At his desk, he signs into his bank account, the sound of his fingers on the keyboard echoing in the mostly empty house, and downloads the monthly statements Elise asked for. When he goes to the bar tonight, long after six so he doesn’t happen upon Chum again, he’ll be able to tell her she can come back anytime, tomorrow even, because he’s done what she asked. Just thinking about seeing her makes him feel better.
While he’s still able to smell Elise and feel her hair on the side of his face, Dale walks outside and down the stairs to his driveway. He’d never be able to do something like this if he was still with Patty, but Elise is different. A good woman will have this effect on a man. He’s always known that, and he can’t fault himself for making a mistake with Patty. Squinting and wishing he’d grabbed his sunglasses, he looks for any sign of neighbors. Overhead, the fronds of a coconut palm rattle with the breeze, but the street is otherwise quiet. Most of his neighbors have homes up north. When summer rolls around, they install their hurricane shutters, make sure their flood insurance is up-to-date, and flee the Florida heat and humidity.
Both guys startle when Dale knocks on the car window. They’d been asleep, which Dale is certain would upset Chum if he knew about it. That could be leverage if Dale ends up needing it. He’s already good at this, already thinking like he needs to. Even with all this pain fogging his head, he’s thinking clear, thinking a few steps ahead. This is the Dale he used to be.
“The hell you doing?” the driver says. He has black hair, slicked back so it shimmers. His smooth skin shines and a tan sleeveless shirt shows off slender arms and a sunken chest.
“You fellows work for money, yes?” Dale says, leaning against the doorframe in a casual sort of way and because it’s easier to breathe.
The men look at each other. The one in the passenger seat is broad through the chest and shoulders and wears a baseball cap over a head of stringy blond hair. He lets out a laugh and nods. Dale has asked a stupid question.
“Chum’s an old man too, ain’t he?” Dale says.
The driver dips his chin and looks out at Dale over the top of a pair of dark sunglasses. “Suppose he is.”
“And you know I’m selling my place,” Dale says. “That place right over there.”
The driver hangs one arm out of the car and looks toward Dale’s house.
“Well, here’s the deal. You two see to it that Chum doesn’t live past closing day,” Dale says, not able to stop himself from swallowing midsentence and giving away how nervous he’s feeling, “and there’s fifty thousand dollars in it for you.”
Dale’s new place is a two-bedroom on a slab with a flat roof and cinder-block walls. The marble windowsills are etched with water stains, and while the walls have been freshly painted in a pale gray, the air vents in the ceiling are trimmed with black mold. “The place’ll do well in a storm,” the leasing agent told him, “but if the flood insurance goes up, you should expect your rent to go up too.” Sitting at the small table off the kitchen, Dale flips open the lid on the rubbery eggs and cold sausage Elise brought him when she came by to set up his computer and finish the last of the accounting. Taking one bite and then pushing the food aside, he stares out at the browning backyard and the lone cabbage palm. No reclaimed water here. No green lawns trimmed weekly by a lawn service. No towering royal palms. No saltwater pools.
“Chum come into the bar last night?” Dale shouts over one shoulder so Elise will hear him in the back room.
Yesterday morning, his house closed as scheduled, and when he walked out of the title office, he texted Chum to say the funds would hit the bank no later than noon today and that Dale would hand Chum a cashier’s check at the bar when it opened at three. He stared hard at his phone while he waited for an answer. He never got one, and Dale has been hoping ever since that no text means the guys finally made good on their deal and that Chum Giordano is dead.
“Yes,” she calls back, “I saw him. Pretty sure I did.”
“What do you mean, you’re pretty sure?” he shouts, swinging around and almost tipping his chair. “Either you saw him or you didn’t!”
When Elise doesn’t answer, Dale leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and hides his face in his hands. Fifty years old and he’s going to have nothing. Chum is alive and Dale’s going to have to give him damn near every last cent he has. The roofer took what was owed him right off the top. Another chunk went to pay off the equity line and the seawall company. And once he pays off Chum, he’ll be wiped out. Hell, he isn’t even sure how he’ll make rent next month. At the sound of footsteps, he turns.
“Yes, he was there,” Elise says. “I remember because he told me you were having a rough go of it.” She presses up close behind Dale and works her hands and fingers along his neck muscles. “Said you’re a good guy too. That true?”
Dale closes his eyes. Her hands slip down his chest as she presses closer. He glances at the clock. He’s got plenty of time to get to the bank and then over to Smugglers, where he’ll meet Chum. From his old house, he could walk to Smugglers, but it’ll probably take him twenty minutes from here.
“Yes, that’s true,” Dale says. “I’m a good guy. The best.”
Elise must know he’s broke since he’s living in this shithole, and yet she doesn’t seem bothered by it. Dale leans his head back, resting it against her as she runs her fingers down one arm and takes his hand. She tugs so he’ll stand and then leads him to his bedroom.
Dale can still smell Elise on him as he stands at the counter and waits for the teller to pull up his account. His skin is damp from the late-day heat and the cold air blowing down from overhead makes him shiver, or maybe it’s the memory of Elise. As he waits for the teller to hand over the cashier’s check that will wipe him out, he closes his eyes, letting himself slip back to that first moment of seeing her and touching her.
“There’s a problem with your account, sir,” the woman sitting behind the computer says. Her short brown hair is cut at a sharp angle that makes her look older than she is. She taps the screen.
“How so?” Dale says, leaning to get a look.
“You don’t have the funds.”
“They were supposed to clear by noon.”
“Yes,” she says. “A deposit cleared late this morning.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“And a withdrawal was made at...” She pauses, tucks her angled hair behind one ear. “Twelve twenty-three. Yes, twelve twenty-three this afternoon.”
Outside the bank, Dale drops against the stucco siding. The ground underfoot tilts. He braces himself with one hand to the building. “Did you ever use a public computer to access your bank account?” the teller had asked him. A man joined them, asked if Dale needed to take a seat. “Who might have access to your accounts?” the man asked. No one, Dale kept telling them as the room began to spin. And then the man, the branch manager, had asked... “Who else might have access to your home computer?”
Three calls to Elise’s cell phone roll directly to voice mail. Inside his car, he tries to take slow, steady breaths so he might remember where she lives. Or if she ever told him. After she climbed out of his bed, she said she was headed to work. From the bank parking lot, within walking distance to the house he owned until about thirty-six hours ago, he can look across the street and see Smugglers. Leaving his car at the bank so Chum won’t see it parked outside the bar, Dale runs across four lanes of beach traffic, up onto the boardwalk, and yanks open the door to Smugglers.