“See?” Harry said. “Told you. Now you, Javier, are who I’m interested in. A fully conscious, able-bodied individual, holding Uncle’s money. You are going to find Uncle’s money and you are going to give it to me now, right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off. I don’t see you moving.”
“I cannot allow you to use that vile language in the same sentence with the name of my personal Lord and Savior.”
A tremendous piece of work, this Javier.
“You’re a decent guy, Javier. You’re a freak but you’re a decent guy, and as a decent guy, I know you’re determined to do the right thing. Do me a favor, buddy. I need to get that money, and I need to get out of here.”
Javier sifted through the pockets of a suede carcoat and pulled out a knot that was probably hundreds. With shaking hands, he tried to count out a thousand, or whatever it was Harry was supposed to get. It was almost like it didn’t matter anymore.
Harry said, “Javier, get in the bathroom.” He leveled the gun. “Now.”
Javier obeyed, walking toward the toilet, the stack of bills in his fist.
“Javier. Stop. Leave the money on the table. Okay, now go on, get in there.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Why don’t you just let me worry about that?” Harry said. “When a man aiming an automatic weapon at you tells you to do something, you don’t debate him. You fucking do it. Are you with me?”
Harry dragged a chair across the floor and wedged it under the doorknob. Once Javier was scared enough, he’d find all the strength he needed to break out of there, but Harry would be miles away before that happened, or before the Swede scraped himself off the carpet.
He stuffed the Colt into his jeans and leafed through the bills. Seventeen hundred and change. The change, two twenties, a ten and a five, he left on the table. The rest he put in his pocket. Thinking twice about ripping off their ounce, too, he carved a thick line and sucked it up with a twenty. Sven whimpered in Swedish. He rolled from his side to his belly, but that was as far as he got.
For a guy with fairly good intentions three days out of stir, Harry was having no trouble racking up the felonies. Let’s see, you had possession, intent to distribute, and sale of narcotics, for a start. Robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and the all-time classic number-one no-no for any ex-con, concealing a handgun, although not too well, in his waistband.
Steadying the wheel with his knee, Harry twisted out of his jacket and wiped down the Colt. He was about to cross a bridge on some back road that ran parallel to Collins Avenue. He pulled over. He could smell the ocean. No streetlights, not a single car or the dimmest headlamp in any direction, just a crescent moon waning against a star-splattered sky. He held the gun by its trigger guard and dropped it into the canal.
Harry ran through his story to Manfred. Basically, there was no story to Manfred. It all went smooth. Here’s your cash, I got lost on the way back. Take care and thanks. I am so gone from this miserable town, the man you see before you is but a hallucination.
He drove on, fighting South Beach traffic all the way back to Manfred’s hotel.
On the way up in the elevator, Harry thought about his trip to New York. Seven hundred dollars to the good, the bus was out. Harry would be flying. He was going to report to that parole officer, all ready to be good, and he was going to say, Hey, I’m right here.
Only something wasn’t right. It wasn’t adrenaline or nerves or cocaine jitters, though Harry was feeling all of those. But something wasn’t right and he didn’t know what. From behind Manfred’s door, he could hear a Pasty Cline song blaring, a recording of the real thing this time. Nobody answered when he knocked, so Harry tried the knob and let himself in.
Manfred was sprawled in the center of the room, one leg pulled in, the other stiffening straight out from his torso. He’d been shot with a small caliber pistol, once real close from what Harry could bring himself to see. Powder burns rimmed a wound at the base of his skull. The satin bathrobe was thick with blood. His mouth and eyes were set in mischief, like Manfred had been poised to float one of his idiotic suggestions before the bullet went in.
Harry’s forehead was wet at the hairline and his breath got short, fear choking off his air. He’d better figure out what to do quick, and get out. He tiptoed around the pool of blood and shut up Patsy Cline. The silence made it easier to think. He swallowed three thirsty pulls of Ballantine, and wiped down the bottle and both glasses with a towel. Bringing up one acidic belch, he switched off the lights. He walked out and shut the door.
A drunk couple nattering in French fumbled with their keys, oblivious as Harry went past.
Leaving the scene of a murder. Another felony. No question.
The upside was this: He had just made a considerable accidental score. The down: If they caught him they’d try him for murder, and he’d have a bitch of a time talking his way out of it. And they’d catch him. Nobody had seen him on the way in, but there was Leo, and Jennifer, and the Surfside fags, and the fact he was registered under his real name at the Fiorella. They’d find out about him, and then they’d come for him. He’d have let the whole roll ride on that. The question was when, and where.
He took the Mustang and immediately regretted it. He was on the Interstate headed north, putt-putting in the right hand lane, every car on the road whizzing past him. The Florida Highway Patrol car tailing him for the last ten minutes changed lanes, gaining speed. The trooper closed to an eighth of a mile. His lights flashed silently and Harry closed his eyes. You stupid motherfucker. What were you thinking?
He pulled onto the shoulder, scattering gravel under the tires.
He hurled a prayer into the indigo sky. Holy Mary, Mother of God. The trooper screamed past and hit the siren. A second unit was on his bumper. A third, in the southbound lane, hooked a U and joined them. And then a group of motorists cruised past, in exact replicas of Manfred’s rental, in Sunbirds and Escorts, in mini-vans and pick-ups made in Japan. The road was still for a moment, then the next cluster of vehicles zipped by.
Harry got off the highway in a town called Hollywood, and drove around the back of an all-night mini-mart. He wiped down the keys and the steering wheel and the seats and pitched the keys into some thick weeds next to the lot. Breaking a hundred, he bought three packs of Marlboros and a bag of peanut M&Ms. The cashier snapped suspicious gum and wore huge pink-framed glasses connected to a chain. Three o’clock in the morning, she was telling him to have a nice day.
This street was like Hollywood’s main drag, Florida route something or other, running north and south. Where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there, he didn’t know, but he walked north. North was as good a direction as any. They’d catch up to him eventually, he had to admit that, but not tonight. No way. Not tonight.
Chapter Two
Detective Arnie Martinson was standing in the lobby of the Bird of Paradise hotel, talking to the patrolman who had responded. His name was Kenneth Simms. Simms was in his mid-twenties, and he had a rusty-brown mustache, and though Martinson had seen him around for the last couple years, he couldn’t say he knew him. Simms let him know that the room where the homicide occurred had been taped off and that the Crime Scene Unit had been dispatched to the hotel. Martinson asked him to go back upstairs and wait.
The hotel manager was dressed in grey slacks and a grey cotton shirt. The hair he retained was cropped super-close to match the this-is-not-a-beard length whiskers fuzzying his cheeks and chin. A pair of reading glasses hung around his neck, and he put them on as Martinson approached the desk.