CHAPTER 16
In the Marine Bar, dancing with a man named McCotter, Sue adjusted her tempo to his starched rhythm. Coyle watched her as she moved. McCotter was a graduate of one of the national dance academies and handled his old frame nicely, sliding and slipping with the vigor of a man of thirty. McCotter piloted her across the floor to the exit of the Marine Bar and through the door out to the terrace. Sue held his hand and led him out of the place, not bothering to look back at Coyle.
Coyle stepped back to the bar, in time to smile at Barney Diaz, who approached from the terrace.
“She gets around, eh, Coyle?” Barney said.
“She seems to,” Coyle said. “Who’s this McCotter character?”
“He’s loaded. Big Wall Street man. But really big.” Barney rapped on the bar for his milk, got it and sampled it. “McCotter is the kind of man you don’t bump into often down here.”
“Sue managed to bump him,” Coyle laughed.
“Ah,” said Barney. “You sorry about it?”
“She knows what she wants.”
“Why not have a drink?” Barney said cordially. “Be my guest?”
Coyle accepted the drink, hating himself for exposing his softness to Barney Diaz. It was true that he resented her going off with McCotter. But it was a lie that he would miss her. He looked forward to the time when he would be free of her, but the prospect of living alone rose up to haunt him and his mind went cold and dead when he saw himself without companionship from day to day.
“See anything around that you like?” Barney asked.
There were free girls in the place; the hat check blonde and the cigarette brunette and the mysterious little one he had seen here before, always alone, at a table near the band. A sweetheart of one of the musicians? Barney was pointing out the fact that she was unattached and available and he would be glad to arrange it if Coyle said the word. Coyle was grateful to Barney, but the little man upset him, somehow. He found himself leaning Barney’s way too much, won over by a strange sympathy. What was the bond between them? Coyle did not relish exploring his mind on the subject. The fact was that Barney Diaz set off a mood that saddened Coyle.
“Not a thing, Barney,” Coyle said, and smiled his thanks. “But there’s something up the line I can arrange for myself. In a town called Miramar. How far away is it?”
“Only about twenty miles,” Barney said. “Up the coast.”
“That makes it easy.”
Coyle said good night and moved out to the beach. He crossed the sand and walked out on the pier and stood there staring at the small boats slapping and pulling at the pilings. A thin and fretful wind rolled in over the water and rocked the boats, but there was little noise except the occasional squeal of a rope rubbing on the plankings. It seemed strange and foreign now, the entire setting, as though he might be somewhere outside the immediate present, observing it all from a great distance. The feeling of isolation was nothing new to Coyle. He had been through this type of loneliness before and knew what it meant. He had mentioned Ellen Gardiner back there in the bar. He had brought her name into the conversation with Barney Diaz, and the deep longing for Ellen had come to the surface so that it was part of reality now. He had talked of Ellen out of his disappointment with Sue Welch, but Ellen Gardiner was alive now and the name of her town a business of actual distances. She was nearby and he must go see her soon.
Coyle found himself strolling under the colonnade of palms, on the way back to his cottage.
The door to his cottage was half open. Was Sue inside with McCotter? He stood on the patio, hesitating before making the next move. The open door challenged him and he went inside quietly, determined to get rid of Sue if he found her inside on his bed.
Then Coyle was hit hard.
Someone was in there, beyond the deep pit of darkness that was the hall, beyond the small table and the lamp, because suddenly the lamp crashed to the floor and something came past Coyle in a rush, a brushing blow that forced him to the side of the little hall. And then he was falling. Tripped? The man who pushed him was big and strong. Coyle went down in a heap, but he was reaching up as he fell, grabbing for the knees that rose over him. The man stumbled and muttered a whispered oath, and in the quick instant of his righting himself, Coyle smelled the odor of stale cigars. Was that enough to identify the man? A stab of pain slowed Coyle as he tried to move out after the marauder, onto the patio. Whoever the prowler was, he traveled fast out there, taking the short cut through the bushes and toward the rim of the gardens before the Carrillon. Was he turning back there? Coyle started through the brush and changed his mind and returned diagonally to the beach. There was a man moving his way, leisurely, a big man who puffed a cigar. It was Kepper.
“Out for a walk, Mr. Coyle?”
Was he breathing too heavily, or only wheezing and droning in his usual soulless monotone? Coyle came closer and studied him before speaking.
“Picking daisies,” Coyle said. “How about you?”
“Hah. I’m just doing my usual rounds, checking up,” Kepper said easily. “Do the same damned thing every night, Coyle.”
“Where? I haven’t seen you.”
“Right around here. Funny you missed me.” Kepper’s cigar went out and he lit it, the flickering glow from his lighter bringing his face into clear focus. He was heavy with sweat, up high on the edge of his forehead, under the thin mat of hair. He puffed hard and mopped himself. “Part of my lousy job, checking up out here, like a common ordinary house dick.”
“What were you looking for?”
The big man shrugged. “Everything. You never know. We had a bunch of smalltime robberies last week, mostly prowlers.”
“In the cottages?”
“The cabañas,” Kepper said. “Mostly the cabañas, because we didn’t watch them carefully.”
“Maybe you’ve been watching the wrong spots, Kepper. Maybe the prowlers are doing the cottages now.”
“You think so?”
“Somebody just ran out of my place,” Coyle said.
“Well, Jesus, what are we standing here for?” Kepper threw away his cigar, putting on a fine show of anger and annoyance. “Let’s get back and take a look in there.”
He strode off quickly and Coyle allowed him to reach the cottage first and snap on the living room lights. Kepper was staring down at the small desk when Coyle arrived. There was plenty of debris on the floor, the scattered remains of a few notes he had made on the first night in the cottage, the start of a story. Coyle picked the papers off the floor and folded them away in his pocket.
Kepper was scratching his head and staring about the room, as confused as he could possibly be. Nothing else in the living room seemed out of order, and they went into the bedroom and found it in a more upset state, much of the chest of drawers turned inside out, and a few of Coyle’s suits on the floor, obviously ransacked for some special purpose. Coyle went to the night table near the bed and found a small wad of bills he had placed there. He counted the money and none of it was missing. Kepper seemed fascinated by the entire situation, unable to say anything, only watching Coyle, as though he might discover the prowler by studying Coyle.
Coyle quietly replaced his clothing in the closet.
“Nothing missing?” Kepper asked.
“Not a thing,” Coyle said.
“I guess he couldn’t find your money. You’re lucky.”
“He must have been a moron to miss looking in that night table,” Coyle said. “Don’t you think so, Kepper?”
“I wouldn’t know. You might have surprised him.”
“Oh, come now,” Coyle said with mock seriousness. “Put yourself in his place, Kepper. If you were a cheap crook and came in here, wouldn’t you make a beeline for the money? You’d be hopped up with the idea that there was something to steal in a place like this, wouldn’t you? You’d have to be sort of a hal
f-wit to overlook that table, now wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t get it,” Kepper said with some confusion. “Maybe he just came in looking for jewels, or something. You never can tell with the prowlers.”
“You should know,” Coyle said.
“It’s a new angle on me,” Kepper said sadly. “Never saw one just like this. You sure nothing’s missing?”
“Nothing.”
“It don’t sound possible.”
“Why not?” Coyle asked. “Maybe somebody simply wanted to look through my things. To find out where my mother lives.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Don’t you understand?” Coyle laughed. “What I mean is, the idiot who came in here might have been sent here by somebody, Kepper. Somebody who was interested in me, personally. And not my belongings.”
“That sounds stupid,” Kepper said with disgust.
“Now just think it over,” Coyle said. “Suppose you wanted to get some information about me, Kepper. Wouldn’t it be smart to send a man down here and have him look the place over?”
“I don’t think so at all.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re a friend of mine.” Coyle enjoyed the big man’s discomfort as he stood flat-footed at the window, fidgeting with the blinds and moving across the room in an attempt at casual behavior, a fresh cigar in his hands and the lighter raised and then the flickering squint through the first puffs of smoke. “But I happen to know at least one man in this town who’d like to know more about me. And if this man gets curious again, I’m going to be waiting for his errand boy—with a gun. Maybe you’d better tell that to Barney, because I know Barney wouldn’t want anything to happen to me. Barney’s a good friend of mine.”
“Having a gun isn’t a bad idea, Coyle,” Kepper said. “But you won’t really need it, not after tonight. I’ll have a man watching your place after this. That prowler won’t come back.”
“Well that’s nice of you,” Coyle said. “I’ll sleep better now.”
Kepper had nothing more to say and went slowly down the path toward the beach. There was a bench under one of the palms and he sat down and took out his handkerchief and mopped his balding pate, spitting the cigar away and rubbing at his lips strenuously. The cottage lay behind him, partly screened from view by the thick clump of bushes skirting the concrete walk. The light snapped off in the living room and Coyle came out and stood on the patio for a moment, looking around, then turning and going back through the door to pause again and flick a pin-point spark away. When the door clicked shut, Kepper got up and started toward the hotel. He made a wide detour, planning to circle the place before entering the club on the bay side, near Barney’s room. Barney would be waiting there on the terrace, ready with the questions. He would be sharp and eager about the answers, and because Kepper had nothing to tell him, Kepper took his time getting back there …
CHAPTER 17
The beach emptied at sundown and Coyle walked slowly along the rim of the sand, taking his time about getting back to the cottage. He had been sitting on his boat all afternoon, just dozing on the deck and watching some of the bigger, fancier jobs pull out for some fishing. He had been content to stay alone, enjoying the solitude the boat afforded him, able to relax completely whether he piloted the craft around the bay or just parked it at the dock. The We Two was a small cruiser, a thirty-foot stock job, the kind of boat Coyle had always dreamed about. But he could not encourage Sue Welch to share his dream. She had laughed at the idea of fishing. And her laughter, from the very beginning, set up a sharp antagonism in him. He did not ask her again, ever. She considered his renting the boat a silly idea. The price was too high, and Sue Welch could not understand paying such a huge amount of money just to go fishing. It was, as Sue said, “something for the birds.”
It was all part of her soulless, empty point of view, and the fact that neither fishing nor anything else really excited her began to wear on Coyle. She seemed only interested in money, music and dress, and her narrow horizon never changed. After a while, Coyle realized that she bored him. She was no better and no worse than many of the other women down here, but it irked Coyle to be reminded that he, too, had come down to Miami Beach for most of the pleasures that intrigued Sue Welch.
And now, there was the business of McCotter.
Coyle reached his cottage and sat on the patio for a cigarette. He had watched Sue all afternoon, from the deck of the We Too. It had been an accident, at first, all of it. One of the larger boats was headed in from the bay, a deluxe yacht, sharply gleaming against the back ground of sky and water out there. Coyle had used his glasses on her. Coyle had watched the cruiser turn and roll a bit in the waves, her nose pointed his way, a keen bow, slicing the sea and setting up a spray so pretty that Coyle couldn’t quite take his eyes off her. But she was gone, finally, and Coyle slid the glasses along the beach, down past the cabañas, beyond the spot where the last small bathhouse edged the sand.
And it was then that he saw Sue and McCotter.
It was strange and it was humorous, the big deal she was arranging for herself, the thin frame of the old man obscuring her for a while. Coyle laughed at her antics, but he could not watch her for long. She remained out there in the loneliest spot on the beach with McCotter, all afternoon. Had she made all the arrangements with McCotter? Coyle hoped so.
Because now she was walking up the narrow path to the cottage, swinging her beach bag, her short bright robe aflutter in the breeze, looking for all the world like somebody’s kid sister, on the way home from a date with a college freshman. She saw Coyle on the patio and waved to him cheerily and came up and sat beside him.
She took a cigarette from him and waited for him to light it for her.
“Where are we going to eat tonight, Tommy?” she asked.
“I haven’t given it any thought,” Coyle said.
“Mind if I make a suggestion?”
“I can’t wait, Suzie.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“You have a bad memory,” Coyle said. “I’m the little man who said the Carrillon had the best food down here, remember?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not the Carrillon,” Sue moaned.
“What did you have in mind?”
“The Coral Club. I hear it’s simply elegant.”
“Who told you that?” Coyle asked. “Mr. McCotter?”
Sue studied him for a long moment. Coming from anybody else, the remark might have reflected jealousy. But this character was only smiling at her pleasantly. The whole damned business with him was so friendly. It would be better if he got excited right now. But she knew, out of her past experience with him, that she was not the girl to get a rise out of him.
“Why, Tommy boy,” she said, “you’re not jealous, are you?”
“Jealous of McCotter?” Coyle said evenly. “I never considered him a rival for your affections, Suzie.”
“What did you consider him, then?”
“Just what he is. A very wealthy man.”
“And that was all?”
Coyle lifted his eyes to her. “Not quite. I also considered him a perfect partner for you, Suzie.”
“A partner, for God’s sake?”
“Was I wrong? I was thinking of a temporary partner, for your stay down here.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“You did. You and he should make beautiful music together.”
“I think,” said Sue, “that I’m being given the brush.”
“Suppose I told you that you’re right?”
“Are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you,” Coyle said gently. “No hard feelings, Suzie?”
“Maybe I was getting ready to brush you off,” she said, not fully aware of whether she wanted to hurt him or not. It would be a tough job to injure him. Actually, he was smarter tha
n she had figured. He was letting her go, but she wanted it this way. There was more of a future with McCotter. “Ever think of it that way, Tommy?”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you had,” Coyle said. He smiled at her, letting her see that he could never really be angry with her. “We can still be good friends.”
“Of course we can.”
“I mean it, Suzie.”
“So do I,” Sue said, and patted his hand and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I’ll get out tonight. After dinner. All right?”
“Before you go,” Coyle said. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Anything, Tommy.”
“That night in Florian’s. Remember it?”
“I’ll never forget it. It was nice.”
“How did it happen?” Coyle asked. “Who started it?”
“Duke,” she said. “Duke Mortimer. He runs Florian’s.”
“And after that night,” Coyle continued. “Did Duke send you down here? Did he give you the sign to follow me down here?”
“You asked me to come, didn’t you?”
“So I did,” said Coyle. “But you came away easily, Suzie. The way it hit me, somebody must have sent you down here.” He paused and studied her. “Was it Masterson?”
“It was Duke Mortimer,” Sue said. “I don’t know Masterson. Honestly, I don’t.”
“But Duke Mortimer. He knows Masterson?”
“Of course he does. He works for Masterson, didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t know,” Coyle said.
He sat for a long time on the patio. The sun was an hour from sunset and the air heavy with the perfume from the garden. Inside, Sue whistled as she went about the business of leave-taking. On the edge of the terrace to the Marine Bar, the rumba band came out and began its evening dance program, light, choppy tunes, full of life and warmth. But Coyle did not react to the softness and the ritual liveliness of an evening at the Carrillon. His mind was lost again, bleak and gone, haunted by the face of Masterson.
The Day I Died Page 11
