Out of Sight

TEN

"She goes by Adele Delisi now," Karen said, "her maiden name. Married Foley in Las Vegas in '86 and filed for divorce the next year in Los Angeles County. Adele's forty-two. She lives in the Normandie on Collins Avenue, in the South Beach area."

They were at the kitchen table: Karen having a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Her dad, in one of his golf outfits, was having breakfast, a cheese and jelly sandwich on French bread and coffee, before leaving for the club.

"Anybody check her phone records?"

"Six times in the past month Adele accepted collect calls from GCI, the last one the day of the escape. But she never visited him the five months he was there."

"Didn't want her name on the list."

"Burdon asked why he kept calling her. She said because he was depressed. She said she hadn't seen him in eight years."

"She's in on it," Karen's dad said.

"I think so too. Foley told me the reason he came to Florida was to visit someone, and then dropped it. He said, "I better keep quiet."

"He called her. Who did she call?"

"Her sister-in-law, Ann; she's a disc jockey, I think in Canada. And a magician she worked for, Emil something."

"The Amazing, a third-rate act," her dad said, eating his sandwich, sipping his black coffee.

"The amazing thing about Emil is he's still around. Works with pigeons."

"Talking to Burdon she referred to Emil as that kraut son of a bitch.

He let her go right before Christinas and hired a younger girl. Adele's been surveilled since the day after the escape, but hasn't gone anywhere to speak of. She put an ad in the Herald, in the personals, to get another job with a magician. Good luck, huh? Burdon says they've trapped her line and hung a wire."

"I bet she knows it, too. Why don't you go talk to her?"

"I was thinking about it. I mentioned it to Burdon, he said he has all the help he needs."

"Why don't you talk to her anyway. Do it right, she'll tell you things she wouldn't tell Burdon. Pay attention to how she talks about Foley, her tone. Tell her you think he's a nice guy. No, first tell her about being in the trunk with him, in the dark for half an hour, and see how she takes it. If she's in on it, what does she get for all the aggravation, cops breathing on her? I bet nothing. So she still likes him enough to stick her neck out.

You think that's possible? What kind of a guy is he?"

"He's pretty laid-back, confident."

"Cocky?"

"No, but he was surprised I hadn't heard of him. Maybe I should have."

"He remind you of that guy Tillman?"

"Not at all."

"Remember calling me? You'd been out with him I think three times. You tell me the guy's a bank robber suspect and you don't know what to do.

I told you to get another boyfriend."

"You said, if I want to know if it's true, ask him."

"Yeah, bring up the subject, see how he reacts. If he breaks out in a sweat, call for backup. But this guy Foley, you know he's dirty and you still want to see him again."

"I want to bust his ass, put him in shackles."

"Yeah, okay. Don't overdo it. Your pride's hurt, you were armed and he took you. That bothers you, I can understand how you feel. But you're also curious about the man. Last night, twice you asked your married boyfriend Nicolet about him. You were concerned, but didn't want to show it."

"My married boyfriend-setting him up with that news story so you could talk about infidelity. I couldn't believe it. Yes, I could. That's why I never brought my boyfriends home, you interrogated them. Mom used to yell at you for that all the time."

"Your mother never raised her voice, God rest her soul.

She'd give me the look. No, what I was doing, I'd screen your boyfriends and tell you which ones were jerks, help you weed out the guys who were unfit. Take this guy Nicolet, he's okay, I guess, but he's a cowboy. The mag stuck in his jeans… You like the wild ones, don't you? You know I've always said there's a thin line between the cowboy cops and the armed robbers, all those guys that love to pack.

Maybe that accounts for your interest in Foley, the old pro bank robber."

"He kidnapped me."

"Yeah, but you talked all the way from GCI to the turnpike. It sounds more like a first date than a kidnapping. You ever hear of the Stockholm syndrome?"

"Now wait a minute," Karen said.

"The bank robbery in Stockholm," her dad said, "two guys, one of them's name-I can't think of it."

"Olufsson," Karen said.

Her dad winked at her.

"You know what I'm talking about.

They're trapped in the bank, in there a few days holding the women hostage. They come out, three of the women say they're in love with this Olufsson."

"I wasn't a hostage," Karen said.

"We were in the trunk together maybe a half hour."

"I don't know, this Foley sounds a lot like Olufsson. Talk to his ex-wife, see what she says about him."

"I know what he is, an habitual offender, a con."

"Before, you said he was laid-back, confident, like you admired him."

Karen watched her dad bite through the crust of the French bread, eating his cheese and jelly sandwich, making her want one. She watched him sip his coffee, head lowered over the table. He looked somewhat like a short Walter Matthau. Once when he had a subject under surveillance and was waiting in his car, two women rushed up to him saying, "My God, it's Walter Matthau!" The subject came out of a bar and drove off before her dad could get away from the two women.

He said, "I know what I wanted to ask you. How come there's no mention of Glenn Michaels in any of the news stories?"

"Burdon says Glenn isn't anyone's business but theirs, the Bureau. I told him what Glenn said in the car about working on a score up north, a big one. Burdon wanted to know where up north. I said, well, Glenn mentioned freezing his ass off in Detroit last November. You could try there. This morning he called to say no one named Glenn Michaels flew from here to anywhere in November. I said maybe he drove. Burdon said don't worry about it."

"He didn't say, "Don't worry your pretty head'?"

"Yeah, he did."

"And that makes you want to kick him in the crotch."

"No, it makes me want to bring in Glenn. I already want Foley. Buddy, if he's around."

"Pour me a half a cup, would you, please. And tell me what we know about Buddy."

"Not much," Karen said, getting up. She came back to the table with the coffee, served her dad and sat down again.

"He's about Foley's age, has a sister who used to be a nun, but we don't know where she lives. He and Foley were both at Lompoc and probably met there. And that's where Glenn got to know them. Burdon's gonna call the prison, see if they can come up with a name, someone who was a friend of Foley's."

"They'll be lucky if anybody remembers Foley. What's the population out there, a couple thousand?"

"About sixteen hundred, the last time I went out."

"They expect some administrative hack or a trusty to go through the computer hoping to find a Buddy? Even if they knew his first name-when did he come in? How many years would the search have to cover? You don't know that unless you know his sentence. You imagine calling out to that penitentiary and asking, "Say, any of you people remember a con named Buddy?"

" He sipped his coffee, getting it all, and said, "Listen, I have to run."

Karen watched him get up from the table to stand looking out the kitchen window at the fairway, hiking up his yellow slacks that drooped in the can.

She said, "I asked Foley if Buddy was his given name and he said yeah, he gave it to him. But what if it's his real name?"

Her dad turned to look at her and seemed for a moment surprised.

"Where's he from, originally?"

"Arkansas."

"I don't know-but now that I think about it, Buddy might be the key, the one to work on. He risks everything, including his life, to help some guy he jailed with. What does he get out of it?

He does it as a friend or because there's a payoff? You see what I mean?"

"Either way," Karen said, "Foley owes him."

"So whatever Buddy wants to do next," her dad said, "the chances are Foley will go along. Find Buddy and you've got him."

"If we knew Buddy's name."

"You gave me an idea. But listen, I got to get out of here, I'm late already."

Karen followed him to the door that opened into the garage.

"Dad, come on. How do we find him?"

He held the door open and turned to look at her.

"It might work, it might not. I'll tell you as soon as I get back."

"You'll tell me about your golf game for an hour."

The door closed.

Every drive that stayed on the fairway, every chip to the green, his specialty, any long putts that dropped in-his Jack Daniel's on the rocks next to him. He exaggerated, he even cheated… But he knew how to find people; it was his business. Karen turned to the sink.

Should she do the dishes?

Or go talk to Adele Delisi?

Buddy had called her three different times this morning, she was never home. When he came back the last time Foley said it didn't matter, he was going to see her. Buddy told him he was crazy and Foley said he'd made up his mind.

"You know they'll have people watching the hotel "To see if she leaves. You think they're gonna check everybody that goes in?"

"Why take the chance?"

"I owe her."

"You haven't given her a dime in eight years. Now all of a sudden …"

"I'm not talking about owing her money, this is different. I kept thinking about it last night trying to get to sleep on this sofa, this board. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Adele."

"That's right, you wouldn't have done the bank and got sent up."

"She helped get me out. The least I can do is try to see her. If I can't, I can't, but I have to try."

"I won't drive you."

"I'll get there."

"They'll spot you on the street."

"You said yourself I don't look like my mug shot. That's all they have to go on."

"That you know of. Your picture's been around, man. I used to see it in banks before I ever knew you."

"I'll go as a tourist. Wear shorts, a straw beach hat, hang a camera around my neck. Wear socks with sandals… Can you fix me up?"