rain had stopped by Thursday morning, but a clumpy fog had moved in. It was like living in a murky fishbowl. We could hear the ocean but couldn’t see it. When we walked down to Atlantic Boulevard for a pancake breakfast, we saw a dead pelican on the road, all bloodied and muddied. A great way to start the most important day in our lives.

Back at the motel, Jack cleaned and reloaded the guns we’d take: a pistol in his raincoat pocket, a revolver in his belt. Another pistol concealed in the car. I would carry a pistol in my raincoat pocket and a small revolver in my shoulder bag.

‘Babe,’ Jack said, ‘if you have to blast — you won’t, but if you have to — don’t, for Christ’s sake, take the time to pull the iron out of your pocket first. Just aim as best you can and blow right through the raincoat. It may catch fire, but that’ll be the least of our worries. Keep your hand on the shooter in your pocket every minute we’re in there. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

We started out at noon, paused to gas up, then went south on Federal Highway #1. Jack was driving, leaning forward to peer through the murk. Traffic was moving very slowly; most of the cars had their lights on.

After we got below Golden Shores, I couldn’t follow the twists and turns Donohue was taking, except that I knew we were off Federal and generally heading eastward. There were no road markers. We seemed to be passing through an area of tidal flats, vacant fields, and fenced lots choked with palmettos, scrub pines, and yellow grass.

‘You’re sure you know-’ I began.

‘Don’t worry,’ Donohue said tensely. ‘I know.’

He did, too. We finally turned into a single-lane road. It might have been tarred originally, but now it showed bald patches of sodden earth and weeds sprouting from cracks. We followed the lazy curves going slowly. Then, on the right-hand side, I saw a chainlink fence, bent, dented, and rusted.

‘That’s it,’ Jack said. ‘This is the only road in, the only road out.’

We came up to the sagging gate and stopped.

‘Take a look,’ he said.

I looked. In that swirling fog, the hotel was a ghosts’ mansion. It was silvered with age, glistening with damp, and it loomed. That’s the only way I can describe it: It loomed through the mist, enlarged and menacing. I saw black birds circling and darting into upper windows. I saw the nude grounds, puddled, still shining from the past two days’ rain.

I tried to imagine how it had been, white and glittering, a place for ladies in long gowns with parasols and men with straw boaters and high, starched collars. People laughing and moving slowly along brick walks under lush palm trees. I tried to imagine all this but I couldn’t. It was all gone.

‘Think they’ve got a suite for us?’ I said, laughing nervously. ‘Two rooms with a view?’

‘Let’s go take a look.’

We got out of the car and crawled carefully through a cut in the fence. We tried to avoid the puddles, but the ground squished beneath our steps. My shoes were soaked through before we got to the porch.

We stepped up the rotting stairs, keeping close to the sides where the sag wasn’t so apparent. Then I smelled it.

‘Jesus!’ I breathed.

‘Yeah,’ Donohue said. ‘And it’s worse inside. Breathe through your mouth.’

We went in through one of those broken French doors. It was just as Jack had described it: soaked garbage, offal, all the detritus of a dwelling place abandoned and left open. We went up to the fourth floor, the top except for an attic that appeared open to the lowering sky.

We sent colonies of birds into a flurry of activity. I was certain I heard the scamper of rats. And once I did see a small snake slither behind a baseboard.

We looked hastily into every room, not a difficult job since most of the doors had been removed. There was evidence, as Jack had said, of pot and bottle parties, of fires and wanton destruction, of the terrible inroads age makes. On buildings. On people. Everything goes.

Back on the ground floor, we wandered about until Jack selected a large, high-ceilinged chamber that had probably been the dining room. Broken French doors opened out onto the sagging porch and a side terrace. Most important, from two sides we had a good view of the access road. We could see our own car dimly, parked at the gate.

‘This is where we’ll meet,’ Donohue decided. ‘I’ll do the talking. I mean,’ he added hastily, ‘if you want to say anything, you say it. But mostly you keep an eye on that road beyond the gate. You see another car pulling up, or anything fishy, you let me know.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll scream.’

‘Good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We got a little more than an hour. We’ll go back to the junction and park where we can watch who comes in.’

And that’s what we did, retracing that cracked road until we came to the paved junction that, Donohue told me, led eventually back to the Federal Highway. We were in a neighborhood of one-story cinderblock homes, some with front yards of green gravel, a few with boats on trailers in their garage driveways.

We parked there, settled down, lighted cigarettes, and waited. Jack had brought his binoculars, but they were of no use. That misty fog was still so thick we could see no more than twenty or thirty yards. But we could make out the turnoff to that road leading to the deserted hotel.

Sitting there, closed around by the fog, swaddled in silence, we talked slowly in murmurs. Jack wanted to know all about my life. Mostly my childhood. Where I had been born, where I lived, the places I had visited.

But mainly he wanted to know how I had lived when I was growing up. How many rooms did our various homes have? Did we have servants? How many cars did we own? Did we belong to a country club? Did I attend private schools? How much money did my parents spend on my clothes? What kind of presents did I get for Christmas?

It wasn’t just curiosity, I knew; it was a hunger. He wanted a firsthand view into a world he coveted, a vision of moneyed ease. He saw it as a life in sunlight. Beautiful women and handsome men sat around on a seafront terrace, sipped champagne and nibbled caviar served by smiling servants. It was class.

I didn’t have the heart to disabuse him. So I embellished my descriptions of what childhood was like when there was money for everything, people were polite and kind, and life was a golden dream in which every wish was granted. He kept smiling and nodding away, as if what I told him was no more than he had envisioned. I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t imagined a thousand times. There was a world like that; he knew it, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

But then, a few minutes after three, he straightened up behind the wheel.

‘Car coming,’ he said in a tight voice.

We both leaned forward, squinting through the fogged windshield. It was a big black car, a Cadillac, and it came to the access road, slowed, then made the turn.

‘How many men did you see?’ Donohue demanded.

‘Two. In the front seat.’

‘That’s what I saw. We’ll follow them in.’

He started up. We turned into the tarred road leading to the hotel. The black car ahead of us was lost in the mist. We found it parked outside the gate in the chainlink fence. We saw two men picking their way across the littered grounds to the hotel.

Jack grunted with satisfaction.

‘The short guy is Garcia,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of that. The tall gink must be the paperman. We’ll wait till they get inside.’

When the two men disappeared into the hotel, Jack pulled up ahead of the Cadillac. Then, with much backing and hard cramping of the wheel, he turned the Cutlass around until we were heading back the way we had come, away from the hotel. Then we got out of the car. Donohue left the key in the ignition and the doors unlocked.

‘Just in case we wish to depart swiftly,’ he said with a thin smile.

We walked back to the Cadillac, inspected the back seat. Empty. Jack tried the trunk lid. It was locked.

‘Looks okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll go in now. You all set?’

‘Sure.’

He gave me one of his flashy grins, pulled me close, kissed my lips.

‘Win, lose, or draw, babe,’ he said, ‘it’s been fun.’

‘Hasn’t it?’

‘Let’s go.’

We stooped through the cut in the fence. We started toward the hotel. We both had right hands in our raincoat pockets. We must have looked like a pair of assassins.

Donohue paused a moment on the porch. He took a final look around. No one in sight. Nothing stirring.

‘Remember what I told you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Keep an eye on that road. If I make a play, be ready to cover my back. And be ready to run.’

I nodded dumbly. Suddenly I needed to pee.

They were waiting for us in the hallway. The little one, Manuel Garcia, was wearing a clear plastic raincoat over a suit of horrendous green plaid. His pointy shoes were two-toned, yellow and brown. He wore a ruffled purple shirt with a wide tie in a wild carnation print. The knot was as big as my fist. His black hair was slicked back with pomade. He wore diamond rings on both pinkies, and when he grinned, gold sparkled in his front teeth.

Donohue had been right; I could smell his fruity perfume from six feet away.

The taller man, presumably the passport forger, was dressed like an undertaker: black shoes, black socks, a shiny black suit, a not-too-clean white shirt, a black tie hardly wider than a shoelace. He had a long, coffin-shaped face, badly pitted with acne or smallpox. He never looked directly at us. His pale eyes kept darting — left, right, up, down. I thought he was just shifty-eyed, but then I realized he was scared witless. He was carrying a brown paper bag and his hands were trembling so badly the paper kept crackling.

No introductions were offered, none asked.

‘Let’s go in there,’ Donohue said, gesturing toward the open door of the room he had selected.

‘Why not ri’ here?’ Garcia said. His voice was surprisingly deep, almost booming.

‘Too open,’ Jack said and cut short any further argument by leading the way into the dining room.

We trooped after him. I took up a position in the corner, away from the others. I stood at an angle where 1 could see the gate and the access road and also keep an eye on what was going on in the room.

I gripped the pistol in my raincoat pocket tightly, but kept my finger out of the trigger guard. Jack still had his hand in his raincoat pocket. Garcia, in that clear plastic coat, obviously had nothing in his pockets. And he carried his arms slighly out to the sides, palms turned outward, as if to prove his peaceful intentions.

‘You got the necklace?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Sure,’ Jack said. ‘Right here. You got the papers?’

‘Joe, you show him,’ Garcia said.

The three men were standing in a close group. There was no place to sit down, no chairs, no table, no sofa — nothing.

The undertaker fumbled open his paper bag. He pulled out a sheaf of documents. In his nervousness he dropped a card to the littered floor. He swooped quickly to retrieve it and tried to smile apologetically at Garcia. He held out the papers to Donohue.

I looked out at the gate and road. Only the two cars standing there. Nothing moving.

Donohue examined the papers carefully, taking his free hand from his gun pocket. If they were going to make a

move, this would be the time to do it. I watched carefully. But they made no move. Just waited patiently while Jack shuffled slowly through the documents, examining every page of the passports, the Social Security cards, the drivers licenses, the birth certificates.

He stopped suddenly. Raised his head. Glanced quickly toward me.

‘Road clear?’ he said.

I looked again.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

He frowned. ‘Thought I heard something.’

‘Maybe the wind,’ Garcia said, grinning. ‘Maybe the rain.’

‘Maybe,’ Jack said shortly. He went back to examining the papers.

‘You bring the pictures?’ Garcia said. ‘For the passports?’

‘Sure,’ Donohue said, nodding. ‘We got them.’

‘Good,’ Garcia said. ‘Jose, he’s got glue and the stamp. Firstclass work.’

Then I heard it. A dull, sodden thump.

‘Jack,’ I said.

He looked up.

‘I heard something,’ I said. ‘A low thud.’

‘A shutter banging,’ Garcia said, grinning. ‘That’s all.’

Donohue stared at him.

‘This place ain’t got shutters,’ he said.

Manuel Garcia shrugged. ‘A rat maybe. A big bird. A place like this, it’s got all kinds of noises. I think maybe you’re a little anxious — no?’

Donohue didn’t answer. He just stood there, his head cocked, listening. I looked again toward the road. Nothing moved there.

We all stood frozen, silent. Jack was still holding the papers.

Then we all heard it. Unmistakable now. A footfall on soft ground. I imagined I could hear the squish of the sodden earth.

‘You prick!’ Donohue screamed.

He threw the papers at Garcia’s face. But the other man was just as fast. He ducked. When he straightened up, miraculously there was a long knife in his hand. He held it flat, knuckles turned down. The blade glittered wickedly.

Jack started to reach into his pocket for his gun.

Garcia moved forward with little mincing steps. The knife point swung back and forth.

The passport forger gasped and dropped onto the filthy floor.

Garcia lunged.

Jack leaped backward.

‘Run!’ he yelled at me.

I fired through my raincoat pocket.

Garcia was suddenly slammed backward. He didn’t fall. He looked down at himself, not believing.

Jack had his gun out now.

He leaned toward Garcia, his arm out straight. He fired twice.

The man’s face swelled enormously. His mouth opened. His eyes popped. His tongue came lolling out. Then blood gushed from nose and ears. He melted down.

The paperman cowered on the floor. His arms were over his head.

Jack grabbed my arm. We ran.

I saw crouched figures coming across that dreary landscape. From the bay. From a boat on the bay. From the rotting dock.

Donohue yanked me back inside. We turned. Dashed to the other side. Climbed out a broken window. Jumped off the porch. Bolted toward our car.

Then I was alone. I stopped, turned. Jack was standing between me and the hotel. He had both his guns out. He was firing at men darting between pillars on the porch. Men racing to one side to cut us off. Men lying on the wet ground, aiming carefully, firing their weapons methodically.

I saw a familiar figure, short, heavyset, big shoulders, barrel chest. Wearing a black raincoat buttoned to the chin. A black fedora, the brim snapped low.

He came, around the corner of the hotel and walked slowly, purposefully toward us. His hands were in his pockets. He fired no guns. But that deliberate, implacable advance frightened me more than all the shouts, screams, the hard snaps and deep booms of the guns.

I had my pistol out now and emptied it toward that

advancing figure. Still he came. I heard the pistol click and flung it from me. I fumbled in my shoulder bag.

Then Jack turned and came dashing back. I saw the widened eyes, open mouth, the chest heaving.

‘Jan-’ he gasped.

Then something hit him. Punched him forward.

He went down on one knee. He reached slowly around behind him.

I was at his side. Grabbed his arm. Hauled him up. Staggering, stumbling, we made it to the fence. I pushed him through the cut. He fell flat on his face. I saw the bloodstain spreading over the back of his raincoat.

Sobbing, I wrenched him to his feet again. He couldn’t stand erect. He was doubled over. I heard gnats singing about us. A buzz. There were whispers in the air. Things spanged off the bodies of both cars.

I pushed Jack into the back of the Cutlass. Just threw him onto the floor. I doubled his legs, jammed them in, slammed the door.

I got behind the wheel, started the engine. I accelerated in a jackrabbit start, spun the wheels, slowed until I had traction. Then I pushed the pedal to the floor, swerving around the parked Cadillac.

I had a hazy impression of more shouts, curses, explosions of guns. Men running toward us.

And, from the corner of my eye, saw that black trundling figure coming on. Not running. Not firing a gun. But just coming on, coming on …