“Fort something. Fort Laura-”
“Fort Lauderdale.”
“Yeah, Fort Lauradale.”
Jesus, it was a sign. That’s where he was going for the job. The man was right there. No special trip required. It would give him time to think about it, how to approach a man like Frank DiCilia. Show him the clipping from the paper, TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB, identify himself as one of the defendants-
“But ain’t no way you gonna see him,” Andre’s wife said.
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“The man died about a week ago,” Andre’s wife said. “Andre say he heard about it. You didn’t?”
SOME OF Roland Crowe’s buddies were still sloshing around back there in the swamp, driving air boats, guiding hunting and fishing parties, poaching alligators, making shine; some others were doing time at Raford and Lake Butler. Bunch of dinks.
Roland had been that entire route and had poured cement for five years before going broke and learning the simple secret of success in business. Deal only in personal services. Not things. No lifting, no heavy work, no overhead, no machinery to speak of. Look good, listen carefully, take a minimum of shit, live close to the Beach and always make yourself available to people who called and said, Roland, there’s this man owes us money. Or, Roland, we believe this man is going independent on us. Or, we believe he’s telling us a story…
Like the guy laying-up at Hallandale, Arnold Rapp. Financed him like a half million dollars, and he says the Coast Guard confiscated the shipment, nine tons of Columbian.
Say, Come on, Arnold, for true? Holding him out the window by his ankles.
Get that done, then stop by Lauderdale on the way back and say hi to the DiCilia lady. Look the situation over, lay in some footings.
First thing though, Roland spent his back pay. He bought himself four new summer suits the man told him were designed in Paris, France, and specially cut for them by this tailor in Taiwan, Republic of China. He bought himself new three-hundred-fifty-dollar hand-tooled, high-heeled boots. He bought an Ox Bow wheat-colored straw hat with a high crown and a big scoop brim that, with the cowboy boots, put him up around six-six. He bought a cream-colored Cadillac Coupe d’Ville, cash. And put two months’ rent down on an eight hundred dollar apartment in Miami Shores.
Look good and you feel good. He picked up Jesus Diaz and drove up to Hallandale.
“I bet what it is,” Roland said to Jesus, “I bet anything Arnold is a boy went to about five colleges, traveled all over, got busted a couple of times, has his rich folks bail him out and he thinks he’s a fucking outlaw. You think I’m wrong?”
“No, you right,” Jesus Diaz said. He was comfortable in the air-conditioned Cadillac, he didn’t want to argue with Roland.
“See, they get together, these snotty boys like Arnold? They think shit, they been to college, dumb guineas financing the deal don’t know nothing. Tell ’em the load went down the toilet and keep the money.”
“Maybe so,” Jesus Diaz said.
“No maybe. These little shitheads’re pulling something.” Jesus Diaz did not reply and Roland said, “You don’t believe it?”
“I believe it if you want me to,” Jesus Diaz said. He knew he should keep still, but he didn’t like Roland’s bright-blue pimp suit or the big Lone Ranger hat touching the roof of the car. He said, “Why they in business then? They make more selling it, don’t they?”
“They do sell it, you dink,” Roland said. “But they tell Grossi they lost it, and he’s out his dough.”
“They believe they can get away with that?” Jesus Diaz said.
“Jesus,” Roland said, not meaning the little Cuban but the other Jesus. “You should never’ve gone in the ring, you know it? I think you got your brains scrambled.”
Jesus Diaz agreed with that in part. To look like Kid Gavilan and fake a bolo punch wasn’t enough. After thirty-seven professional fights, several times getting the shit beat out of him and almost losing an eye, he could still see clearly and think clearly and knew this man next to him was a prehistoric creature from the swamp-man, from some black lagoon-who wore cowboy hats and chulo suits and squinted at life to see only what he wanted. Maybe he could punch with Roland and hurt him a little, but before it was over Roland would kill him. Roland’s fists were too big and his nose and jaw were up there too far away.
Jesus Diaz, looking up at the green freeway sign as they passed beneath it, almost there now, said, “Hallandale.”
“Yeah?” Roland said. “Hallandale. You can read English, huh?”
What Jesus Diaz would like to do, take the man’s cowboy hat from his head, reach over and grab it and sail it out the window.
This one, they should keep him locked up someplace with his mouth taped.
Then let him out to do the work, yes, because no one walked into a room and faced people the way Roland did.
Into 410 of the Ocean Monarch high-rise condominium on the beach, Jesus Diaz behind him, into the big living room of the apartment with the expensive furniture, where the four young guys were sitting with their beer cans and music and the smell of grass-a heavy smell even with the sliding door open to the balcony.
Arnold Rapp, the one they came to see, let them in, looked them over, turned and walked back to the couch. Jesus Diaz closed the door behind them. He liked the loud funk-rock music. He didn’t like the way the four young guys were at ease and didn’t seem to be scared. Yes, stoned, but it was more than that. They lounged, sitting very low in the couch and the chairs, no shoes on, each with long hair. They looked like bums, Jesus Diaz thought, and maybe Roland was right. Rich kids, yes, who didn’t give a shit about anything. Man, a place like this, view of the ocean, swimming pool downstairs in the court-these guys laying around drinking beer like they just came off a shift, not offering anything, waiting, like Roland was here to explain something or ask for a job. That was the feeling.
Roland said, “Your mommy home?”
They grinned at him. Arnold said, “No, no mommy, just us kids.”
Roland said, “Well now-who’re your little friends, Arnie?”
Arnold said, “Well now”-imitating Roland’s cracker accent, getting some of the soft twang-“this here is Barry. That there’re Scott and Kenny.”
The young guys-they were about in their mid-twenties-snickered and giggled.
The one called Barry, trying the accent, said, “And who be you be?”
It broke them up, “Who be you be.” The guys laughing and repeating it, Jesus, who-be-you-be. They thought it was pretty funny.
Roland walked over to the hi-fi. He brushed the stylus off the record and the funk-rock stopped with a painful scratching sound.
Arnold straightened up. “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing?”
“Getting your attention,” Roland said.
Barry was still grinning. He said, “Who-be-you-be, man?” And one of the others said, “He’s the who-be-you-be man. Comes in, who-be-you-bes your fucking records all up.”
“No, I’m the man’s man,” Roland said. “Sent me to ask you what happened to his five hundred and forty thousand dollars, I believe is the figure.”
“It’s in the municipal incinerator,” Arnold said.
The one named Barry said, “We already told it, man. Ask him.”
Roland tilted up his Ox Bow straw. He walked out to the open balcony with its view of the Atlantic Ocean and leaned on the rail a moment.
Jesus Diaz stood where he was in the middle of the room, watching Roland, hearing the young guys say something and giggle. Something like, “Hey, partner” and something about riding here on a fucking horse, and another one saying, “A fucking bucking bronco, man,” and all of them giggling again.
Roland came back in. He said to Arnold, “How about you tell me what you told him.”
“Coast Guard picked up the boat in international waters and brought it into Boca Chica,” Arnold said. “He knows all that. The pot went to Customs and they burned it up.”