Leo waved to a girl. He pressed the canister into Harry’s palm.
“What’s wrong with a paper sack?” That was the way Harry did it whenever he was holding something the law would rather not have him holding. In a plain brown wrapper, an ounce of blow or a sizzling .38 might just as well be a tuna salad on whole wheat.
“My way’s more creative. That’s the trouble with you, Harry. You’ve got no imagination.”
“I got plenty of imagination, and what I’m imagining is getting my ass busted collecting Manfred’s money and being thrown back inside, only no Dade County lock-up this time, but a big league jolt in a fucking State Penitentiary. That’s what I’m imagining right now.” He put the canister down.
“You don’t wanna do it, don’t do it,” Leo said. “Suit yourself.”
“I didn’t say that,” Harry said. “But I’ve gotta be wondering, what’s in it for you? You know what I mean? What angle’re you working here?”
“Let’s just say I was hung up one time and somebody really helped me out. I believe in karma. I believe in giving back.”
Harry doubted Leo believed in a single thing outside his five senses. But what were his options? Knock over some granny for her Social Security check? He’d never hurt anybody that didn’t have it coming, and he wasn’t about to start. He could hustle pool, but that’d only be good till the other sharks got wise. Besides that, he had no back-up here, he was way off his game, and what if he lost?
Leo took off his shades and posed, the tip of an earpiece to a corner of his mouth. His eyes were the same green as the ocean beyond the asphalt and sand on Harry’s right. He looked at Harry and waited, the kind of guy who wanted to make you think he had all the answers.
Harry had to admit, he was curious about the Manfred-Leo connection. Maybe Manfred would shed more light on it.
He took two Marlboros from Leo’s box, lit one, and slid the other behind his ear.
Never a hard-knuckles hood, Manfred Pfiser directed a thriving import-export business from several outlets in Holland.
After suffering forty-seven years of Flemish latency, two marriages and three children, Manfred charged out of the closet and threw his arms around a lifestyle he was twenty years too old for. He loved his cocaine, piles of it, though only when he was partying, compulsive behavior he reserved for New York and now, Harry guessed, Miami Beach, the ideal hideout for any lateflowering fag.
He reveled in his reputation, playing the role with relish during his sprees, benefactoring dozens of runaways and beefcake queens who always had something nice for their Dutch Uncle when Uncle had something nice for them.
Harry met him working security at one of Frankie Yin’s events at the now shuttered Wonderland. It was easy work for a hundred bucks a night, and Harry was happy to get it. He wished Frankie Yin promoted more parties.
Manfred made Yin’s scene three weeks running and cruised Harry a bunch of times before he screwed up the nerve to actually speak to him. His opening, “You look awfully lonely back here,” was a line he had to repeat twice on account of the thudding blast of Super Sound, and the cartoony accent that made him hard to understand in even the quietest moments. Harry gunned him down politely, letting him know he wasn’t gay, and on top of that Frankie Yin had a strict rule against yapping with the clientele when you were supposed to be working for him.
And that would’ve been it, if fate hadn’t schemed to bring them together the next afternoon at a bagelry near Harry’s apartment. Harry munched eggs and bacon and toast, and a savagely hungover Manfred, bloodshot and wheezing, sipped black coffee and smoked half a cigarette at a time. He concluded the only cure for his misery would be more coke and more booze, and when he asked Harry where he could score and Harry answered “What’s in it for me?” they had the seedling of a working relationship.
Manfred appeared in the doorway dressed in a monogrammed robe that fell just to the tops of his thighs, his sunburnt skin a radish red rushed by Bain de Soleil.
He said, “Harry Harry Harry.” A hefty shot of Ballantine rattled in his hand. “So sad to hear of your recent sorrows, but I only recently learned the news, and why, here you are, among us once again.” He sounded like every bad actor who ever played a Nazi. “You really must control that temper.”
Harry said, “How about we talk inside?”
“Please, please.” He did a hop-step and closed the door. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and as he flounced around the room rearranging chairs, his balls were swinging free outside the robe.
“Let me offer you a toot,” he said, fishing for a vial. “And a drink, please have a drink. Have a drink with your Uncle Manfred.”
He got nellier and nellier the deeper he got into a binge. Auntie Manfred. The graying bags under his eyes hinted at about a thirty-six hour jag.
“I just finished one drink,” Harry said, “which is one more than I need at four o’clock in the afternoon.” He paced to a spot where he thought he’d be comfortable, but he wasn’t comfortable. The darkened room was smoky and frigid, the canned air chemical and stale.
Manfred put the spoon to his nose and sucked up some powder with a wince. “Is this what you call a reunion? Come on, Harry, you can do so much better than this.” He acted like his feelings were hurt, but he always did when he didn’t get his way.
“I’ll tell you what I will take,” Harry said, “is one of those mongrel Dutch cigarettes in the orange pack.”
Manfred said, “Shore,” his accent thick with scotch. He shook a cigarette out and Harry took it.
“So,” Manfred said, “you found Leo? He’s a good boy, Leo.”
“Leo’s a punk. And I’m pissed off with you.”
Manfred clicked his tongue and collapsed on the bed. His robe fell open.
“What is this, some late-breaking bulletin? Leo got locked up with me weeks before my court date, and if somebody, you for instance, had coughed up a couple grand, I wouldn’t have spent the last nine months inside. Do me a favor? Put on some shorts or get dressed or do something so I don’t have to have that dick waving in my face. Don’t tell me this is the first you’re hearing of it.”
“Five days ago when I got to Miami. I swear, Harry. Would I let you suffer like that?” He was pouting now, and Harry didn’t know whether or not to believe him. He walked to the dresser and slipped on a pair of silk boxers. He said, “There. Feel better?”
“When I get off the Beach for good is when I’m gonna feel better. Leo said something about a package.”
“Patience, Harry. Patience, patience.”
Harry’s head was splitting. Manfred was annoying him more than ever, and the roaring air conditioner put a pressure on his sinuses that made him dizzy. “Look,” he said, “let’s get this out of the way. I’m wasting time here.”
Manfred took another slug of scotch. “Your appointment isn’t till tonight. The only product I’ve got now is in this little jar. I’m waiting for delivery.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“Early this evening. No worries, nephew. We’ll have you on your way by nine o’clock.”
Nine o’clock. Five hours to kill. Wonderful.
The Hotel Fiorella was situated south of 4th Street in a part of town the neon didn’t reach, where the Harleys rumbled off the strip and where no heart-stopping brunettes strutted with portfolios under their arms. It cost thirty bucks a night and Harry was one of two or three current residents who wasn’t getting the tab covered by welfare.