Two months ago she had met Vincent at the beach and her life began to change and then stopped changing.
One month ago she had met Tommy Donovan and her life began to change again and was still changing.
She would remember standing in the lobby of Spade’s Isla Verde Resort, the casino part, near the entrance to the Sultan’s Lounge. A group in there, dressed in orange satin shirts, was playing salsa, calypso, mambo, making a lot of noise. It was late. There were no tourist guys to be seen anywhere except in the casino and they told her if she went in there, no standing around, she had to spend money.
Suddenly he came up to her, taking her by the arm into the Sultan’s Lounge, not saying a word. This big American guy with a red face and silver-white hair. He seated her before going over to converse with the barman for a moment. He wore a black silk suit—she could see it shining in the dark. Very soon a bottle of champagne was presented to them by one of the girls wearing the harem costume—they called it that—a bra and panties, gold necklaces with a glowing jewel stuck in the girl’s navel. The guy sipped his champagne staring at her, still not saying a word. He was old, but not old enough to have white hair. He was too big to ever let him be on top. She sipped her champagne. It was good. He sipped his, his eyes never leaving her. Finally he said, “I’m gonna take you to Atlantic City with me.” She had heard of it, of course. The Miss America on TV. He said to her then, “Little girl with your looks, you must work your ass off during the season.” At this time Iris was catching glimpses of a fashionable apartment in the Candado section, this big silver-haired rich guy coming in with his key. In the next blink of an eye she would see them together on a sailing boat. It could happen to her. She didn’t need any Miami Beach cop. This guy could be sent from heaven. Except he was assuming she was a whore and it was offensive to her.
Iris said, “Oh, thank you very much for thinking I’m a person like that. Escuse me.” She took a small risk and got up to leave. He surprised her by getting up also.
He said, “I want to talk to you. We’ll go upstairs, have some privacy.”
She said, “Oh, you mean to your room?”
He said, “Rooms, honey, rooms.”
“Oh, you still think I’m that kind of person?”
He said, “Look, I’m your friend, Tommy. Say my name. Go on. Tommy.”
He sounded crazy. She said, “Tommy?”
“Not like that, like you’re not sure.” He grinned. “Hi, Tommy. Like that.”
Wow, crazy. She said, “Hi, Tommy,” and had to smile. It sounded okay, like they were friends.
He said, “Hi, Iris.” Even pronouncing it correctly.
She said, “Hey, how do you know my name?”
He said to her, “Honey, I even know your future.”
It gave her that strange feeling like someone was blowing on the back of her neck, making her shiver. But it felt nice, too, because she could tell by Tommy’s look he saw only good things in there. The waitress said, “Goodnight, Mr. Donovan,” flirting with him a little as they left. The barman hurried to the end of the bar to say goodnight. The guys in the group, in the orange shirts making noise, waved to him. A couple of casino employees, in the lobby, said his name, bowing to him.
Iris said, “They certainly treat you with respect.”
That was when he said they better, since he owned the fucking joint—and Iris knew her life from now on would never be the same.
He was buying cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free, waiting for the girl to bring him his change. Iris watched him look across the lounge toward his wife, checking, then look this way—Iris pulling her hair aside so he could see her good—and wink before turning back to the counter. He liked to wink, meaning by it there was a secret between them. Though she was sure everyone in the hotel knew he was taking her to bed. Through his office into a study with a white sectional sofa you could make a square bed out of and he called his playpen. He made her put a towel under her. Then he would get on and do it to her, arms stiff to hold up his weight and so he could look down, trying to hold his stomach in, and watch himself doing it. He didn’t want to try any new ways to do it that had been discovered since Rae Dawn Chong showed that cave guy in the movie how to make fire and do it face to face. Being an important man Tommy was always in a hurry.
He had given her the plane ticket but no money, no paycheck, because she hadn’t yet started to work. He would have to give her money for hostess dresses, too, a red one, a bright green one . . .
She had worn her black cocktail dress, nice one but old, last night when she went to Tommy’s hotel to get her ticket. Waited forever and then sat in a booth in the Sultan’s Lounge between Tommy and a fat guy with curly hair named Jackie Garbo. The Caribbean group, La Tuna, was gone. The picture out in the lobby for the past two weeks was of a girl named Linda Moon. She was playing the piano and singing slow songs.
Tommy called to her, “Do ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ again.”
The girl looked at him for several moments across the piano before she began to play it, for the third time.
Iris tried to sit closer to Tommy than to Jackie Garbo, so Tommy wouldn’t get jealous. Jackie Garbo’s leg was against her, the way they were squeezed into the curved booth looking from this dark part of the room to the girl playing in a pink spotlight. The girl, Linda Moon, sang in a low voice without trying very hard.
Tommy said to Jackie Garbo, “What do you think?”
Iris felt Jackie Garbo’s hand come to rest on her thigh and pat it lightly, keeping time with the music. It was okay, he was being friendly. Jackie Garbo worked for Tommy in Atlantic City. He was in charge of the casino up there.
He said to Tommy, “You want a cocktail piano in the lounge?”
“She’s good,” Tommy said. “She did six weeks at the Candado Beach. They wanted to renew and I swung with her.”
“She’s good,” Jackie Garbo said, “but she’ll put the fucking people to sleep. Couple of sets like that, they go beddy-bye.”
“She can do up-tempo, anything.”
“I hope so,” Jackie Garbo said. “You don’t have chairs in the lobby you don’t want people to sit down and fall asleep. Same thing. Lounge act, man, you gotta keep ’em alive. Rest a set, get back in that casino.”
“I like her,” Tommy said. “She’s good.”
“You like her, take her,” Jackie Garbo said. “Play her noon to four, nobody’s in there anyway.” He snapped his fingers and said, “What about, hey, put her in with that jig group, what’s their name, they got all the fucking drums, the washtub—”
Tommy said, “You mean La Tuna?”
“La Tuna. Why not? Those guys—you sit and listen to those cats you can’t sleep for two days, your fucking head’s ringing. You want to do this broad a favor put her up there in front of La Tuna, featured. Get rid of the piano, give her some maracas, some fucking thing, you know, make some noise, shake her ass. They need a broad.”
“It’s an idea,” Tommy said, “but I don’t think she’ll buy it. She’s a tough lady.”
“You mean, she won’t buy it. Tell her, for Christ sake.”
Iris could feel Jackie Garbo’s hand trying to squeeze her leg. The hand down there the same as the little fat hand pinching the stem of his champagne glass on the table. When the hand down there couldn’t get a good grip it moved up her leg, exploring, wanting to know if she was wearing panties. Iris hoped a casino manager was an important guy. He was asking Tommy if Linda Moon wanted to go big time or stay here among the fucking natives. Tommy said he wasn’t going to spring La Tuna on her yet. He’d ease her into the idea. Jackie Garbo said, “You know how many cocktail piano players there are on the circuit?”
Iris didn’t like Jackie Garbo, his hand or the way he spoke. She couldn’t understand how he could talk this way to his boss, the man who owned the hotels. Or speak about her, in front of her, as though his hand knew she was at the table but the rest of Jackie Garbo didn’t. Saying, “Iris’s gonna do all rig
ht, lemme tell you. You know who’s gonna flip when he sees her?” Tommy nodding, winking at her—yes, but what was the secret of that wink? It was a different kind of wink than before. Winked at her but meant for Jackie Garbo.
When Linda Moon finished her set she came to the booth and sat in a chair across from them. She folded her hands saying she didn’t care for anything to drink. Tommy told her he loved her and then said, “I want you to think about something, rather than doing straight cocktail piano . . .”
Linda said, “I don’t play cocktail piano, Mr. Donovan, when I have a choice. When I don’t have requests coming at me.”
Tommy said, “Hey, knock off that Mr. Donovan. You know my name. I want you to think about maybe a group, getting some backup.”
Linda said, “I am a group, Mr. Donovan. I’ve got a keyboard, synthesizers, two guys in New York I can get in a minute, guitar and drums. Or I can go with the guitar and a rhythm box if you want. I’ve got charts on pop, top forty, some original stuff . . . You have to hear us, Mr. Donovan.”
“You mean Tommy,” Tommy said. “What’s the name of the group?”
Linda said, “Moon. You like it? Just Moon.”
Tommy said, “I can dig it. Yeah, I like it.”
Jackie Garbo said, “I want to see your rhythm box. You play loud?”
Iris watched Linda, sitting with her hands folded, turn her eyes on him and say, “Jackie, we drive. You want, we’ll blow ’em right out of the fucking lounge into the casino. Would you go for that? Give me eight weeks guaranteed and you’re going to want eight more.”
Iris watched Linda because she was so calm and didn’t seem afraid of these guys. Tommy said to her, “Lady?” and sounded serious. Then smiled and said, “Let’s see what we can put together.” Right after that Tommy and Jackie Garbo left the table. Iris continued to watch Linda as she poured a little champagne now and sipped it.
Iris said, “They don’t have to hire you they don’t want to.” She saw Linda look up from her glass. “I mean, you work for them,” Iris said, “but you don’t act, you know, ascared of how they can treat you.”
Linda said, “What’s the worst thing they can do, make me play ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ every set? I know the lounge audience, what’s expected. Who’s working the main room? Tom Jones? Liberace? That gives you an idea. I’ll do three golden oldies for every one I want to play, and if that doesn’t work, well, I can always break my fingers. Right? Draw workmen’s comp. I have to go back to work.”
Iris sat there trying to figure out what Linda said. Then Vincent came in the Sultan’s Lounge and she had something else to think about.
Now Tommy was walking away from the Duty Free counter with his cigarettes, going to his wife to sit down next to her, the wife still looking at the magazine. Iris watched. She’d try to see if there was love between them. She didn’t think so. Then she couldn’t see them. There was a shirt with flowers coming to stand close in front of her. She looked up as Teddy said:
“Well, I’ll be.” Smiling at her, holding his camera case and a ticket envelope. “I thought you’d already gone.”
What Iris thought in that moment, he was going to ask her to give him back the souvenir parrot and the hundred-dollar bill. But he didn’t. He seemed very happy to see her. Maybe he wouldn’t think of the money.
The fifty he had paid to go to bed with her wasn’t in question. She had earned it. When they were in the bed he asked her if she could cry and look afraid. She told him if she could cry whenever she wanted she wouldn’t have to do this, she’d be a movie star. That made him angry. He took the little knife he used to clean his fingernails from his money belt—wearing the money belt naked—put the tip of the knife in her nose and said, “You want me to shove it all the way up?” She said, okay, okay, and gave him an Oscar performance. It wasn’t hard to be afraid with the knife blade in her nose. It took a minute, less than that, and he was smiling again to show he was really a nice guy. But he wasn’t. He was the creepiest guy she ever met.
He was smiling at her now as he said, “ ‘Ey, what seat are you in? Maybe we can sit together.”
Iris hesitated, looking away from him to think as quickly as she could—saw Linda Moon in the Duty Free line, the piano player buying cigarettes, and felt instant relief. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sitting with a good friend of mine name Linda.”
Teddy still smiled. He said, “Maybe some other time then, ‘ey?”
7
* * *
THE POLICEMAN who came to Vincent’s apartment was one of the pair who had brought Teddy to the Loíza ferry and pretended to speak only Spanish. His name was Herbey Maldonado, nice guy, a Criminal Affairs investigator who worked for Lorendo Paz. It was Lorendo’s idea to use the ferry when Vincent told him what he wanted to do. They let Teddy have his rental car on the other side of the inlet, lost for sure, and Vincent rode back with the two cops. Near Isla Verde they stopped at a place on the highway to relax and drink a few beers. Herbey said, man, that was fun, scaring the shit out of a guy like that.
Vincent wanted to be sure and asked them if they believed Teddy was scared enough to leave. Both cops were certain they would never see him again. They didn’t believe Teddy was much to worry about, he didn’t look to them like a killer. After a couple of hours Vincent was feeling pretty good, his hip didn’t hurt him at all; he invited the two cops to dinner. They ordered dishes like alcapurrias and pastales, piononos, and Vincent tried to guess what he was eating—meat with bananas or mixed with some kind of root, yautía, he’d never heard of. It didn’t matter, he liked it.
Vincent told the cops he’d take a bus or a taxi home, he had a stop to make, and walked from the highway toward the beach, finally coming out of the trees to see green neon written in the sky:
Spade’s Isla Verde Resort
Lorendo said the name was an acronym for the syndicate that held ownership. Seashore Properties and Donovan Enterprises. Tommy Donovan president, chairman of the board. But a figurehead more than he was an administrator.
Or a potentate, Vincent thought. Did he sit on cushions and smoke a water pipe, clap once for whatever he wanted? In there somewhere, beneath that spade-shaped sultan’s dome lighting up the night. Jesus Christ, Vincent thought. He wondered what all this meant and who had thought it up. What the Muslim look had to do with gambling . . . the Puerto Rican Arab doorman having to wear that cape and turban. People handing him a buck getting in their cars, not even cracking a smile or looking twice—he was smiling, the doorman, saying yeah, they serious, but I get paid for this shit. All the people inside were serious, too, trying to make money or trying not to lose it. Vincent walked past the casino floor into the Sultan’s Lounge.
He sat in the booth with Iris. She asked him if he wanted a glass of champagne that cost eighty dollars a bottle but was free. He ordered scotch; it was only four dollars. The music was all right, it was pleasant, played by a dark-haired girl in a soft blue spot. Iris told him he should wear a coat to come in here. He said, or a cape and a turban. And had to smile. This couldn’t be serious. How could she get in trouble in a place like this?
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Iris said. “So I tell you good-bye now.”
He thought a moment and said, “Can I give you one word of advice? . . . Don’t. You know what you’re gonna be?”
“Yes, of course, a hostess.”
“You’re gonna be a comp.”
“Yeah? Wha’s that, Vincent, a comp?”
“Like the champagne, a gift. You’re gonna get handed out, passed around. You’re gonna have to learn how to smile.”
“I know how, Vincent. I smile when I’m not with you.”
“You’re gonna have to be nice to assholes.”
“I’m nice to everybody.”
“You’re gonna get handed out.”
“You already tole me that.”
“You’re gonna get treated like shit.”
“Oh, is that so? I’m tole a very important guy in busines
s is going to flip over me.”
Vincent said, “It’s too late, huh?” He stared at her and said, tired if not sad, “Iris, you’re the best-looking girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Thank you, but is pronounce Eer-es.”
“And probably the dumbest.”
“Goodnight, Vincent.”
“Good-bye, Iris.”
Two weeks had gone by.
He thought of Iris once in a while, he also thought of Nancy Donovan. From one extreme to the other, and realized he could go either way. Still horny.
Herbey Maldonado came to Vincent’s apartment to tell him Lorendo wanted to talk to him. Call him this afternoon or, if he could, meet him for lunch at the Cidreño. Herbey was a quiet person, but seemed more than quiet today. Vincent asked him what was up. Something the matter? Herbey said he didn’t know what it was about. He offered to drive Vincent to the restaurant. Fine. It was almost time. On the way there Herbey said they had been out to El Yunque all morning investigating a homicide that looked like it would be a difficult one. Lorendo’s squad had it. Lorendo, he said, should be back by the time they got to the Cidreño. Herbey dropped him off.
Vincent drank beer as he waited, getting hungry, deciding he’d have the asopao de pollo, sort of a chicken stew with rice. He could taste it already. With the beer and fresh crusty bread and hard butter. Jesus. Lorendo Paz came in and sat down, worn out, his cream-colored suit smudged with dirt.
“You’ve got a tough one, uh?”
“Guy is dead a couple weeks or more.” Lorendo touched his forehead. “One in here.” He touched his temple, the left side. “Another one here, to make sure.”
“Two weeks out there?”
“At least. They been insects and things, animals, eating him, plants growing on him. His face isn’t much left. A week ago they found a taxi out there, but we don’t know if it belongs to the guy. He didn’t have a wallet, any I.D. on him.”
“How about Missing Persons?”
“We got to talk to them, see who they looking for.”
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