It catches me off guard. “John… why?”
“Now, baby. You know I’m doing this for us, right? I just need to make sure we have enough to make it to Florida. Now be a good girl.”
John doesn’t give me a moment to argue, gingerly turning the doorknob so no one will hear. I jump up to be his lookout, as I’ve been told, hating John’s return to his old behavior. In a few minutes he returns, his jacket stuffed with the contents of a suitcase he has pillaged from the back of another parked car. He must have scoped out the car beforehand, I think, noting how fast and precise he has been. And with that thought, flashes come of some of the last motels we’ve stayed in. Was he stealing back then as well? It seems possible, but I quash the thought anyway.
John pulls out some cash, loose change, and a watch, dumping them on the bed. Then, ever so gently, from under his arm he retrieves a .38 caliber pistol.
I grab Thor and slip him under my sweater, squeezing him close to my chest as if to comfort a horrible ache in my soul. I keep an eye on John as he empties the chamber over the bed and counts the bullets. Now we really are armed like they think we are! I shudder at how the FBI made this deadly prediction.
Collins Avenue runs the length of a small strip of land that separates North Miami from the Atlantic Ocean, and is the main road on my favorite beach, Haulover. We used to beg our mother to take us to Haulover Beach on weekends when we lived in Carol City. Then when we got older, we’d hang out there with our girlfriends. There is a single wooden pier jutting over the ocean with an ice cream shack and miles and miles of sun-filled sand, a getaway from the gang fights of our neighborhood streets. It is here that I think John and I might find refuge, if for no other reason than that I remembered feeling safe here years before.
We enter the parking lot of the Fountainhead Hotel, a 1950s, two-story transition hotel that stretches from Collins Avenue to the beach. A life-size figure of a mermaid-haired female bust is bound to the bow of a ship. The Malibu, on its last leg, chugs and spits into an empty space in the lot.
John’s long legs extend one by one, stiff and weary, as he leaves to check us in. I keep Thor out of sight.
In a burst of laughter, John swaggers out of the lobby, flanked by a queen-sized redhead and a lanky, dark-haired man. “Hey, babe. This is Big Rosie and her husband, Tom. They run the place. They love Chihuahuas and wanna take a look at Thor.” He reaches in to pass Thor to Big Rosie by the scruff of his neck.
“Hi there!” Big Rosie booms, holding out her hand to me. “You must be Dawn.”
“Yeah. Hi! You like Chihuahuas?”
“Oh God, yes. I was raised with ‘em. My parents just lost Tiny, a little fawn-colored one they’ve had since I was a kid. They’re devastated.”
“I can imagine. I don’t know what I’d do without him. They’re the best dogs.”
“Yeah. Tough little guys and loyal too. They’ll stand up to anything to protect ya.”
“I know,” I say, remembering…
Thor takes an immediate liking to Big Rosie, quivering as she coos his name and reaches out to steal a kiss. “Yeah, we don’t got a problem with small dogs like this here. We get all kinds of things; I just like to know about it first. Just make sure you take him out to pee, and everything will be fine.” She hands him back with a grin that matches her size.
“Thanks.”
“All right, we’ll let you two get settled in. Italian Joe serves dinner at the snack shop around five. He makes the best meatball subs on Collins Avenue. Don’t wanna miss it.” They head back into the front office, and I feel as if I’ve run into old friends.
John is smiling from ear to ear. “Come on, baby. Let’s get unpacked.”
The first week of rent, John pays with what little cash we have left. We’ll both have to look for work. Our registered identities are John and Dawn Evans, a newly married couple who have been sweethearts for years. Big Rosie is warm, loud, smart, and genuine. She has been running the Fountainhead for several years now and is proud of the fact that she can maintain a place that is affordable enough to help people get on their feet. It’s this line of thinking that causes her to take notice of our desperate financial situation. When John approaches her to do odd jobs for room rent, she’s already made a plan.
“Well, my husband is actually the official handyman here, John, but he might need extra help with a few things. You’ll need to talk to him. Now, I could use someone to be my housekeeper. I’ve been doing it, but I can’t do everything. If Dawn’s interested, tell her to come see me.” John can’t wait to give me the news, and soon I’m employed full-time—housekeeping in trade for rent, including a few extra dollars under the table.
We set up home in a fairly large room on the second floor near the back stairs, which lead to the enclosed pool and Italian Joe’s Snack Shop. On the other side of the pool fence is an enticing stretch of public beach, white sands rolling straight into the refreshing crystal turquoise of the Atlantic Ocean.
It is nearing the end of a hot August, and it’s been almost six weeks since we left Los Angeles. I allow myself to fall into a safe intimacy with the humidity and the heat of southern Florida, where the people don’t seem to recognize John for his porn image. We are the nice, likeable couple in love, and it’s not long before we’re introduced to the other live-in residents at the Fountainhead. We often gather at Italian Joe’s Snack Shop at the pool for dinner, lingering evening meals where Joe dishes out special sausage dishes to the tenants for a deal. We eat with Louise, a stripper with a lisp who’s waiting for a divorce settlement, her five-year-old daughter, Heather, and Big Rosie and her husband. Armand, a dark-skinned Cuban male stripper, joins us on his nights off.
We couldn’t have found a better place to hide out from the law. Accepted and liked, John and I fit in perfectly with the misfits in residence here and nobody asks any questions about a subject they aren’t willing to ask about directly. The blond regrowth of John’s hair is obvious but never mentioned. Big Rosie makes a side comment about how tough it is for an older man to keep looking good for his younger bride, and I figure she feels sorry for John for dyeing his hair to impress me.
The weeks slip by with the comfortable feeling that we have blended into this place that feels a world apart from the chaos lurking on the outside. The worry that someone will find us to fulfill an underground contract diminishes.
Many an evening John amuses the gang at Joe’s with his animated jokes and charm. They are impressed, and the attention feeds John’s ego. He is the star of the show, and I laugh along with our new neighbors. The people here have all the familiarity of the neighbors at the courtyard back in Glendale… before the drugs and the beatings.
Like a firefly restlessly, rapidly moving, a touch of affection flitters back between John and me. He writes me love notes and poetry again and lingers with me on long, romantic strolls down the beach while Thor bounces near our heels. John dabbles in drawing again, often sitting in a chair by the pool sketching me intently as I talk to people at the snack shop or watch television in our room. Beautiful profiles and warm, tender moments with Thor flow onto his artist’s pad, and he signs each picture gallantly in his old, unique style. Here, it seems the world is allowing us to make a niche for ourselves again, a refuge from those who hunt us.