Spade’s Isla Verde Resort
Lorendo said the name was an acronym for the syndicate that held ownership. Seashore Properties and Donovan Enterprises. Tommy Donovan president, chairman of the board. But a figurehead more than he was an administrator.
Or a potentate, Vincent thought. Did he sit on cushions and smoke a water pipe, clap once for whatever he wanted? In there somewhere, beneath that spade-shaped sultan’s dome lighting up the night. Jesus Christ, Vincent thought. He wondered what all this meant and who had thought it up. What the Muslim look had to do with gambling… the Puerto Rican Arab doorman having to wear that cape and turban. People handing him a buck getting in their cars, not even cracking a smile or looking twice-he was smiling, the doorman, saying yeah, they serious, but I get paid for this shit. All the people inside were serious, too, trying to make money or trying not to lose it. Vincent walked past the casino floor into the Sultan’s Lounge.
He sat in the booth with Iris. She asked him if he wanted a glass of champagne that cost eighty dollars a bottle but was free. He ordered scotch; it was only four dollars. The music was all right, it was pleasant, played by a dark-haired girl in a soft blue spot. Iris told him he should wear a coat to come in here. He said, or a cape and a turban. And had to smile. This couldn’t be serious. How could she get in trouble in a place like this?
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Iris said. “So I tell you good-bye now.”
He thought a moment and said, “Can I give you one word of advice?… Don’t. You know what you’re gonna be?”
“Yes, of course, a hostess.”
“You’re gonna be a comp.”
“Yeah? Wha’s that, Vincent, a comp?”
“Like the champagne, a gift. You’re gonna get handed out, passed around. You’re gonna have to learn how to smile.”
“I know how, Vincent. I smile when I’m not with you.”
“You’re gonna have to be nice to assholes.”
“I’m nice to everybody.”
“You’re gonna get handed out.”
“You already tole me that.”
“You’re gonna get treated like shit.”
“Oh, is that so? I’m tole a very important guy in business is going to flip over me.”
Vincent said, “It’s too late, huh?” He stared at her and said, tired if not sad, “Iris, you’re the best-looking girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Thank you, but is pronounce Eer-es.”
“And probably the dumbest.”
“Goodnight, Vincent.”
“Good-bye, Iris.”
Two weeks had gone by.
He thought of Iris once in a while, he also thought of Nancy Donovan. From one extreme to the other, and realized he could go either way. Still horny.
Herbey Maldonado came to Vincent’s apartment to tell him Lorendo wanted to talk to him. Call him this afternoon or, if he could, meet him for lunch at the Cidreño. Herbey was a quiet person, but seemed more than quiet today. Vincent asked him what was up. Something the matter? Herbey said he didn’t know what it was about. He offered to drive Vincent to the restaurant. Fine. It was almost time. On the way there Herbey said they had been out to El Yunque all morning investigating a homicide that looked like it would be a difficult one. Lorendo’s squad had it. Lorendo, he said, should be back by the time they got to the Cidreño. Herbey dropped him off.
Vincent drank beer as he waited, getting hungry, deciding he’d have the asopao de pollo, sort of a chicken stew with rice. He could taste it already. With the beer and fresh crusty bread and hard butter. Jesus. Lorendo Paz came in and sat down, worn out, his cream-colored suit smudged with dirt.
“You’ve got a tough one, uh?”
“Guy is dead a couple weeks or more.” Lorendo touched his forehead. “One in here.” He touched his temple, the left side. “Another one here, to make sure.”
“Two weeks out there?”
“At least. They been insects and things, animals, eating him, plants growing on him. His face isn’t much left. A week ago they found a taxi out there, but we don’t know if it belongs to the guy. He didn’t have a wallet, any I.D. on him.”
“How about Missing Persons?”
“We got to talk to them, see who they looking for.”
“If he’s the cab driver, maybe there’s a record, where he picked up his fare.”
“I’m going to see about that too, Vincent.”
“Who found him?”
“Some hikers, by luck. He wasn’t near a trail. This guy whoever it was, shot him and then pushed him off a place, you know, where you go see the view. So, we still looking for the wallet out there. Meanwhile they do a post on him at the medical center, look for a bullet. We get some prints of the guy and see if they match prints in the taxi. Then where are we, uh?”
“Just getting started,” Vincent said. “What’s different about this one?”
“They all different,” Lorendo said, “aren’t they? Once you see how they came to happen, the reason. Maybe this one is robbery. But we don’t know the same person shot him took his wallet, do we?”
Vincent said, “You asking for an opinion?”
Lorendo shrugged. “You want to give it, sure. This point, I listen to everybody.” Smiling a little.
Vincent said, “You feel like buying lunch today? Is that why we’re here?”
“Well, it’s my turn,” Lorendo said. He looked off to find a waiter and said, “There is something else,” still looking off. “I received a phone call this morning…”
Vincent watched Lorendo straighten and glance at him, only a glance, taking something from his inside coat pocket-a folded sheet from a legal pad-opening it now as though he didn’t want to.
Vincent eased upright, wary. He said, “You’ve got my full attention.” Sounding like he was kidding with Lorendo but serious. “Who was it called you?”
Lorendo was studying the sheet of yellow paper. “Guy from Atlantic County, in New Jersey. A captain name Davies, with the Major Crime Squad. They’re in the prosecutor’s office.”
Vincent sat back in his chair. He said, “Oh, shit. Iris, huh? They pick her up?”
“They found her-”
“What’d she do, solicit a cop?””She didn’t do nothing, Vincent. She died.”
THE OLD MAN, MR. BERTOIA, said to Vincent, no, it didn’t have to be closed. He breathed and sighed through his nose. He said, the poor girl. Fifty years on Oriental Avenue, it broke his heart every time, see a young girl like this taken from us. He said, yes, of course it should be open, glancing at his middle-aged son. Friends, love ones, they want to see the departed, they don’t want to look at the coffin.
The younger Mr. Bertoia said it wasn’t a coffin, it was a casket. Saying this to his father in front of Vincent. The terrain of the old man’s face was weathered and creased; Vincent thought of him as a stonemason or a mountain guide, a man who spent his life outdoors. The son was balding, sallow; he stood with his hands behind him in the pose of a minor official, always right, the assistant principal whose literal mind lies in wait. He made his statement now, saying, “Let me remind you, the pelvis, the spine, the hips, you could say they were pulverized. You could say she literally broke every bone in her body.”
The old man said, “Yes, but her face is good.”
“Her face is, well, it’s okay.” The younger Mr. Bertoia shrugged. “You could show it. The rest of her though, I wouldn’t show to her worst enemy.”
The old man’s eyes flared and he whipped his son with a burst of words in Italian.
The younger Mr. Bertoia straightened. “I’m only trying to explain the condition of the deceased. You want me to fill her out? Fine. I’ll pad her, make up her face for viewing. But it’s going to take some work, and it isn’t specified in the contract.”
“This gentleman,” the old man said, “is requesting this. You don’t understand it?”