“Yeah, well, not that stuff. It fucks up his stomach, so please, Sol? And another thing: Don’t call him a dog.”
“Jesus. He is a dog.”
“No he’s not. He’s beyond dog.”
“All right, all right.” But the hamburger had already disappeared and Sol turned back to Bobby. “The spic expects you at his house tonight for dinner. Midnight. Them spies eat late. It’s in the Gables.” Sol slid a folded piece of paper across the table. Bobby unfolded it and looked at it.
The waitress appeared. “Another round,” Sheila said. Then, smiling at Sol, she added, “And don’t forget to put the little umbrella in his rumrunner. OK, honey?”
Sol ignored her and went on. “There’s no number on the front gate. But you can’t miss it. Big fucking concrete wall, razor wire on top. You know how they are. Makes ’em feel important. I told him to expect a Mr. Bobby Squared. Just announce yourself at the gate. They got this little box you talk into, they let you in.”
Sol lowered his voice and leaned closer to Bobby. “One other thing. Don’t pack. He’s fuckin’ paranoid.” He smiled at Sheila. “Very good, Sol.”
“Par-a-noid, Bobby. Drives one of them ten-ton Bentleys that fucking bazookas bounce off. Guats patrolling the grounds with Macios and guard dogs, big fucking mutts like in the movies.”
“Rottweilers,” Sheila said.
“Whatever. Dog shit everywhere. Wear your cowboy boots, Bobby. And don’t pack. They’ll pat you down at the front door, and you don’t want to piss these guys off.”
Bobby nodded. “What’s my end?”
“All of it. It’s a present. You always stood up for me.” Sol’s tone changed for an instant, not the wise guy now, but genuine. Then he went on talking, all business again. “The product will costya, maybe 75 large. The spic will give you a hundred. You keep the change.” He leaned closer to Bobby and said softly, “Bobby, you know there’s only one guy deals in so much product.”
“I know.”
“You ever met him?”
Bobby shook his head.
“He’s fucking wacko. Old bastard thinks he’s God. From the Old Testament — you know what I mean. Watch yourself.” Absentmindedly, Sol broke off another piece of his hamburger and handed it to Hoshi. The dog wolfed it down.
“Jesus, Sol. What did I tell you? You’re a fucking mule!” Sheila stood up. “Come on, Hosh.” She walked off the deck onto the sand and headed toward the ocean.
“What’d I do?” Sol said.
“You pissed her off,” Bobby said. He followed Sheila with his eyes as she walked in the sand in that distinctive way of hers that always turned him on. She twisted the balls of her feet so that her small, high ass swiveled left and right. Bobby watched as she turned at the water’s edge and began walking away. Hoshi trotted beside her, well away from the water. The only time he ever pissed and moaned was when they gave him a bath.
Sheila stared silently through the blacked-out windows of Bobby’s black SHO as they drove south on I-95. Finally, Bobby said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” she snapped, not looking at him. Then, turning to him, she said, “I’m sorry, baby. It’s not your fault.” She looked down at herself dressed in a beige silk pleated jumpsuit. She was wearing a matronly wig, brown flecked with gray, twisted into a bun at her nape. “It’s this fucking girdle. Reminds me of my age.”
Bobby reached a hand across the seat and placed it on her thigh. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“That’s all right, Bobby.” She smiled at him as they passed the Miami skyline, the glass skyscrapers illuminated eerily by pastel lights, pink and green and blue. “I’m curious, though. Why do I have to wear a girdle?”
“You got your Seecamp?”
Sheila rummaged through her handbag and pulled out her chrome-plated Seecamp .32, six shots, double action only. He’d given it to her two years ago. “It’s so pretty,” she’d said when he handed it to her. “So tiny. It doesn’t seem real.”
“Now, stick the gun inside your girdle. The spic isn’t going to pat you down… I hope.”
She unbuttoned the jumpsuit to her navel and stuck the little gun into the front of it. “It’s cold,” she said. She moved her hips seductively. “Feels good, though.”
When they reached Coral Gables they turned left, toward the ocean. Bobby slowed the car, pulled out Sol’s piece of paper and squinted at the numbers on it, then glanced at the numbers on the houses. Mansions. Spanish Mediterranean, most of them. Some looked like English Tudors. The Anglos, Sheila thought. She looked up. An insistent breeze from the ocean rustled the leaves of the big royal palms lining the street, reflecting the white moonlight.
“We’re getting close,” Bobby said. Sheila appreciated the tall, wrought-iron gates and fences, the big circular driveways, the Rolls Royces, Benzes, Ferraris and BMWs, all illuminated by landscape lights. Another world, she thought.
“At dinner, baby,” Bobby was saying, “you make sure to sit by me. Things start to go bad, you’ll know. You get up, go to the ladies’ room to powder your nose. Take the Seecamp out, put it in your purse, come back, put the purse under the table, at your feet. A few minutes later, you drop your napkin, something, reach under the table, drop the Seecamp into my boot.”
She smiled at him.
A few minutes later, Bobby muttered “Jesus” and stopped in front of a 12-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire. “You think this is it?”
Bobby announced himself at the call box and the big wrought-iron gate opened electronically. They drove slowly up the long driveway, past the palms and hibiscuses and frangipani. Two men, cradling Uzis, stood guard at the front, one of them leashed to an enormous rottweiler. The one with the dog hurried to Sheila’s door and opened it, but when she reached out her hand he ignored it and reached for her handbag. On his opposite side, the dog strained at its collar. Sheila stepped out of the car and stared directly into the dog’s eyes with her own cool blue eyes. It looked away and whimpered. Sheila reached down to stroke the fur behind its ears. “Nice boy,” she said. The dog pulled away from her touch.
The other man gestured with his Uzi and Bobby got out and raised his hands over his head. The man patted him down as the big, hand-carved door opened. A pudgy little man in a white linen suit stood outlined in the light of the doorway. His tiny feet were in black patent leather Guccis and his long, black hair, flecked with silver, was greased and combed straight back from a soft, pouty face. His eyes were big and dark, like a child’s.
“Señor Esquared,” the man said, smiling. “Señor Rogers has told me much about you.”
“Señor Rogers?” Bobby asked.
The man looked confused. “Señor Esol Rogers, your associate.”
“Oh, yes. Señor Rogers. He has told me great things about you, too, Señor Medina.”
The man grinned and nodded with satisfaction.
Smugglers, Bobby thought. They crave recognition.
The man who had searched Sheila’s bag was now patting her down, running his hands down her back. Señor Medina frowned and snapped something in Spanish. The man yanked his hand away.
“Please excuse the precautions, señorita,” Medina said to Sheila. “A man in my position…” He shrugged.
“You’re too kind, señor. But, of course, it’s señora. Señora Sheila Doyle.” She reached out a hand.
He shook the tips of her fingers. Then he stared at her for a moment, this tall Anglo woman. He said something in Spanish to his two men and barely perceptible smiles crossed their lips.
“Gracias, Señor Medina,” Sheila said. “Porlos complimientos.”
Medina looked startled. Then he smiled. “You speak my tongue, señora?”
“Unpoquito.” Sheila wiggled her fingers a bit.