"You don't have any doubts about this."
She said, "None. As soon as I saw you I knew we could make it happen."
"Walk away with a score."
"In time. Once we know what we're after."
"He gets out," Foley said, "we won't see much of each other. You'll be with him."
She said, "Sleeping with him-that's what you're thinking. There's nothing I can do about it, we bide our time."
"We could take off tomorrow," Foley said. "Put the top down, drive all the way through Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, we don't stop till we're in Costa Rica."
"I wait eight years of my life," Dawn said, "to steal a Volkswagen." She touched his face, brushed the tips of her fingers over his mouth. "You call him the little fella, your prison buddy you know you can't trust. He tells me he's invested money in you and wants me to put you to work. So I'm thinking you could come on as the true love of a woman who's dead husband is giving her a hard time."
"How's he do it?"
"Makes appearances."
Foley stared at her.
"I do this all the time, have psychic house parties for rich old broads, never more than six or eight at a time, two bills to find out about yourself or your past life, your yearnings, reconnect with deceased loved ones. I hypnotize skinny ones who aren't too old to enlarge their breasts."
"You can do that?"
"Through visualization techniques. I have them write on a piece of notepaper something they want more than anything in the world. I take the notes folded, I don't peek at what they wrote. I look at the ladies one at a time. Suzanne wants to stop smoking. Another one wants to lose weight-those are easy. The best kind of all, Danialle wishes her dead husband would stop bothering her."
"How'd you guess that?"
"I didn't guess, I knew who she was, an actress before her husband died. He was a film producer. I bring you in as the ghost expert. She immediately falls for you and that solves her problem." Dawn said, "Hmmm, that's not bad."
Foley said, "I know how to handle ghosts?"
"You're good with spirits, but let's stay with Cundo. I want to tell you how you feel about him. You know he's a shifty guy, but there's something about him you like, his confidence, the way he struts. It's why you don't feel good about ripping him off-especially if he won't know about it. We disappear in the night. But you think it's sneaky and you've never been a sneak. You're not even sure he'll try to hustle you, get you into some kind of action. Am I right?"
"It sounds right," Foley said.
"Is robbing a bank much different?"
"It's face-to-face."
"With the teller. 'Sweetheart, give me all your big bills, please.' Isn't that why you're there? For money. You're not robbing the bank because it's out to fuck up your life. Money, that's the only motive you need."
"You want me to look at this," Foley said, "like it's a job, that's all."
"Exactly."
"I get him before he puts me to work?"
"Before he comes up with a scheme to use you. It's why you're here, Jack, his houseguest."
It wasn't yet clear to Foley how they'd work the job or how much they were after; he was counting on Dawn for the details. Getting his motive straightened out and what Dawn said about finding each other, that was enough for right now. The only other thing on Foley's mind:
"The one who's gonna fall in love with me-what was her name in the movies?"
"Danialle Tynan."
"Yeah? I've seen her. She wasn't bad."
In the morning Foley came off the roof with Cundo's binoculars, down to the kitchen where Dawn was putting bread in the toaster. She glanced at him. "You know who you're looking for?" "Strangers," Foley said.
She said, "Aren't they all strangers?" Dawn wearing a navy T-shirt with born to howl reversed across the front, the message the same color as her little white undies, Dawn's around-the-house costume, turning him on as she fixed breakfast.
"I was hoping," Foley said, "I might see a guy with a haircut wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and tie strolling along the canal. It would get my attention."
She said, "He can't be working alone. I haven't thought about it, but I'll turn my magic on it if you want."
"I try to think like Lou Adams," Foley said. "If he can't raise a posse of feds, who does he get to help him?"
"Bad guys," Dawn said.
"That's what I came to, offenders he can lean on. Felons, threaten to bust 'em for strolling without a destination."
Dawn said, looking to see if the bread was toasted enough,
"We have all kinds of boys in the hood living in Venice. Go over to the Oakwood Recreation Center, you can buy dope on the basketball court. The police just had a big raid there the other day, took a bunch of boys in."
"That's where you get your grass?"
"I have it delivered."
"I saw a guy," Foley said, "a Latino I took to be a gangbanger, except he's wearing a purple scarf tied on his head, a do-rag, and I thought, Purple, that's a mix of gang colors, red for the Bloods, blue for the Crips, the guy showing he's not partial to either one. I saw him in the alley, he's talking to some black kids, teenagers, and he's Latino. You understand what I'm saying? He's jiving these kids, messing with them and they think he's funny, they're all laughing. I'm wondering what's going on? They're suppose to be bustin' caps at each other."
Dawn flipped up the toast, black, smoking, and threw it in the trash. She said, "He might be an intervention worker."
"What do they do?"
"Act like they're settling gang problems. They love the attention."
"This morning," Foley said, "I saw the same guy coming along the walk by the canal. He stopped to talk to the maid next door, in the glass house."
"It's my favorite," Dawn said. "The house is thirty feet wide and has a lap pool inside." She put two more slices of bread in the toaster. "You saw the Latin guy talking to the maid. Then later you went over and asked her who he was."
"I said I thought I knew him but wasn't sure. She said his name's Vincent, but here he's called Tico."
"Because he's from Costa Rica," Dawn said.
"You must've got a message from the spirit world. You hear a voice saying, 'Hey, Dawn? In case you didn't know it, guys in
Costa Rica are called Tico and the women Tica. You might be able to use it when you're being psychic.'»
She said, "You know, I've never been to Costa Rica? I must have read about the Ticos and Ticas and stored it away. My poor head is crammed full of stuff, Jack, normal and paranormal all bunched together. I have to stop and think sometimes, where in the world did that come from?" She turned to the toaster saying, "So now you'll be watching for Tico from Costa Rica."
"If I see him again," Foley said, "I'll have a word with him."
He watched her flip up the toast, not quite as burnt as the first two, and look past her shoulder at him.
"You like your toast a little dark?"
Foley said, "Thanks, I'll make my own."
He was on the roof when the Bentley arrived, Foley wanting to have a look at Little Jimmy Rios before meeting him face-to-face. He watched the car pull up behind the garage. Watched a guy he took to be the bodyguard, a slim Latino in sunglasses, come out of the car and look around before opening Little Jimmy's door. Finally, there he was coming past the rear of the gunmetal gray Bentley.
Only it wasn't the Little Jimmy Foley was expecting. In the color shots from the past that Dawn showed him, Little Jimmy was Al Pacino playing Tony Montana in Scarface. Little Jimmy in a white suit, shirt collar spread open, dark hair like Tony's down on his forehead. Today's Little Jimmy was into another style, a dark suit cut slim and buttoned up, the shirt collar high and stiff, not anything like Tony's, the pants narrow all the way down to a pair of polished crocodile loafers with Cuban heels.