‘Maybe, but I thought that was all zoned as a nature reserve. Raccoons and armadillos and such like.’
‘Not any more. Besides raccoons aren’t nature. They’re pests. You should really think it over. Go and take a look. Nine-foot ceilings, gourmet eat-in kitchens, a fitness center, intercoastal views. From as low as two-ten.’
‘Thanks a lot Jimmy, but no.’ Leaning over the arm of the sofa Dave unzipped the bag and glanced inside. ‘I need this money to set me up in something. Something that feels a little more real than landfill real estate.’
‘Yeah? Like what for instance?’
‘I’ve got some ideas floating around.’
Figaro shrugged.
‘Would you like to count it?’
‘And leave myself with nothing to do this evening? No thanks.’
Dave decided to skip lunch with Jimmy Figaro. The sight of Jimmy’s car, his two-thousand dollar suit, and the wide-eyed look on his secretary’s face had been enough to remind Dave of how out of place he now appeared. The Lucifer beard and the curtain rings in his ears might have helped keep his ass out of trouble in Homestead, but things were different on the outside. In the kind of respectable, well-heeled places Dave expected to be going, maintaining the don’t-fuck-with-me image would not be good for what he had planned. It was like Shakespeare said: the apparel proclaimed the man. He was going to need a complete makeover. But first he had to find a car, and well aware that he stood zero chance of driving away in something leased or rented, it made sense to keep the mean-as-shit look going for a while, at least until he had his wheels sorted. That way he figured he wouldn’t get sold the kind of fucked-up automobile that might have to bring his bad ass back to the showroom.
Now that he was out of Homestead he wanted to spend as much time in the open air as possible. That meant a convertible; and in the sports section of the Herald he found what he was looking for. A Mazda dealer offering a selection of keenly priced sports cars. A cab took him west of Downtown, along Fortieth, to Bird Road Mazda, and thirty minutes later he was driving back east toward the beach, in a ’96 Miata with CD, alloys, and only 14,000 on the clock. He had just started to enjoy the fresh air, the sunshine, the sporty stick shift, and the music on the radio — he didn’t own any CDs — when, pulling up at a traffic light to turn north onto Second Avenue, he looked across at the car alongside and found himself staring into the mean eyes of Tamargo, the guard who had escorted him from his cell in Homestead not three hours before.
Tamargo was driving just $1,900 worth of old Olds and seeing Dave in a car that had cost almost ten times as much, the prison guard’s sofa-sized jaw dropped like he’d had a brain hemorrhage.
‘The fuck d’you get that car, Slicker?’
Dave shifted uncomfortably in his leather seat and glanced up at the still red traffic light. Serving his full sentence gave him certain advantages now that he was on the outside. Not the least of these was the absence of any nosey-fucking-parker parole officer interfering in his life. But the last thing he wanted was the city police asking awkward questions about where the money for the car had come from. The major question was whether Tamargo could be bothered reporting what he had seen. Right now all the information the cops had on his whereabouts was care of Jimmy Figaro’s office. There was no sense in letting them discover the license plate on his car, and maybe a whole load of other shit as well. So keeping one eye on his rearview mirror, and tightening his grip on the leather steering wheel, Dave smiled back.
‘Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, motherfucker. I said, where’d you get the fuckin’ car?’
‘The car?’
‘Yeah, the car. The one that says stolen on the fuckin’ license plate.’
Still watching the traffic light.
‘This is a clean car, man.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘You know something, Tamargo? You’re part of a detestable solution. A detestable solution, in an infernal recurrence of guilt and transgression. Those are not my words, but those of a great French philosopher. If you had a shred of fuckin’ intelligence you would know that your very accusation implies the failure of the very same institution you represent. It’s your kind of prejudice that’s the single most important factor in recidivism. Maybe you don’t know, but that’s what they call it when a con commits another crime. Recidivism. The best thing you could do on behalf of the whole detestable corrections system? Drive on, and shut your fuckin’ mouth.’
The light turned green. Dave revved the engine hard and slipped the clutch.
Tamargo stamped on his own gas pedal, hoping to keep sight of Dave Delano long enough to read his license plate. Instead the little sports car just disappeared, and the prison guard was more than fifty yards up the road before he realized that Dave had reversed away from the traffic light. Tamargo braked hard and twisting his bulk around in his car seat, searched the rear window for the ex-con in the convertible. But Dave was gone.
After that Dave thought he could not change his appearance a moment too soon. He was heading for Bal Harbor on Miami Beach where Figaro had told him there was an excellent shopping mall opposite a classy Sheraton, with the sea view he had stipulated. Finding a different route onto Biscayne Boulevard, and Route 41, he was soon driving across McArthur Causeway and over the intercoastal waterway with the cruise port and ship docks of Miami on his right. The sight of a couple of big passenger liners pointed toward the ocean gave him a little thrill, for he knew that if things worked out as planned, he would soon be taking a sea voyage himself. Right now he was arriving on South Beach, driving up Collins and through the so-called historic district. That just meant art deco. But that was all the history there was going in Miami, which was one of the reasons why Dave couldn’t wait to leave the place. Even so, it felt good to be driving along through the gaudy pastels and flashy neon of Collins again; with all the people around, it was like rejoining the human race.
Ten minutes up Collins he pulled into the Bal Harbor shopping mall, parked the car, and still carrying the bag full of money, went in search of his new look. Straightaway he knew he was in the right place. Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani, Donna Karan, Brooks Brothers. Jimmy Figaro could hardly have recommended a better place for what Dave had in mind. There was even a beauty parlor offering a $200 speciaclass="underline" a massage, a haircut, a manicure, a facial. Maybe a facial could include a shave. Dave walked inside.
The place was empty. A girl reading People magazine stood up from behind the counter and smiled politely.
‘Can I help you?’
Dave smiled back, his best feature.
‘I hope so. I just got off a ship. I’ve been at sea for several months and, well, you can see the problem. I must look like Robinson Crusoe.’
The girl chuckled lightly. ‘You do look kind of grungy,’ she said.
‘Tell me, have you seen that movie Trading Places? You know, with Eddie Murphy.’
‘Yeah. He was good in that one. But not since.’
‘That’s what I want. An Eddie Murphy makeover. Shave, haircut, facial, manicure, massage, the whole $200 deal.’
One of the girl’s colleagues, wearing a clinical white dress and a name tag that said JANINE, had come over and was regarding Dave through narrowed eyes, the way he himself had looked at the Mazda before buying it.
‘We’re more Pretty Woman than Trading Places in here, honey,’ said Janine. ‘But we are kind of quiet right now. So I reckon we can fix you up. Make you look like a regular choirboy, if you want. Only it’s been a while since I shaved a man.’
Janine turned to look at her receptionist.