The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Pat Jordan The Mark from Playboy

“Не sounds different,” Bobby said. He downshifted for the railroad tracks at Dixie. The black SHO bumped over the tracks, then picked up speed.

“Like how?” Sheila said.

“I don’t know. Just different. Not as pissed off as usual.” Bobby turned onto Federal. Two rednecks, a mangy dog King at their feet, sat drinking beer in the shade of the Riptide’s outdoor bar. A skinny hooker in a miniskirt that barely covered her ass and dirty while fringed cowboy boots sashayed past them, looking back over her shoulder at passing cars while she talked on a cellular phone.

“Poor thing,” said Sheila, shaking her head slowly. “It’s too hot to work.” The hooker flipped her the finger. Sheila held a cigarette limp-wristed beside her cheek, her other hand propping up her elbow in that ladylike way that always amazed Bobby.

“Maybe he’s just tired,” Sheila said. “He’s been working construction, what, the last six months? He’s forty-seven, Bobby. A little old for a career change.”

“Not tired like that. Something different. You’ll see.” As they passed Fort Lauderdale Airport, a 747, shimmering in the hot noon sun, was coming in from the ocean.

“He was away two years, Bobby. Maybe doing time didn’t agree with him.” The plane passed low overhead, and its shadow, like a prehistoric bird’s, enveloped them for a moment, then moved toward the airport runway. Sheila smiled at Bobby. “It didn’t agree with you.”

Bobby liked that in her. She never cut him any slack. Her word. “You have a tendency to be slack, Robert,” she said once in the schoolmistress tone she sometimes took with him. “It’s my job to lighten up that slack.” She was forty-five, ten years older than Bobby. Ten years smarter, too.

There was nothing slack about Sheila. Trim, tanned, muscled like the fourteen-year-olds who played basketball at Holiday Park. She even had chiseled abs like them. Her hair was bleached platinum and cut so short it stood up like spring grass. It made her look tough in tight jeans or cutoff shorts. She looked sexy, like a high-class hooker, when she wore a black spandex dress and stiletto heels. And when she put on a wig and a business suit, she looked like a lady, maybe a bank president at Centrust. Sheila said there was nothing to it. She had done summer stock for years in New England before she moved to Fort Lauderdale and began to concentrate on TV commercials. “See this face,” she would say, smiling her eight-by-ten-glossy smile. “The face that launched a million coffee cups.”

Today she wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt with gold writing across her small breasts: ВEYOND BITCH! When she had put it on in their apartment, she’d said. “Nice touch, huh? Sol will like it.” Bobby hoped so.

Bobby concentrated on Sol. “I mean, he only did two years out of six for smuggling pot. Big deal. A fucking minimum security prison. Club Fed. There’s even a chalk line for a fence, like on a football field. But still, it changed him.”

“Maybe he’s just getting old. They say doing time ages you.”

“But it wasn’t hard time, for Christ’s sake. He gained twenty pounds. No, he lost something. His edge.”

Sheila smiled brightly. “Well, baby, we’ll just have to find it for him.”

Bobby pulled up in front of the Lucky Hotel and parked. “A misnomer,” Sheila said. It was an old two-story south Florida building made out of Dade County pine, stuccoed over many times, its mission tiles replaced with a dilapidated tin roof. The second floor was a halfway house for cons serving out the last six months of their sentences while “acclimating” (Sol’s word) themselves back into society. They went to work each morning at six and had to be back for supper at six. Today was Sol’s last day.

They walked around back. Sol sat at a picnic table under the shade of a gumbo-limbo tree in the scruffy back yard, smoking a cigarette and talking with a woman. Sheila ran over to him. “Sol, baby, we missed you.” She bent down and kissed him on the lips. When she straightened up she made a big production of studying him. His bald head was tanned from working in the sun. His Vandyke beard was neatly trimmed. He was wearing Paul Newman — blue contact lenses and a pressed, long-sleeved, button-down Polo shirt over his big belly. White tennis shorts. Dirty white loafers.

Sheila narrowed her eyes. “You look different, Solly.”

“It’s the hair,” he said, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “I grew it in the slam.”

“We did miss you, Sol,” Sheila said.

“I missed you, too, baby. I like that, the T-shirt.”

Sheila turned to Bobby. “See, I told you.”

Bobby said, “You ready?”

“I got to check out upstairs.” He stood up. Sheila was right. He did look different. There was definitely something missing.

“Where’s all your jewelry?” Bobby asked.

“In storage. That’s our next slop.” Sol seemed almost naked without his Rolex, his gold chains, his diamond pinkie rings, his three beepers. Not to mention the little Seecamp .32 ACP he liked to carry in his front pants pocket.

“Sheila’s got the Seecamp,” Bobby said. “She likes it.”

“Yeah, but I gotta get the jewelry.” Nothing could happen to Sol when he wore his jewelry. “And some real fucking cigarettes.” He tossed his cigarette in the grass. “Government issue,” he said, holding up a pack with BRAND A printed across it. “Brand B’s got filters,” he said. He crumpled the pack and tossed it, too.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Sheila asked.

The friend looked up at them. She was a tiny, ferret-faced woman with stringy brown hair, baggy sweatshirt, and baggy jeans.

“Sheila, Bobby, this is Connie.” She nodded, gave them a sour smile. A con, obviously. Cons never used last names, not real ones, anyway. After five years of friendship, Bobby and Sol still did not know each other’s real last names. Sol was Sol Rogers. Bobby was Bobby Squared. Both men had long since distanced themselves from Solomon Bilstein, Brooklyn Jew, and Robert Roberts, né Red-feather, half-breed Cherokee out of the North Carolina mountains. They were now just two business partners in paradise.

Driving back to Fort Lauderdale. Bobby was quiet. So was Sol, sitting beside him. Sheila said, “Connie’s an interesting girl, Sol. She said she did three years for fraud.”

Sol turned around, grinning, and said, “You never heard of her? Coupon Connie? Was in all the papers. She made millions with coupon fraud. You know what she did in the slam? Corresponded with male cons. They sent her money, she sent them dirty underwear. Broad useta get boxes of underwear every week. Drove the guards nuts trying to figure out what she was doing with it all. If the cons sent her enough money, Connie would send them a dirty letter, too, telling them all the nice things she’d do to them if she could. Whack-off Connie is what she became.”

“Good thing none of them saw her,” Bobby said.

They passed the Riptide again. The two rednecks and the mangy dog were still there. The hooker was walking back the other way, north now. Sol checked her out. From the back seat, Sheila said, “Solly, want us to stop for her? A welcome-home present?”

Sol shook his head. “I just wanna pick up my jewelry.”

Sheila reached under the back of the driver’s seat and pulled out Sol’s Seecamp. “Here, Sol. This should make you feel better.” She handed him the gun. Sol looked at it, then put it in his front pants pocket.

“That’s a start,” he said.

“We don’t have time for the jewelry,” Bobby said. Sol looked at him. “We got something more urgent. A little something Sheila and me put together. To ease your way back into things.”

“Yeah?”

“Meyer set it up,” Bobby said. “A little something to get you spending money, get you on your feet. No risks. A piece of cake, really. Meyer knows this guy runs a limo service. Stretch Lincolns with a bar in back, color TV, cellular phone. Caters only to high rollers, mostly from Europe, some from South America, but we don’t want to mess with the spics. You never know with them, could be bad guys. Anyway, these guys fly into MIA, businessmen mostly, maybe a little shady, but that’s good, kind of guys like to deal only in cash. They got a wife somewhere, kids, a reputation back home, maybe a little bogus, but still something they got to protect. But they’re in south Florida, fucking paradise, with all these beautiful blonde chicks they don’t see back home, so after they do some business, they—”

“That’s where I come in,” said Sheila. She flashed the eight-by-ten-glossy smile. “I’m the fun part.”

“Yeah, but not like they think,” said Bobby. “What we do is, you pick them up at MIA. We got you a nice black suit, skinny black tie, a chauffeur’s cap. You talk to them nice, ask about the wife and kids, look at their pictures. Find out where they’re staving, how long, for what, get a feel for how much cash they got, jewelry, you know, easy stuff. Then you start hinting around how much fun paradise can be if you know where to go, who to be with. Maybe hint around you can get them a guide, you know, like at Disney World, someone who can show them a good time. Very pretty, classy, won’t embarrass them in public. Someone who they’d be proud to have on their arm.”

“Who could that be?” Sol glanced back at Sheila. She smiled again and spread her arms wide, like an actress accepting applause.

“Ta-da!” she said.

“If they bite,” said Bobby, “great. If not, we set it up anyway. By accident. Sheila happens to bump into the guy at the hotel, a bar, someplace you know the guy’s gonna be.”

“How do we know the guy’s gonna go for it?”

“Puh-leez, Solly!” Sheila said in mock outrage. “Don’t insult me.”

Sol nodded. “Right. I been away too long.”

“So they have a little dinner, some drinks, go back to his room,” said Bobby. “I wait in the lobby. Sheila fixes him a drink, makes like Coupon Connie, tells him all the things she’s gonna do to him. Boom! Next thing he knows, he’s dreamin’ what he’s doing to Sheila, only he ain’t doin’ it. We’re doing it to him. He wakes up ten hours later, he is cleaned out.”

“Yeah, and he don’t go to the man to complain?” asked Sol.

“You ain’t been listening, Sol. I said the guy’s got a wife and kids back home, a rep, he don’t wanna be embarrassed, tell anybody he’s been had by a broad. Plus, he don’t even miss the money, the jewelry, he just wants to finish his business and get out of the country. Which is why we leave him his credit cards. They’re just a way to get caught.”

“The guy’s humiliated,” said Sheila. “He just wants to forget the whole thing, get back to the wife and kids, write it off as a lesson.”

“It works right,” said Bobby, “we can do it over and over. Make ourselves a few grand a week until we put something bigger together.”

“What do you think, Sol?” said Sheila.

“I think I wanna get my jewelry.”

Bobby said. “After tonight. Solly, you can buy a shitload of jewelry. The guy’s coining in from New York, by way of Rome, ten o’clock. Some guinea Ferrari importer who does business with that fancy sports car place out on Sunrise. You remember, with the blonde in the window, sitting behind the antique desk, so everybody passing by can see her nice tits in that low-cut blouse. Real classy-looking.”

“Yeah, Bobby,” said Sheila. “Very classy, chewing her fucking gum like a cow.”

Sol glanced back at Sheila. She smiled at him. He said. “Jesus, Bobby, don’t piss her off, ya know.”

“Hell hath no fury, Sol.” Sheila said, still smiling.

“Tonight, you’re gonna pick up the guinea,” said Bobby. “Give him the ride of his life.”

“No, that’s my job, Bobby,” said Sheila. Sol and Bobby looked back at her. She flashed the smile. They all laughed. Sol for the first time since they had picked him up.

Sol stood at gate 13 at Miami International Airport, waiting behind a crowd of people who had come to meet passengers off the New York flight, holding up a hand-lettered sign: ЕХЕСUTIVE LIMO — ATTN: SIGNORE PAOLO FORTUNATO.

All of the first-class passengers had passed through, heading for baggage claim. Now the coach passengers began to come through the gate, mostly Haitians and Jamaicans. Sol turned around to see if he’d missed the mark. He held the sign over his head. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Scusi, signore. Are you, perhaps, looking for me?”

Sol turned around to see a tall, slightly hunched-over guinea in a cheap, wrinkled brown suit. He was carrying a small nylon bag. He smiled at Sol, like one of those comic Italian actors. Shaggy black hair, droopy mustache, dark bulging eyes.

“Signore Fortunato?” Sol said. The man had no jewelry, no watch. Geez, was this the right guy?

“Si,” the man said, still smiling.

“Here, let me take that for you, sir.”

“No need.”

“This way toward baggage claim.”

“I have only this,” the man said, holding up the little bag. “I travel, how you Americans say, white?”

“Light. Travel light.”

Sol eased down State Road 836, through the toll, onto I-95 north to Lauderdale. He passed the time bullshitting with the mark. How was the flight, the food, was he tired, stupid Kicking questions Sol didn’t give a shit about.

“Fix yourself a drink, sir. From the bar.”

“A little scotch, maybe.” The mark sat back and sipped his drink.

“Mind if I smoke?” Sol said.

“Certainly not. Only Americans worry about cigarettes.”

Sol lit a cigarette, a Camel. It tasted good, no Brand fucking A. He asked the mark what hotel he was staring at, assuming it would be the Marriott Harbor Beach, with the five restaurants and the rock waterfall in the pool.

“The Mark. I am staying at the Mark on the beach. You know it?”

“Yes.” Shit, yes, I know it. Fucking nothing motel, secluded, nobody knows about it except wiseguys from New York wanting to lay low, do their business, then split. What is this fucking guy doing at the Mark?

“It is quiet. I like that. No tourists. But first, I have to do some business. I have to check on a delivery tonight. Do you know Paradise Auto Works? It is on Sunset Boulevard.”

“Sunrise.” Sol said. “Sunset is in L.A.”

“Of course.” The guy settled back, sipping his scotch, looking at it as if it were the best scotch he’d ever tasted. The way guineas do, holding up the glass, smiling at it, talking about it, like they got half their pleasure from that. They could never just drink it. Jesus, Sol thought, forty fucking years I can’t shake the guineas. At fourteen, Sol had had to make a choice — either hang with the Jews and become an orthodontist, or hang with the guineas and become what he was. It was an easy decision to make.

The guinea in the back of the limo was working on his second scotch. “Yes. I love Fort Lauderdale,” he said. “The beautiful sun and the water and the palm trees.”

“We have some beautiful sights. We call it paradise. Of course, you know, staying at the Mark. The girls on the beach.”

“Ah, si. Very beautiful. Browned and blonde.”

“Mostly exotic dancers. Very young, though. Beautiful but not sophisticated, you know what I mean? Not the kind of woman you can take places. I know such a woman, very beautiful, more mature, classy, could show you things in Lauderdale you’ve never seen before.”

The guinea made believe he didn’t understand. Either he was dumb or straight, or faking it. “Yes, that would be wonderful. But I am only here this one night. I fly back to Rome tomorrow night, after my business is completed.”

“Too bad,” Sol said, thinking. Sheila has her work cut out for her, getting this guinea to stay an extra day.

They got off at the Sunrise exit and headed east through Black-town, past the Swap Shop with its big circus signs glowing neon in the darkness. They crossed the railroad tracks at Dixie, next to Searstown, then slowed at the car place.

“Turn here,” the mark said.

Sol turned down a side street alongside the dealership’s showroom window. In the darkness inside, Sol could make out the shapes of exotic cars, hump after hump packed together like a herd of hippopotamuses in a river.

“Park here,” the mark said. Sol parked along an eight-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire. Geez, for cars? The guinea must have known what Sol was thinking. “Very expensive machines in there,” he said. “Ferraris, worth more than $200.000 each. They are works of art, really. You can wait here. I will be only a few minutes.”

Sol turned off the engine and wailed. The guinea went to an iron gate and rang a buzzer. Sol opened his window. He heard voices. The gate was buzzed open, and the mark went in. Sol heard the sound of cars being moved with the engines shut off. When the mark had been gone five minutes. Sol got out and walked around the wall, looking for an opening. He came to a Dumpster against the side of a seedy mom-and-pop motel, the Royal Palm. Sol looked but couldn’t see a palm. The Dumpster was on wheels, so Sol pushed it up against the wall, the wheels creaking from rust. He struggled to climb on top of it, first trying to push himself up with his arms, then trying to swing a leg up, his knee banging against the Dumpster, his big belly stopping him. A light came on in one of the motel rooms. Sol waited a moment, sweating, cursing the twenty pounds he’d put on in the slam. An old woman’s face appeared at the window. Sol crouched behind the Dumpster. After a minute, the light went out. He saw a discarded concrete block, carried it over to the Dumpster, and used it to climb on lop. He peered over the wall through the razor wire.

A bunch of guys were off-loading Ferraris from a trailer, coasting them down a ramp, then pushing them by hand. There were four cars, low and guinea red, with fat tires. Off to the side, Sol could see the mark talking with a shorter man. They talked while they watched the other guys jack up the cars and take off each wheel, using hand wrenches. They took off each tire and rolled it over to the mark and his friend. A worker took a knife from his back pocket and cut open the sidewall of one of the tires. He reached inside and pulled out a square package. When all the tires had been cut open and emptied, there was a neat pile of packages in front of the mark and his friend, like the beginnings of a block wall. The mark’s friend kneeled and cut open a package. He reached in with his knife and took out something on the blade, a powder. He wet his finger, dabbed it on the powder and tasted it with a grimace. He nodded to the mark and waved to his men. They took the packages into the mechanics’ bay and closed the door. The last guy out handed two briefcases to the mark and his friend. The friend opened one, and the mark reached in and took out a wad of bills. He flipped through it, then another, and another. He did the same with the second briefcase.

Smack, Sol thought. Maybe to kilos a tire. 16 tires, 160 kilos, worth maybe 50 grand a key wholesale, a total 800 large, maybe even a mil. But something was wrong. The mark gestured with his hands at the little guy. The little guy shrugged, turned his hands palm up, as if there were nothing he could do about it. The mark flung the back of his hand at the little guy, grabbed the briefcases, and walked toward the iron gate. Sol jumped off the Dumpster with a whoomph, falling facedown in the dirt. The light in the motel room went on again, and the woman at the window hissed, “Who’s there? I have a gun. I have a gun. I have a .357 Magnum, you son of a bitch!”

Sol ran back to the limo. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette, when the mark came through the gate with the two briefcases.

“We can go to the hotel now,” he said.

“Everything all right, sir?”

The mark smiled at Sol. A cool customer, like nothing had happened. “Everything’s fine,” the mark said. “I might have to stay an extra night to tic up, how do you say, tight ends?”

“Loose ends,” Sol said, pulling the limo back onto Sunrise, toward the beach and the Mark.

When Sol dropped him off about two A.M., the guy handed him a с-note and said, “I need maybe your services tomorrow. Will you be available?” Sol handed over his beeper number and the limo’s cell-phone number.

“At your service. Signore Fortunato,” Sol said.

Sol watched the mark go into the hotel carrying his two briefcases like they held nothing more than dirty laundry. Then he backed the limo onto the street, headed west, and picked up the car phone. “Bobby,” he said, “you won’t fucking believe it.”

Paolo Fortunato sat under the shade of an umbrella at a table on the boardwalk, a few feet from the beach and the aqua water beyond the hotel. He wore a sleeveless, ribbed undershirt, baggy khaki shorts, and sandals. His body was white and hairy, his black hair rumpled from sleep. He sipped American coffee that tasted like urine. He’d asked the waitress for an espresso, but she only-smiled and shrugged, “I’m sorry.”

The beach was already crowded with sunbathers, young American men and women with beautiful brown bodies. Paolo smelled the sweet coconut oil that made their bodies glisten in the sun. Paolo always wondered about Americans’ obsession with blonde hair and perfect bodies and youth. It was a strange preoccupation for a country so sexually repressed. These young women wore thong bathing suits with tiny tops that barely covered their nipples, as if those nipples were a prize to be revealed only after a bargain had been struck. The tiny tops were tied in such a way as to push up their breasts, make them look plumper, more seductive than they would be naked, demystified.

The whole country is a tease, he thought. Boring, really. Americans’ pleasure came from the possession of things, never the things themselves. Which was why it was so easy for him to do business with them. He always knew what they wanted. More. Like the car dealer. He could not settle for the profit he and Paolo had agreed on for the product. He had to try to cheat him out of his fair share. Paolo did not care so much about the money. How many chickens could he eat? But he cared about the insult, that this Jewish-American-Israeli-Russian dared to think he could cheat him and that Paolo would just lake it and leave. He was a fool, this mongrel American.

Paolo settled back in his chair, lit an American cigarette, and enjoyed the beautiful bodies spread out like ripe fruit before him. He appreciated this beauty, but the limousine driver was right. An older woman would be preferable. Still, he would prefer more than merely commercial sex. Like that woman silting on her blanket close to the water’s edge. Even with her back to him, he could tell she was older, maybe forty, but still exquisitely shaped, if slightly too muscular for his taste. This one I must first hang in the smokehouse to tenderize her, he thought.

He smiled at his little joke just as the woman stood up and walked into the ocean. She wore a hat like those American baseball players, the bill pulled low over her eyes, and a thong bikini, like the younger girls, which exposed her perfectly shaped behind.

He watched her cool off in the ocean, then turn and walk back toward her blanket. She walked past it, directly toward Paolo, the sun at her back, her face and body in shadow except at the edges, her shoulders, the curve of her hips, shooting off little sparks of golden light. She moved curiously, the balls of her feet twisting in the sand as if stomping out cigarettes. The movement made her slim hips swivel in a way Paolo found enticing. She stopped a few feet away from Paolo at the outdoor shower, took off her cap, and tossed it down on the wooden deck, near Paolo’s feet. She had short, harsh blonde hair, almost white. She pulled the shower chain and rinsed the salt water off her body without modesty. When she released the chain, she looked for her hat. Paolo picked it up and offered it to her with a smile. She accepted it with a nod and turned to walk back to her blanket.

“Scusi, Signora.” She looked at him, with her big blue eyes and a pleasantly lined face without expression. “Would you care to join me? Maybe a cool drink on such a hot day?”

She smiled and stepped up onto the boardwalk. “That would be nice,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat across from him, her legs crossed so that only a tiny patch of her bathing suit was visible at the crotch.

“Do you mind if I have one of your cigarettes?” she asked.

“Of course not.” She took one. Paolo lit it for her as she held his hand to steady the flame. He raised his arm to summon a waitress. “And to drink?” he said.

She thought for a moment. “Vodka collins.”

Paolo turned to the waitress behind him. “Due vodka collins,” he said. Then. “So sorry. I mean two.” Before he turned back, he noticed, seated behind him at another table, a tall American cowboy in a flowered shirt and blue jeans and boots. Paolo turned back to the woman.

“You’re Roman,” she said.

“Yes, I am Italian.”

“No. I said Roman. Your accent.” He had underestimated this woman. She lessened his embarrassment with a smile. “I’ve worked in Rome,” she said. “Accents are my business.”

“You are an actress?”

“Not really. Just television commercials. It pays the rent.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sheila.”

Paolo shook her hand gently, with a slight nod of his head. “I am Paolo Fortunato,” he said.

“You’re here on business,” she said. It was not a question.

“You can tell,” he said, looking down at his white body.

“Yes. Businessmen have a certain look at the beach. Discomfort, I think. They feel powerless out of uniform. Do you know what I mean?” He nodded. “Plus, they don’t understand what all the fuss is about. The oil and the sand and the heat. It makes no sense to them because there’s no profit in it.”

“Ah, profit. Yes.” He made a gesture toward all the beautiful young bodies. “But for some there is a profit, eh?” He smiled.

“Maybe for some,” Sheila said, not smiling. “But not for me. It’s just a way to relax.”

“Of course.” You’d better watch yourself with this woman, Paolo thought. But he liked that. Beautiful, but interesting, too, in a way few American women are.

“What kind of business are you in?” she asked.

“I am an automobile importer.”

“Let me guess. Ferraris?” He nodded. “An easy guess. I don’t imagine there’s much profit in importing Fiats?” They both laughed. “I had a Fiat once,” she said. “It rusted right out from under me in this salt air.”

“Maybe you should try a Ferrari.”

“That would be nice,” she said dreamily. “Do you have a spare one you don’t need?”

Paolo smiled, shrugged, and tossed up his hands, palms out, in that Italian gesture of mock resignation. “I’m sorry,” he said. He tugged on his empty pants pockets until they stuck out like ears. “Nothing at the moment. But maybe I can offer you something else.”

The woman studied him briefly, then said, “You spend a lot of time in Florence, too.”

He looked surprised. “How do you know?”

“The shrug. Your arms tight to your sides the Florentine way.”

Paolo threw back his head and laughed. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. “Thank you for the drink,” she said.

“Must you leave?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough sun. There’s no profit in it anymore.” She smiled at him.

“You must come to dinner with me tonight. Please. I hate to dine alone.” He furrowed his eyebrows in a sad, comical way. “Alone in a foreign country.”

Now she frowned, mocking him. “Poor man. I should take pity on you?”

“Not pity. A blessing maybe. Eight o’clock? We can have drinks at the bar.” He gestured down the walkway, toward the hotel’s enclosed bar and restaurant that looked out over the water. “Then we can dine anywhere you wish.”

“Well actually,” she said, “the Mark’s restaurant is quite good. The catch of the day and the ocean sparkling at night. Very romantic.” She turned and walked back to her blanket. Paolo followed her with his eyes. Very beautiful, he thought. Very interesting. He paid his bill, reminded himself to leave a tip, the American way, and then walked back toward the hotel, past the American cowboy with the blond ponytail.

Bobby sat in darkness, away from the lights strung along the boardwalk that ran from the Mark’s restaurant to the Chickee Bar. It was warm, but a soft breeze drifted in from the ocean. A few people walked along the beach, couples mostly, tourists holding hands. No one else sat on the boardwalk, though there were a few people at the outdoor bar.

When the waitress walked past Bobby, he called out from the darkness. “Honey, could you get me a Coors?”

“Oh! I didn’t see you there. Certainly.”

She brought the beer and Bobby sipped it, keeping an eye on Sheila in the restaurant to his right. She and the mark were sitting by the window, close to the beach. He could see their faces by the light of the candle on their table. Very romantic, he thought, remembering that Sheila had once done a TV commercial in the same setting. The guy had been older than the mark, handsome, with silver hair and one of those phony actor’s voices from deep in his chest. Bobby tried to remember what she was selling in that commercial. A cruise, that was it. Sheila in an off-the-shoulder evening gown, an upswept brown wig and dangling earrings, the guy in a tux, the candle, the waiter in the little while jacket cut at sharp angles at each hip. When Bobby saw the commercial one night, he was shocked at the way Sheila looked into the actor’s eyes, how believable she was. So fucking believable. Bobby told her, he wanted to book a cruise that minute. “Yeah, me and my lover,” Sheila said, “having a romantic dinner while his fag boyfriend stood off the set watching us like a hawk, afraid maybe I was going to cop his pal’s joint if he blinked.”

“Well, if anybody could make a lag switch, baby, it’s you.”

“That would be a challenge,” Sheila said. “I don’t know if I’m that good an actress.”

But she was good tonight. Bobby thought, watching her reel in the mark. Laughing, looking into his eyes, laying her hand on his arm to make a point, touching her wineglass to his in a toast. A toast to what? Flight hundred fucking Gs, that’s what. Only the mark didn’t know it.

Sheila and the mark stood up from the table, the mark pulling out her chair. He gestured with his hand toward the ceiling, probably asking her if she wanted to go to his room. Sheila shook her head no and pointed outside to the boardwalk. Nice touch, baby, not too anxious. They stepped outside. Bobby pushed his chair farther back into the darkness, onto the walkway between the hotel and the Chickee Bar. He watched as Sheila slid her arm into the mark’s. They stopped a few feet from Bobby to look at the moon — two lovers, very fucking romantic. The mark faced her and put his arms round her, pulled her tight against his body, and kissed her. Sheila kissed him passionately, finally pulling back and nodding her head. They turned and walked quickly back to the hotel. Bobby peeked out from the walkway. The mark opened the door for Sheila. She walked through, he glanced one last time at the boardwalk, the beautiful summer night, and then followed her.

Bobby gave them time to get to the room, then went over to the bar for another beer. He changed his mind, asked the waitress for coffee instead, black. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. An hour. What was taking so long? All she had to do was slip him the mickey and split with the briefcases. Maybe they weren’t there and she was looking for them.

“Excuse me,” the waitress said. “Are you Mr. Roberts?” Bobby nodded. She handed him the bar phone. “For you.”

“Bobby,” Sheila said, “get up here. Room 218.” And she hung up.

Something wasn’t right. Bobby hurried out to the parking lot, got his CZ from under the driver’s seat, racked the slide, and snick it into the back of his jeans. He pulled his Hawaiian shirt out of his pants to cover it and went into the hotel. He passed the elevator and instead took the stairs two steps at a time, went through a door and down a hallway to room 218. He took out the CZ, held it by his ear, turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open and stepped through, the gun pointed in front of him.

“Buono sera, Signore Squared.” The mark was sitting on the sofa, smiling, a drink in his hand. Before Bobby could say anything, the bedroom door opened and Sheila walked into the room, smoking a cigarette.

“Put the piece down, Robert,” she said, like he was her student. Then, smiling, she said, “Say hello to Signore Fortunato.” The mark stood up like a gentleman and reached out to shake Bobby’s hand. Sheila said, “Mr. Fortunato is our new business partner.”

At five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a white stretch Lincoln Continental pulled up in front of the Paradise Auto Works showroom and parked. Two salesmen walked to the showroom window and stared as a chauffeur in a black suit and cap hustled out of the limo and opened the back door. A pair of long, tan legs emerged first. Then a woman’s hand, long red fingernails, diamond rings, gold bracelets. The chauffeur helped her out of the limo. She was wearing gold-rimmed Porsche Carrera sunglasses, a black-and-white Chanel suit — the skirt short, but not too short — and a wide-brimmed black straw hat, the brim pulled down over one eye. She carried a square black handbag.

The woman walked to the front door and waited. The chauffeur opened it for her and she went inside to the blonde receptionist seated behind the faux-Oriental, black lacquered desk. The receptionist was reading a paperback novel and chewing gum. She looked up dimly and said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to purchase a car,” the woman said.

“I’ll get you a salesman.”

“I don’t do business with salesmen. I want to see the owner.”

The receptionist shrugged, picked up her telephone and said, “Mr. Kressell, a lady to see you about a car.” Then, to the woman, she said, “He’ll be with you in a moment.”

The woman turned toward the showroom window and looked out at Sunrise Boulevard and the 7-Eleven across the street. She opened her purse, flipped open a gold cigarette case, and withdrew a long brown cigarette. She put it to her lips and waited. The chauffeur flicked open a lighter. The receptionist, lost in her book, wrinkled her nose and looked up. “There’s no smoking in here,” she said. The woman exhaled and continued to stare out the window. She glanced at the chauffeur, then tossed a head fake toward the receptionist’s moving jaws. “I told you,” she said.

A salesman came up to her. “Mr. Kressell will see you now,” he said. He led her through the showroom, packed tightly with exotic foreign cars, Porsche Speedsters and older Dinos and Gullwing Mercedes. The chauffeur followed them, not bothering to look at the cars but instead looking at the ceiling, the surveillance cameras in each corner of the room, the wires running down to the windows and doors. Burglar alarms.

“Whom should I say is calling?” the salesman said. He had an English accent — no, not English, Australian — and was a handsome man with a neat Princeton cut, an Ivy League suit and a smarmy smile.

“Who,” said the woman. “And it’s Mrs. Chickie Vantage. From Las Vegas.”

She gestured toward the tightly packed cars and added, “It must be difficult to rearrange these when someone wants a test drive.”

“We’re not in the business of test drives,” he said. He opened a door for her, let her pass through and said, “Mr. Kressell, Mrs. Chickie Vantage to see you. From Las Vegas.” The salesman closed the door behind her. The chauffeur waited outside.

She stood in the small office and waited for the little man at the desk to look up. When he finally did he said, “Have a chair, Mrs...”

“Vantage,” she said without moving. She stared at him through her sunglasses, at his pockmarked skin, beady eyes, and fat lips, like a troll’s. Finally, he sighed, stood up, and gestured toward a chair. She sat down, crossed her legs, and lowered her head a bit to arrange the sand-colored hair pinned under her straw hat. “I’m here to buy one of your cars. Mr... ah...”

“Kressell,” he said.

“Yes. The beige Silver Spirit convertible you advertised in the Robb Report. But I don’t see it in the showroom.”

“It’s in the mechanics’ bay out back.”

She waited. “Well, could I see it?”

His homely Edward G. Robinson face looked pained. Without interest he said, “If you insist.”

“I do.” He led her through the back door of his office, down a narrow corridor, and outside to the back parking lot crowded with exotic cars. A concrete wall surrounded the lot on three sides. It had two electronically controlled iron gates, a small one for people and a larger one for cars.

“This way,” he said. He led her to the mechanics’ bay and pressed a button on the wall. Its doors opened, and there were six cars inside. A Porsche Turbo, the beige Rolls, and four red Ferraris elevated on jacks because they had no tires. Four new sets of racing tires were propped against one wall. They were mounted on magnesium wheels with prancing black horses on the hubs.

“You like Ferraris,” he said.

“Oh, no, not really. They’re not too practical. But they are such beautiful machines. I can appreciate that.”

“Yes. I guess, at $250,000 each. Here’s the Silver Spirit. As you can see, it, too, is... how did you put it? A beautiful machine.” He spoke without passion or interest in the car.

The woman walked around it, looked through the window at its leather seats and burled dashboard. “Yes, it’s beautiful. Now, shall we fill out the papers?”

“You haven’t asked the price.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m buying it.” The little man furrowed his brow. The woman smiled at him. “I’m a widow, Mr. Kressell. Three months now. My husband had certain business interests in Las Vegas, very complex, some of it tied up in court, some, to put it honestly, under the scrutiny of the IRS. I’m sure it will all work out. But while it does. I have a little problem. My husband used to keep some money at home, he called it walking-around money, in case of an emergency. Actually, it’s what might be called undeclared money, if you know what I mean. If the IRS were to discover it, well, there might be a problem. I’d like to convert that money into something tangible as quickly as possible. So I thought, why not treat myself to a car?”

Kressell looked at her suspiciously. She smiled at him as she thought. Paolo was right. This man has interest in only one thing. She opened her handbag and withdrew a stack of $100 bills. The man’s suspicious look vanished. “That’s why I’m paying cash for the car. Would a $10,000 deposit be satisfactory?”

Kressell smiled for the first time. “Yes,” he said. “More than satisfactory.”

“Shall we fill out the papers, then?”

When the woman finished the paperwork, she stood up and laid $10,000 on the desk. “I’ll be by tomorrow evening to pick up the car and bring you the rest of the money. Two hundred thousand, am I right?”

The man looked at the money, then at the woman, as if he had a problem. “We’re closed Sundays,” he said. “It will have to be on Monday.”

“That’s impossible, Mr. Kressell. I’m leaving for Las Vegas Sunday evening.”

“I don’t know’.”

“If it’s a problem—” she said, reaching for the money on his desk. He snatched it up before she could get it. She smiled, “All right, then,” she said. “Tomorrow at nine P.M.” She adjusted her sunglasses with a touch of her nails, then she left.

In the limo, Sol turned to Sheila in the back seat. “Did you see all the fucking security?” he said. “Cameras, alarms, like a fucking prison. I don’t like it.”

Sheila took off her straw hat, unpinned her hair, lowered her head and gave it a shake. Long sand-colored hair fell around her shoulders. “What do you think, Sol? A nice look?” She arched her neck to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

He shook his head warily. “We should have just rolled the guinea like we planned.”

“Not an option, Sol. He’d stashed the briefcases elsewhere before I got to his room. He knew the whole scam. There was nothing we could do. We either walked away or accepted his business proposition. It’s not exactly a fucking hardship case, Sol. A hundred thousand each if we pull it off.”

Sol shook his head in despair. “Geez, I wish I had my jewelry.”

Sheila opened her handbag and withdrew a Rolex, two diamond-encrusted pinkie rings, a diamond bracelet, and a gold chain with a gold camel-shaped pendant. She handed the jewelry to Sol. “The camel is a nice touch, Solly,” she said. “Like no one would ever know you’re a Jew. Mistake you for maybe Yasir fucking Arafat.”

Sol, smiling, examined his jewelry to make sure it was all there. “Where’s my Star of David?” he asked, the smile vanishing. Sheila, grinning, handed it to him.

At nine o’clock on Sunday evening the woman stood at the door of Paradise Auto Works and rang the buzzer. Her chauffeur stood by the limousine parked outside the showroom window. The showroom was dark except for a sliver of light under the owner’s office door at the far end of the room. The crowded cars looked menacing — dark, humped shapes waiting to spring.

Kressell appeared at the door and buzzed the woman in. He was momentarily confused when she stepped inside. She looked different. No sunglasses. Sand-colored hair halfway down her back. A white silk blouse, tight jeans, and black high-top sneakers. She smiled at him and held up a briefcase.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “This way.”

Outside, the chauffeur lit a cigarette. He flicked his lighter three times, the flame sparkling off his gold jewelry and rings. From across the street, parked at the 7-Eleven, a U-Haul truck flicked its lights three times, then started up and moved onto Sunrise. It turned down the side street and went past the limo to the end of the concrete wall, next to the electronic gates and the Royal Palm Motel. The driver clicked off the U-Haul’s lights but left the engine running.

Inside, the woman sat across from the homely little man in his office. He rustled through some papers on his desk, looking for her contract. The woman put the briefcase on her lap.

“Ah, here it is.” Kressell said. He glanced through it, then handed it to her. “Everything’s in order.”

“I’m sure,” she said. She looked at the papers briefly, then returned them to the man. She opened the briefcase and said, “I think I have what you want, Mr. Kressell.” He smiled, but his smile disappeared as she took out a CZ-85 semiautomatic pistol. The man’s mouth dropped open. The woman aimed the pistol almost casually at him.

“Now, let’s go see about some tires, shall we?” she said.

The little man didn’t move. She could see him thinking, trying to put it together, this woman with a gun, what she wanted, finally getting it right in his mind. “That dago bastard!” he spluttered. “He sent you!”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am a business partner of Mr. Fortunato’s. He sent me to tie up some — how did he put it? — oh, yes, some ‘tight ends.’ A charming man, really. Now get your ass up.”

Kressell sat back in his chair, grinning. “Fuck you,” he said. “You’re not gonna shoot. The noise will bring every cop in the city. Besides, I got your face on the video camera. How you gonna get away from that?”

Sheila looked around the small office. There were no cameras. With one hand she reached behind her head and pulled off her wig, her spiky blonde hair straight up.

“You may be right about the noise, however,” she said. She put the gun back in the briefcase, then reached inside it with her other hand. She withdrew the pistol again, this time with a silencer screwed onto its threaded barrel. She fired one shot over Kressell’s shoulder into the wall behind him.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” The little man jumped out of his chair.

“Now for the tires,” she said. She followed him out back to the parking lot and the mechanics’ bay. He hesitated to buzz open the bay doors until she stuck the CZ into the small of his back and cocked the hammer.

“All right! All right! Jesus! Be careful with that thing.” He opened the door and reached for the lights.

“No lights,” she said. “Now open the gates outside.” The man hesitated again, and felt the barrel of the gun leave his back. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the woman gripping the gun with both hands, aiming it at him. He buzzed open the gates and saw a U-Haul backing up to the bay. A big guy with a blond ponytail and cowboy boots jumped out from the driver s side, the chauffeur from the passenger side.

“Everything all right, baby?” the cowboy said.

“No problem, baby.”

The chauffeur pushed Kressell to the ground, into a puddle of oil. “Jesus, what the fuck you doing?” Kressell said just before the chauffeur taped his mouth shut with duct tape. Then he taped the man’s hands behind his back, then taped his feet together.

The cowboy pulled a flashlight from his back pocket and shined it around the bay until it lighted on the four sets of Ferrari tires. He pulled a knife from his belt, a big hunting knife, and sliced open one sidewall. He tugged at the edge of a cellophane package filled with white powder, then turned and smiled. “Bingo!” he said.

“Just like on the fucking reservation, eh, Bobby?” said the chauffeur.

The two men wheeled the tires into the back of the U-Haul while the woman kept the gun on the little man writhing on the floor. “Keep it up,” she said, “and you’re going to cover yourself with oil.” He glared at her.

They buzzed the bay doors shut on Kressell and got into the U-Haul. As they drove through the gates, the truck’s lights illuminated an old woman standing in front of the Royal Palm Motel with a nickel-plated .357 Magnum at her side.

“I told you,” Sol said. “She’s a fucking loony.” The woman followed the U-Haul with her eyes and watched it stop at the limo. A man in a dark suit got out, jumped into the limo, and then followed the truck. When the truck and the limo turned the corner onto Sunrise, the woman went back into the motel.

Bobby drove the U-Haul to the enclosed, short-term parking lot at Fort Lauderdale Airport. Sol drove the limo to the Delta baggage claim area and stopped. Bobby parked the truck in a darkened space at the corner of the lot and waited. A figure emerged from the shadows and walked toward them. Sheila raised the CZ to the window.

“Buona sera, amici. Everything went well, eh?”

“Everything went well,” Sheila said as she and Bobby climbed out of the truck. They opened the back door and showed Paolo the tires. He smiled. “Grazie,” he said. “And for you.” He handed Sheila a briefcase. She opened it and smiled.

“Grazie, Paolo,” she said. “This is for you.” She gave him the parking ticket and the keys to the U-Haul. “Ciao, baby,” she said.

“Buona notte, cara mia.” He kissed the back of her hand.

The next morning, Paolo arrived at the airport two hours early for his flight to Rome. He waited until the mechanics at Paradise Auto Works had enough time to find their boss in the bay, then called him.

“Signore Kressell. You have lost something. I hear. I have found it. Now you have something for me, maybe?”

A day later, Bobby, Sheila, and Sol sat at a table under a hot afternoon sun on the boardwalk next to the Mark. Bobby and Sol drank beer, while Sheila sipped a vodka collins and read the morning’s Sun-Sentinel. Suddenly she began to laugh. Bobby and Sol looked at her.

“You won’t believe it,” she said. “Listen to this.”

“‘Almost 160 kilograms of pure heroin, with an estimated street value of $10 million, was seized in an early-morning police raid on Paradise Auto Works. Six people were arrested at the Sunrise Boulevard car dealership. The heroin was concealed in sixteen Ferrari racing tires that were being unloaded from a rented truck when the tactical drug squad arrived.

“‘Among those apprehended was dealership owner Sholomo Kressell, a.k.a. Sonny Kresnick, an Israeli national with U.S. citizenship. The police shut down the dealership pending an investigation and confiscated more than $20 million in exotic cars.

“‘The police were tipped off to the drug ring by Estelle Townsend, proprietor of the neighboring Royal Palm Motel. She telephoned 911 when she noticed suspicious activity at the dealership at an early morning hour for the third time in five days. Townsend, seventy-six, said, “I knew there were nefarious goings-on there. I could have taken them out twice myself with my Magnum.” Townsend owns a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. She has a concealed-weapon permit and is a member of the National Rifle Association.

“‘The police have put out an all points bulletin for the last member of the ring, a foreigner of undetermined nationality.

“‘Also found at the dealership were Kressell’s office records, a 9mm bullet lodged in the wall behind his desk, and a woman’s light-colored wig.’”

Sheila put down the paper and looked out at the ocean. “I’m glad he got away,” she said.

Bobby and Sol glanced at her. Sol said nothing. Bobby said, “I gotta start kissing your hand now, cara mia?”

“Oh, Bobby. He was a sweet guy.”

“That why you spend a fucking hour in his room, come out of his bedroom smoking a cigarette, with a dreamy look on your face?”

“Baby. I told you once, you’ve got nothing to be jealous about.” She looked into his eyes. Bobby had seen that look before but couldn’t remember where. “Don’t you know that, baby?” she said.

And Bobby thought. She’s so fucking believable.