Out of Sight

ELEVEN

Adele spent the morning on the art deco hotel strip going from one to the next, ten blocks of sidewalk tables and tourists, stopping at each cafe and bar to ask the hostess if she would do her a huge huge favor.

Even the ones she knew slightly would take the three-by-five card like it had kaka on it and glance at it, never changing their expressions, as Adele explained it was a version of an ad she'd placed in the Herald.

But it was so tiny in the paper she thought if she could get some of these, you know, displayed around the beach… The hostesses said sorry, and handed the card back, or yeah, okay, and dropped it on their reservation stand. The card read:

LIKE MAGIC!

Call 673-7925 and out pops Adele!

Experienced magician's assistant!

Expert with doves and all forms of legerdemain!

Walking along 10th toward Collins Avenue she paused to look back and saw the guy tailing her come to a stop at the alley. He stood looking around as though he might be lost. The tail across the street had stopped and was tying his shoelaces.

She wondered why they bothered. Adele waved to the one across the street and continued on to Collins. The next two, another pair of serious, clean-cut types, were in a car, one of them reading the paper.

Every day there was some mention of Jack on the news and in the paper,

"still at large" along with one of the Cubans, but not a word about Buddy or Glenn Michaels, so the two-car escape plan must've worked. The time Glenn came alone to visit, a few days before the break, he'd sat with his vodka and tonic posing, playing with his hair, waiting for her to make the move while he talked about himself, letting her know what a cool guy he was and how he planned to use Jack and Buddy later, for a job he had lined up. Five minutes with Glenn, she understood why Jack didn't want him, why he said on the phone that last time he'd take the guy's sunglasses off and step on them. She said to him, "You know who you remind me of? That freeloader who lived in O.J."s guesthouse, the instant celebrity with the hair." Glenn said, "Yeah?

Really?" taking it as a compliment. The best thing to do with Glenn Michaels, she decided, would be to put him in Emil the Amazing's vanishing box and lose his ass.

She came to the Normandie in a row of pastel-colored apartment hotels and nodded to the old ladies on the porch, waiting out their lives.

Crossing the lobby she said hi to Sheldon behind the desk and he showed her his bad teeth. At least he smiled.

None of the tight-assed hostesses on the strip smiled or gave her one fucking word of encouragement.

Adele went up the stairs to the second floor and into her apartment done in blond furniture from fifty years ago, Miami Beach Moderne, with sailboats and palm trees on the limp curtains. She turned on the window air conditioner. Every time she looked out now she hoped to God she wouldn't see Jack across the street, like in a movie: leaning against a post he lights a cigarette and looks up at the window. Jack posed too, but was good at it.

She dropped the LIKE MAGIC! three-by-five cards she had left over on the glass top dining table and stood looking down at them.

Expert ivith doves and all forms of legerdemain. Expert at cleaning up dove shit in the dressing rooms. A natural at standing with one four-inch heel precisely in front of the other, smiling, glowing, her arm rising in a graceful gesture to the birds flying out of Emil's filthy coat.

What she should do, hell, advertise herself as a magician and play birthdays, schools, company parties, that kind of thing; prisons, why not? She could do rope tricks: cut and restore, threading the needle, the coat-escape using volunteers. She could do handkerchief tricks: Fatima the dancer, the serpentine silk, the dissolving knot. She could do card tricks: the Hindu shuffle, overhand shuffle, the doubt lift, the glide…

The phone rang, on the desk by the window.

She could do sealed envelopes: the Gypsy mind reader, impossible penetrations…

Ill

"Hi, this is Adele speaking."

A male voice said, "Oh, is this Adele?" with an accent, Cuban, or one of those.

"Yes, it is. Are you calling in answer to my ad in the paper?"

"No, I don't see it."

"You picked up one of my announcements? You must have been right behind me when I passed them out."

"I talk to the guy you work for, Emil?"

"Oh, uh-huh. Yeah, I was Emil's box-jumper for almost four years."

"You were his what, his box?…"

"His assistant. What did he say about me?"

"He tole me your number and where you live. See, I'm looking for an assistant and would like to speak to you."

"May I ask, sir, do you perform in the Miami area?"

"Yes, around here. I was a mayishan in Cuba before I come here. Manuel the Mayishan was my name. Let me ask you something. You do the sawing of the box in half trick with you inside?"

Adele paused.

"Yes?"

"How do you do that trick?"

"How do you do it?"

"Forgive me. I ask you this wanting to be sure you are experience."

"Well, I've seen it performed both ways," Adele said, " 'thin sawing' or the old Selbit method, if that's what you mean."

There was a silence before the Cuban voice said, "Yes, I see you know what you doing. I would like to come speak to you about working for me."

Adele said, "Well…" She said, "Why don't I meet you at the Cardozo, on the porch? You know where it is?"

"Yes, but you don't want me to come where you live?"

"I have to go out anyway. I can meet you in an hour. Will that be all right?"

He took a moment before saying, "Yes, all right."

And Adele hung up.

How do you do the sawing of the box in half trick?… Was he serious? He didn't know a box-jumper was an assistant. Maybe mayishans in Cuba called them something else.

The phone rang.

She'd wear shorts, show off her legs.

"Hi, this is Adele speaking."

Whoever it was hung up.

Buddy came out of Wolfie's and got in the car.

"She's home."

He turned south on to Collins and didn't say another word until they had gone ten blocks and were passing the Normandie.

"There it is. You see the guy sitting on the porch? The old ladies and one guy? You know they'll have a couple more in a car."

Foley was looking around.

"I didn't notice any."

"You know they're there."

"I'll keep my eyes open."

Buddy turned right on 10th and right again into the alley to pass behind the row of hotels. He said, "Nobody hanging out back here, that's good." They came to llth at the end of the alley and Buddy stopped.

He said to Foley, "You bring the gun?"

Foley lifted the straw bag from his lap.

"In here, with my suntan lotion and beach towel."

"You giving her some cash?"

"What I got the other day."

Buddy nodded, staring at Foley, studying him.

"I still think you ought to wear a hat."

"All the shots of me in banks I have a hat on, or a cap. I doubt anyone's seen me without one."

"Look at your watch," Buddy said.

"It's eleven-twenty. I'll be back here in half an hour, at ten of twelve. You don't show, I'll be back here at twelve-twenty. You still don't show I'll see you in thirty years."

This cafe was run by Puerto Ricans-Chino could tell by the way they spoke-but it was okay. The coffee was Cubano and they didn't bother him sitting at the counter or looking out the front window through the backward words on the glass and see the hotel almost directly across the street, the Normandie, four stories high. Jack Foley's former wife was on the second floor, in 208, maybe a room in front and she was looking out the window as he looked at the hotel. He had phoned from here. He didn't like the plan of meeting her on the porch of the Cardozo Hotel, people there, people passing by. He'd have this coffee and a little more and go up to her room to talk to her in private. What could she do?

Foley walked from the alley to Collins Avenue and stopped on the corner to watch cars creeping by in both directions, tourists taking in South Beach, or looking for a place to park. He started walking toward the hotel in the middle of the block, taking his time. Buddy was right, there'd be a car somewhere close by with two guys in it. He watched a car up ahead pull away from the curb and a Honda nose into the parking space, a woman at the wheel. He wondered if they used women on surveillance. What he'd do, walk in the hotel. If the guy on the porch followed him in, he'd start talking to whoever was behind the desk about rates for next season. Make up a story. As if he could see a room or use the men's, hang around until he could slip upstairs. He didn't think the guy on the porch would pay any attention to him. He was approaching the Honda now, the woman out of the car, standing at the parking meter in profile, feeling her pockets for change:

Blond hair, tan jacket and shoulder bag, long legs in slim jeans and heels-plain, pink medium heels that caught his eye, pink shoes, a nice touch with the jeans. The hair, the profile, made him think of Karen Sisco.

She turned from the parking meter and he was looking at Karen Sisco-it was, right there, not ten feet away, it was Karen-looking at him now, waiting. She said, "You wouldn't happen to have change, would you, for a dollar?"

Foley shifted the straw bag to his left hand, still looking at her, telling himself to keep going, don't stop, don't say a word.

But he did, he said, "Sorry." He was past her now without breaking stride, holding to the same unhurried pace, glancing around at signs, the sights, the people, but not looking back, telling himself to keep walking. It was her, all of a sudden right in front of him. He saw her and saw her eyes and for a moment, the way she was looking at him … He told himself if he looked back he'd be turned into a convict on the spot, in state blue, so don't even think of looking back. You saw her again and that's it. All you get.

Karen watched him walk past the Normandie, past the women on the porch, the agent sitting there now. She thought, No, it couldn't be. She saw Foley's face streaked with muck in bright headlights, the guard's cap hiding his eyes. She saw his mug shot in her mind like all the mug shots she'd ever seen, a criminal offender with a number, not this guy in his color-coordinated orange and bright ocher beach outfit carrying a straw bag, dark socks with those thick leather sandals. She had almost smiled and said hi, how're you doing, her hand going to her bag.

In that moment sure it was Foley. But his eyes gave no sign that he knew her and he said, "Sorry," without much expression and kept going.

She waited for him to look back. She waited until he was all the way to the end of the block, crossing the street, and when he still didn't look back, she felt a letdown, disappointment, believing that if it was Foley he would have looked back. Or he might even have stopped and said something to her. It wouldn't make sense, but didn't have to; it was a feeling she had, so it was okay. Like if she were to make a with her two hands, or he would, calling for a timeout, to give them a few minutes to finish what began in the trunk of the car. It would be okay then to say hi, how're you doing? Oh, not too bad. They stand there talking, polite to each other. That was some experience. Yes, it was. Well, we made it. He might say something about her shooting at him and she'd say yeah, well, you know… You have time for a drink? I guess we have a few minutes. They walk over to the beach, sit at a table and talk for a while, say whatever comes to mind, have another drink, talk about movies… Maybe. Why not? There would be no way to predict what they'd talk about, they'd just talk until their time was up. Well, okay then, back to work. She gets up and walks away, and if she were to look back he wouldn't be there. It would be over with, out of the way. The next time she saw him-and she would try hard to make it happen-she'd cuff his hands behind his back and take him in.

Karen walked down to the Normandie. As a courtesy she stopped at the porch railing to show the agent, a young guy she didn't know, her ID and marshal's star, saying she was going up to see Adele. The agent said, "Does Burdon know about this?"

Karen said, "Don't worry about it," started to turn away and said, "You wouldn't have a quarter, would you, for the meter?"

All the way down Collins to 5th Street Foley would stop to look at store windows, menus displayed on cafes, until he was sure Karen wasn't following him, hadn't recognized him after all. Foley thinking, That was close. But with more of an empty feeling than a sense of relief.

She'd be talking to Adele now. That had to be the reason she was down here. He realized that if she had come only a few minutes later and found him in 208, it would've gotten Adele charged with a first-class felony, aiding a fugitive. So quit fooling around. Leave.

But not a minute later he was thinking of going back, walking up Collins on the other side of the street to wait across from her car, the Honda, and get another look at her when she came out of the hotel.

He said to himself, Jesus Christ, where are you, back in grade school?

You just discovered girls?

Foley turned the corner at 5th and turned again into the alley to walk back that way, by himself, past trash cans and grease smells coming from the cafe kitchens, seeing Karen in her slim jeans and looking at possibilities again. Like if he were to cross the street just as she's getting in her car. Walk up to her and say…

If she didn't recognize him he could walk up to her and say something, anything. He thought of things to say to bank tellers, make it up on the spot before he asked for the money. I sure like your hair, Irene?

Is that the latest style? Or, mmmmm, your perfume sure smells nice.

What's it called?

He could tell Karen he liked her shoes. I just wanted to tell you I like those shoes you have on.

And she'd look down at them-the way bank tellers touched their hair when he told them it was nice. She'd look down and he'd walk away.

And then she'd look up again wondering who the moron in the beach outfit was.

When he got to llth Buddy was waiting.

"Well?"

"We got to get out of town."

Buddy said, "Now you're talking."

"We drive or what?"

"We drive. I wouldn't mind taking off right now."

"What about our stuff? I just bought new shoes."

"We're gonna need winter clothes," Buddy said, "before we drive into a fucking snowstorm. Coats, gloves… We could go to a mall."

"And then stop off, get my shoes and stuff."

Buddy turned out of the alley heading for Collins.

"We'll drive up to Lauderdale, Galleria mall, that's the place, get us a couple of heavy coats."

"Overcoats?"

"If you want, or a parka."

"I don't think I ever owned an overcoat."

"You've never been to Detroit. January, man, you freeze your nuts off."

Foley said, "You sure you want to go?"