Glitz

by Elmore Leonard

  But those pictures wouldn’t mean anything to the cop. How could they?

  * * *

  At 8 A.M. Vincent called the Bureau of Criminal Affairs in Hato Rey, Puerto Rico, asked for Lorendo Paz and waited, hearing voices in Spanish.

  Linda was in bed. DeLeon had left with LaDonna rubbing her eyes, to take her home, get in a few hours sleep and come back. Vincent waited with a silver coffee pot and two photographs on the desk next to him, sunlight in the window, the remains of drinks the morning after on the glass table. He stubbed out the cigarette he had lit as he placed the call. He’d quit again, soon. He needed to sit in the sun and read. He would like to sit in the sun with Linda and read, but that was a hard one to picture, Linda on Condado Beach doing nothing . . .

  Lorendo said, “Vincent!” and began asking questions about Iris. Vincent told him to wait, he wasn’t asking the right ones.

  “You had an investigation going,” Vincent said, “the body you found in the rain forest, El Yunque . . .”

  “Yes, the taxi driver, Isidro Manosduros. The man left a family.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “We identified him, that’s all. Four days we believe he drove the same man around, an American. But we don’t know his name, who he is. Isidro was an independent, he didn’t keep a record.”

  “You know what he looks like, the American?”

  “Only what Isidro’s wife told us. A rich one, of course. They’re all rich to some people. Not young, but not an old man. Staying in a hotel, but she doesn’t remember which one. Isidro told her this guy was a prize, very generous, bought presents for his mother. But he was strange, too. She said she told Isidro to be careful of him.”

  “She did? Why?”

  “Who knows? She’s from Loíza. One thing, yes, Isidro told her the American has a tattoo on his arm, up by the shoulder.”

  “Does it say Mr. Magic?”

  There was a silence before Lorendo said with awe, “Oh, Vincent, I don’t believe it. How do you know this? Please, tell me.”

  “Wait. What’s Isidro look like? Is he dark?”

  “Very dark, black. Thin, medium size, heavy bones. Not very good teeth. A little gray in his hair. Vincent—”

  “I’ve got a picture of him,” Vincent said, “taken up in the rain forest, I think right above where you found him. He’s standing at the edge of a cliff, where you look out at the view.”

  “On El Yunque, you’re sure.”

  “Positive.”

  “You visit there, you know the place.”

  “No, I didn’t make it. I told you, I don’t know if you remember, I wanted to see Roosevelt Roads, where my dad was stationed during the war . . .”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “And I wanted to see El Yunque. My dad had his picture taken there, a long time ago.”

  “Vincent—”

  “Wait. I don’t have the picture with me but I can see it, almost every detail. I used to study it when I was little. This was my dad and I’d never really met him. Salty young guy in a sailor suit, up on the mountain. You see the ground, some trees but there’s hardly anything behind him but clouds. Mountains way off.”

  “Yes, rain clouds. It rains every day there.”

  “The picture I have of a Puerto Rican with very dark skin, smiling but not really smiling, was taken in exactly the same place.”

  “Send it to me, quick as you can.”

  “It’s Isidro,” Vincent said. “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

  “Okay, now the guy that took the picture—”

  “Teddy Magyk. He lives about five miles from here.”

  “Ahhh, Magic. It’s his name.”

  “You don’t remember him.”

  “No. I should?”

  “We had him,” Vincent said. “The ex-con I wanted to scare and you said take him out on the Loíza ferry.”

  “Yes, yes, Teddy. I remember, sure.”

  “I might not’ve mentioned his last name. At the time it didn’t mean anything.”

  “Okay, listen,” Lorendo said. “I have to do something about him quickly . . . Wait. How did you get the picture of Isidro?”

  “I stole it.”

  “Oh, I believe that, Vincent. Listen, I want to hear it, but don’t tell me now. I have to get the machinery moving. First, I have to request Atlantic City to pick him up as a fleeing felon. What do you think? Do it that way, uh? Before he leaves and we can’t find him. Then I get the extradition performed and I come and get him.”

  “That could take you a couple of weeks,” Vincent said, “if you’re lucky. Get the court down there and the one up here to agree. Meanwhile he’s got a lawyer dragging his feet. It’ll take you months. Even then you won’t be sure of getting him.”

  “I don’t know—but send me the picture, all right?”

  “I’ve got an idea might be better,” Vincent said. “Why don’t I fly down with the picture?”

  “Yes, wonderful.”

  “And bring Teddy along with it.”

  24

  * * *

  TEDDY’S MOM WOKE HIM UP to tell him she was taking Buddy to the pet shop to get his little beak shaved so he wouldn’t hurt hisself. She said, “Were you ’sleep?”

  “I was trying to. Jeez.”

  “I thought I smelled smoke a while ago. Were you burning something in the fireplace?”

  “Just some old stuff I don’t need no more. I cleaned out my drawers.”

  “Well, I’ll be. You’re a lazybones, but you’ve always been neat about your things.”

  “ ’Ey, Mom—”

  “Li’l sleepyhead,” his Mom said, and left with Buddy in a cage.

  No sooner the Chevy backed out of the drive and pulled away—peace at last—the front-door chimes rang. He was positive it was the cops, a couple of day-shift guys this time; they’d take him over to Northfield and go through the routine again. You were in Spade’s casino last night? Yes sir, I was. What time was that? I was at Bally’s, the Claridge and the Sands too. Who keeps track of time when you’re gambling and having fun? You win? I did all right. They loved to hassle you. Put you in a lineup with drunks and cops, lights in your eyes. He’d go with them today and make a statement: I’ve answered your questions. What you are doing now is called harassment. Any further questions will have to be directed at my attorney. That sounded good.

  The front-door chimes kept ringing.

  Have his mom get him a lawyer, not the court. They didn’t have anything on him anyway. They couldn’t.

  The damn chimes, that double ding-dong repeated over and over and—shit—over until the irritation of it pulled him out of bed in his black bikini briefs to the front door for a peek through the peephole. Not three feet away from him on the porch was a giant colored guy. He should have stopped to think, kept quiet, but the sight of the guy startled him and Teddy said, “What do you want?”

  The giant colored guy said, “You, baby. Open the door.”

  It wasn’t the way a cop addressed you. Teddy stepped over to the window, peeked through the grillwork and saw the black limo parked in the drive . . . Like the limo Iris had got in with those people to go to the apartment. And there had been a big colored guy in that party. Now he was good and confused. If this was the giant colored guy his mom had talked to, where was the bearded guy who had used the bathroom? If the bearded guy was the Miami cop, Vincent, what was he doing with the spade from Spade’s? Man, it was confusing.

  Teddy ran through the hall to the kitchen and looked out back. Nobody in the yard. Now the giant colored guy was banging on the door, shaking the house almost, calling “Teddy? Open up, man. I’m a frien’.” The dumbest thing he ever did was ask what the guy wanted. He wondered if he should call the real police. That would be something, wouldn’t it? But decided, no, play a lone hand. Mr. Magic. Now you see him, now you don’t. He got dressed fast and packed a canvas bag, a couple of knit shirts, undies, extra pair of jeans. He slipped on a pair of blue Nikes. The money
Marie had given him was in his wallet. Shit, the camera case—he got it, hung it over his shoulder. What else?

  He got one of his mom’s VISA cards out of her dresser, then slipped quietly out the side door into the empty garage. Buddy would have to have his appointment today. If his mom was here she’d do something. He’d go through backyards to East Drive and up to Ventnor. Teddy opened the door to the yard and stuck his head out to look one way, across the back of the house, then the other . . .

  The cop, Vincent, said, “Hi, Teddy, you all packed?” Taking the bag and the camera case. “Good.”

  Teddy had to go back inside and open the front door. He watched the cop, Vincent, take the Colt out of the camera case and hand it to the giant colored guy. He was even bigger close. The cop headed through the living room then. Teddy knew where he was going and couldn’t help but call after him “ ‘Ey, good luck.”

  Teddy began to hum George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone”; see if the giant colored guy knew it and would say anything. But the giant colored guy was studying the Colt automatic, looking it over good. Teddy said, “Careful with that if you don’t know nothing about firearms.”

  The giant colored guy looked up, aimed the gun right at him and said, “You remind me. I remember seeing a cartoon, this poor little skinny bum is standing behind this big heavy-set rich cat holding a gun in his back? The little bum is saying to him, ‘Stick ’em up, this is a water pistol, I mean a holdup.’ Little bum, you know he ain’t ever gonna make it. You remind me of him.”

  Teddy said, “Come on, don’t fool around, ‘ey?”

  The cop, Vincent, came back in empty-handed, of course. Teddy said, “Didn’t find what you were looking for? That’s too bad.”

  “You got rid of everything,” Vincent said.

  “You mean the pictures? Oh, they got burnt up in a fire. Yeah, all my PR memories. Like I wasn’t even there.”

  “I’m glad I saved a couple,” Vincent said, taking two prints out of his coat pocket to hold them up. “Didn’t you miss them? Or’d you just burn everything without looking?”

  Teddy said, “ ’Ey, wait a minute . . .”

  The cop was holding up the two shots of Isidro, the cab driver, and it didn’t make any sense. What did the cab driver have to do with Iris, here? Was the cop trying to confuse him or what? Then the cop was saying he hoped he’d packed his resort clothes and Teddy said again, “ ‘Ey, wait a minute . . .”

  Rosemary comes in his office with some letters for him to sign. She stops dead, can’t believe her eyes. “Mr. Garbo, what are you doing up there?” And he says to her, “I’m tap-dancing on the fucking desk. What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  That was how the day began in his mind, Jackie getting out of bed. What should be one of the happiest days of his life: Frank Cingoro dead, Ricky Catalina in custody, the undesirables off his back. But his vibes were bothering him. Something was going on. He’d stayed at the hotel last night because he couldn’t find the Moose; he’d called LaDonna at home three times this morning and got no answer. Now the narky-looking cop from Miami was sitting in his office and he was trying very hard to be cordial, in light of the guy’s twelve grand deposited with the cashier.

  “The Moose says I made a mistake. I should offer you an apology.”

  “No need to,” Vincent said. “But there is something you could do for me.”

  Jackie’s mind telling him, Get him a broad, get him tickets to the show, autographs, take him backstage . . . and said, “You’ve noticed the personally inscribed photographs I have here on the wall? Every one of ’em major showroom attractions.” Jackie moved toward the display, pointing. “Like my very dear friend Lee, wearing the jacket there cost him a hundred and fifty grand. Or the inimitable Engelbert, right here. You name me somebody of their statue, as my pal Norm Crosby would say, and if the star you name isn’t up on that wall—mister, I’ll give you a brand-new hundred-dollar bill.”

  Vincent took a moment. He said, “Joe Cocker.”

  Jackie said, “Joe Cocker? You putting me on?” He looked over to see DeLeon standing in the doorway. “You decide to make an appearance?” Jackie shook his head. Look at him, going for the sofa. “Where’n the hell you been?”

  “Doing chores, Mr. Garbo, sir.”

  “We’re gonna have a talk, my friend, soon as I’m through here.” He turned to Vincent, sitting in a chair by the desk. “What’s the guy’s name again?”

  “Joe Cocker.”

  “You got to be kidding.” Jackie looked over at DeLeon. “You ever hear of him?”

  “Yeah, Joe Cocker, man.”

  Now the Miami cop said, “He had a big hit, ‘With a Little Help From My Friends.’ You remind me of it. I don’t know if we’re exactly friends, but since I helped you out, you might say, I thought you might want to do something for me.”

  Jackie leaned on his desk and nodded, like he was giving it some thought. “You helped me out . . .” He checked with DeLeon. “You know what he’s talking about?”

  “Listen to the man,” DeLeon said.

  “He helped me out—is he kidding? Guy walks in, gets the management in an uproar, the Donovans, Dick and Jane at the fucking seashore, I can’t turn around I’m tripping over one of ’em trying to fuck me up, the broad dying to. I got them on one side, I got La Cosa Nostra on the other, I got more people trying to dick me than if I turned tricks for a living—this guy says he helped me out.”

  “You not listening,” DeLeon said, “you talking.”

  Jackie said, “Hey, Moose, you got nothing to do? Go polish the fucking car’r something. Jesus, the help you get these days, I’m telling you. I start out this morning I was feeling pretty good, my stomach, no heartburn, no indigestion . . .”

  Vincent said, “That’s because you missed the dinner with the Ching. You were pretty lucky.”

  “You think so, huh? I’ll tell you something,” Jackie said. “There’re three things I attribute to what’s made me a success in life. One, I don’t worry about anything happened in the past I can’t change. Two, I don’t hold a grudge. Revenge is for losers, guys that got nothing else to do. And three, most important of all, I watch my ass so nothing unexpected comes up behind me. And the closer I watch it, my friend, the luckier I get.”

  DeLeon said, “Shit,” with a grin. Which Jackie took to mean appreciation, until DeLeon said, “Was this gentleman here saved your ass.”

  Jackie said, “Oh, is that right? This gentleman, all I’ve seen this gentleman do is come in here, stumble around and almost knock over the whole shithouse. If that’s called saving my ass . . .”

  The Miami cop was looking at his watch.

  “I don’t want to hold you up,” Jackie said, “you have to be somewhere.”

  “Pretty soon. I want to tell you,” Vincent said, “you have a point. I went after the wrong guys and it could’ve got you in a lot of trouble . . . from what I understand of how things work here. I mean if it ever came out in testimony you’ve been operating outside the casino. Like for that Colombian gent. Also your associations with Frank Cingoro and the wise guys. But so far it’s turned out in your favor. Good, you might say, has come of it. Frank’s dead and Ricky should get twenty-five years . . . unless he cops and makes a deal, tells ’em things they’d like to hear. So what my stumbling around did, when you look at it, get all the facts, was put you in the clear. Not all the way, but you won’t be getting it from both sides now. That ought to be worth something to you.”

  Jackie said to DeLeon. “You hear this guy?”

  “Man saying you owe him something.”

  Jackie looked at Vincent again. What would a thirty-grand-a-year cop go for? Cop on the take who comes here, wants to be treated like a high roller? “What would you like, a six-foot showgirl? Or how ’bout a broad with hair under her arms and a mustache? More like what you’re used to. Name it, my friend.”

  “All I’d like you to do,” Vincent said, “is fly three of us down to San Juan in the company plane. M
aybe four, but no more than that. You won’t have to serve us lunch or anything. Couple of drinks, that’s all. How’s that sound?”

  Jackie said to DeLeon, “You hear this guy?”

  “Ask him what happens you don’t do it.”

  “You think I should?”

  “Might be interesting.”

  “Don’t think of it as what happens if you don’t,” Vincent said. “Be positive. Think of it as insurance. You’ll be doing it so nobody’ll testify against you before the Control Commission. Tell about all the deals you’ve been into and you lose your license. Yeah, what it is, it’s license insurance.”

  “Wait,” Jackie said. He touched his ear. “Hum it for me again, that’s a familiar tune. I think it’s the same one you played yesterday. Yeah. What’s changed? You’re still trying to shake me down, for Christ sake. I knew you were on the fucking take the minute you walked in. You still are.”

  “No, it’s different now,” Vincent said. “I got a witness that can put the stuff all over you.”

  “This should be interesting,” Jackie said, “Who?”

  “Him,” Vincent said, hooking a thumb toward DeLeon on the sofa. “Now get the plane gassed up.”

  He had to watch Jackie switch roles, from tough guy to tragic figure, the little casino manager sinking into his high-backed chair, lost, staring with a pained expression at DeLeon.

  “No, not the Moose, I don’t believe it. You’re not gonna tell me after all we been through, these many years, you’d all of a sudden betray me.”

  DeLeon said, “Betray you?”

  “That’s what he said. I heard him,” Vincent said, looking at Jackie behind his big desk, not as entertaining in his new role. Vincent said to him, “We’re using leverage on you, Jackie, that’s all. You’re sitting in a spot where you don’t want to make a lot of noise. You want things to quietly pass over. So what you do, you call the airport and make arrangements. Okay? Think of your secrets of success. You don’t worry about anything you can’t change or waste time thinking about getting even. Those are good ones. As for watching your ass, well, so you missed one. You’re still lucky.”