Cat Chaser

by Elmore Leonard

“How about noon?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I love you, George.” She hung up.

  He had to pace the room a few times before settling down, getting organized. Through the window he could see Nolen sitting by the pool, alone with his beer. The bit actor, part-time private eye who thought Jiggs Scully was funny. Turned on by the guy’s deadpan involvement with businessmen who hired him to break legs and collect the vig on money owed. Moran moved from the window.

  He had all he could handle for the time being. Nolen Tyner would have to look out for himself.

  From the sun deck she could see the park and tropical gardens, a peninsula of jungle extending out of the coral shoreline a half mile to the south, where she would meet him tomorrow. The sky, streaked red above the jungle and fading, darkened as her gaze moved east into the ocean, to the faraway Cape Florida light at the tip of Key Biscayne. Looking at the ocean made her feel safer, above suspicion to anyone in the house watching her. Resting after a two-hour flight and the usual airport hassle. Innocent. Though not eager to talk to a husband she hadn’t seen in five days. If not innocent at least honest. What was there to talk about? Andres made statements, issued commands, grunted . . . breathed through his nose when he made love, finished and left her bedroom. He might come to her tonight.

  On the lawn that extended to the seawall a figure moved out of shadows, a stand of young acacia, crossed open ground to the dock where the de Boya cruiser was moored, then continued on in the direction of the swimming pool, secluded among tropical palms. Day and night armed guards moved about the property: either Corky or one of several serious young Dominicans Andres employed. More security guards than household help: millionaire self-sufficiency and thoroughly modern, from the weapons the Dominicans carried to the video scanner mounted above the front door.

  Altagracia, their maid, served dinner: chicken breasts glazed with fruit flamed in brandy by candlelight, the shadow of Altagracia moving across polished wood, soundless. Mary said to her, “The next time I go down give me your mother’s number and I’ll call her. If you’d like me to.”

  Altagracia said, “Yes, señora. But she don’t have a phone.”

  Mary said, “Oh.” Altagracia finished serving them and left. “We haven’t made plans to go back, but I thought if we ever did . . .” Mary let her voice trail. She raised her eyes to the candlelight, watched for a moment as Andres ate with his shoulders hunched over the table, lowering his head to the fork barely lifted from the plate—the can cutter who had become a general. “We had a wonderful time.”

  She could hear his lips smack. When they were first married she had enjoyed watching him eat, even to the way he sipped his wine with a mouthful of food, sipped and chewed; there was something romantically hardy and robust about it, for a time.

  “The weather was perfect. A few afternoon showers, but they didn’t last.” Mary tried hard to remember more about the Dominican weather.

  Andres said, “That friend of yours, the fat one with hair like a man. I saw her.”

  It was coming now. Mary sat very still, then made herself reach for the salt. He was watching her now.

  “You mean Marilyn? She was with us.” Bold now, getting it out in the open. “When did you see her?”

  “Yesterday. I was going in the club.”

  “Then she told you I was staying an extra day.”

  “She told me nothing about that.”

  Mary could see his eyes in the candle-glow, age lines making him appear tired, less rigid, the look of vulnerability she had mentioned to Moran. But it was the lighting, she realized now, that softened him, not something from within.

  “She told me about polo. But she doesn’t sound like she ever saw it. She doesn’t know who was in the tournament.”

  “Well, I guess what we like,” Mary said, “is the atmosphere more than anything else. Watching the people. Everybody all slicked up in their polo outfits.”

  “You see anybody you know?”

  It startled her. He had never asked a question like that before; he had never seemed interested enough.

  “Philly got us invited to a party at the Santo Domingo Country Club. Mostly embassy people. A few I’d met before.”

  “Did you see anybody from here?”

  “Outside of our group? No. I told you, didn’t I, I was going with Marilyn, Philly, Liz? . . .”

  “You didn’t see—what is his name, he used to belong to the club. The one from your city.” He seemed to stare now, as though daring her to say the name.

  “Who, George Moran?” Once she said it she had to keep going. “What would he be doing in Santo Domingo?”

  “You said you were at Casa de Campo.”

  “I thought you meant at the embassy party.” Then, trying to sound only mildly interested: “How do you know he was there?”

  Andres said, “How do I know things. People tell me. Or I want to know something I find it out. He was there the same time you were, but you say you didn’t see him.”

  Mary took a breath, let it out slowly as she picked up her wine. She wanted to begin now, say something that would lead to a confrontation, without involving Moran. She said, “Andres . . .” but felt Moran’s presence already here and lost her nerve.

  He said, “Yes?”

  She hesitated. “Do you know why I stayed an extra day?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I toured Santo Domingo. Saw all the old places.”

  “Yes, did you like it?”

  “My driver told me about the war . . .”

  “Oh? What war is that?”

  “A few years after you left, the revolution.”

  He seemed in no hurry now as he ate, his eyes heavy lidded in the candle-glow, watching her.

  She said, “I remember vaguely reading about it, seeing pictures in Life magazine. You were here then, but you must have followed it closely.”

  “I know all those people.”

  “So you must’ve leaned toward one side or the other.”

  “Did I lean?” Andres said. He held his fork upright, his arms on the table. “Do you know the difference between a loyalist and a radical insurrectionist?”

  “Well, the driver explained some of that, but his English wasn’t too good.”

  “Or your Spanish wasn’t good enough.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t blame the driver.”

  “You want to know about it, ask your friend George Moran,” Andres said, watching her in the candle-glow. “He was there with the United States Marines. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  She managed to say, “I can’t recall he ever mentioned it. Are you sure?”

  Andres seemed to smile. “Why would I say it if I’m not sure? The first time I met him, we were playing golf, he told me that. Very proud of himself. I bought a drink for him, because at that time he was on the side of the loyalists. Maybe he didn’t know it, but he was. Now I think loyalty doesn’t suit him. He believes only in himself.”

  Mary waited, not moving. She watched Andres raise his glass, a gesture, a mock salute.

  “Good luck to him. May he become loyal again.”

  * * *

  In darkness she pictured the drive from Cutler Road into Matheson Hammock Park, through the dim tunnel of mangrove to the booth where you paid the attendant a dollar and went on, suddenly entering the cleared expanse of crushed coral that reached to the ocean. She saw their cars standing alone at the edge of that open space, as far as they could go, cut off; one way in, one way out.

  It was close to two in the morning when she called Moran, heard him answer sleepily and said to him, “He knows.”

  There was a silence and when he spoke again he was fully awake though his tone was subdued. “What did he say?”

  “He knows you were down there.”

  There was another silence before he said, “The day Andres was here, I was packing to leave.”

  She said, “We can’t meet at the park. It’s too out in the open.”

&
nbsp; He said, “But I can’t wait to see you. I can’t sleep.”

  She smiled at that. “Yeah, I could tell.” She was within the sound of his voice and for the moment felt secure, as though they could go on talking and say whatever came to mind. “I’ll think of a good place and call you tomorrow, before noon.”

  “Why don’t you come here?”

  “I’m afraid to. Not yet.” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I’ve never done this before, George. I don’t know the ropes.”

  “How’s it going otherwise?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”

  She hung up and lay back on her pillow in the dark, beginning finally to relax as she listened and heard only silence. She needed to see Moran, his face with the soft beard, and feel his arms around her. Just being held made everything else go away.

  She called at eleven-thirty and said, “The Holiday Inn on Le Jeune Road. Do you know where it is? This side of Flagler.”

  He said, amazed, “The Holiday Inn?”

  She said, “I’ve already made a reservation under Delaney. Okay? I’ll see you about one.”

  It made him think of Nolen’s salesman, scoring at the Holiday Inn in Findlay, Ohio.

  But he told himself it wasn’t like that and when he got there and he was holding her, moving his hands over the familiar feel of her and saying how much he missed her, barely bringing their mouths apart, he was sure it wasn’t anything like Findlay, Ohio. They made love and drank iced wine in bed, in the stillness of the room. Touching each other. Looking at each other. Gradually getting to things they needed to talk about.

  He said, “Come live with me. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

  She said, “Why didn’t I tell him before this? If I bring it up now he’s gonna blame you, because you’re on his mind. He knows we were together.”

  “All right. What do you want to do?”

  “Wait a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know how long.”

  He eased off. “I’m sorry. You have to do it your way. I understand that. I’m anxious, that’s all . . .”

  She said, “God, I don’t want to lose you . . . But I have to wait for the right time. A month ago I felt sorry for him. Now I’m afraid of him—I don’t know how he’ll react. But I know if he wants to make it difficult . . . well, we have to be very careful.” Her tone was thoughtful as her mind sorted through images of her husband. “The right time will come. I don’t know when but I’ll feel it and I’ll ask him for a divorce. I’ll tell him I’m gonna get a divorce . . . or if he wants to file, that’s fine, if it’s a pride thing with him. He’ll understand if I do it right, if I can keep you out of it.” She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t want to beat this to death, but more than anything I want you to understand.”

  He held her in silence.

  “What’re you afraid of?”

  “Him. I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “Do you sleep with him?”

  “I don’t know how to handle that either. Not since we got back,” Mary said. “But do I lock my door? We’ve never even had an argument; but how can we if we don’t talk? Do you see what I mean? I want to be fair.”

  “Don’t be too fair.”

  She pressed against him, trying to get closer. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

  He said, “Well, you walk out with a two-million-dollar settlement, you’ll still be one of the richest ladies in Coral Gables—including wives and girlfriends of dope dealers. You’re not gonna have to get a job as a waitress.”

  “That’s been on my mind too,” Mary said. “I don’t think I should take the money. Assuming he’ll still offer it.”

  “You’ve got a signed agreement, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t think that would bother Andres too much.”

  Moran raised her face to see her eyes, dark, questioning. “I was rich once. I thought it was more of a pain in the ass than anything else. As a matter of fact the beer at the club never tasted right.”

  Mary said, “George, ten years ago I was making a hundred dollars an hour modeling.” She gave him a quick couple of fashion-model expressions, mouth and eye movements from smile to pout. “All that high-fashion New York-beautiful-people bullshit. I did lipstick, perfume, eye-makeup; I was gone before designer jeans. I quit and didn’t look at myself for two years. I thought about going to law school until I worked for a lawyer and got pension plans up to here. I don’t know what I want as far as a career goes; but the best thing is to just be rich and not worry about it.”

  He said, “Are we gonna get married?”

  She raised her face, her turn to search his eyes.

  “I don’t know. Are we?”

  “It’s okay with me.”

  She pulled away from him. “What do you mean, it’s okay? You just go along? You’re not obligated, Moran. You can do whatever you want.”

  He brought her back to him gently, moving his hand over her, down her arm to the curve of her breast, soothing.

  “Don’t think so much. Let it happen. We’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

  They met at the Holiday Inn each afternoon for the next several days, tried the Castaways on the Beach and went back to the Holiday Inn because it was familiar and they felt at home. Mary came in her tennis warmups. (Nolen Tyner asked Moran where he went every afternoon. Moran told him visiting. Then Nolen got a surveillance assignment and Moran wondered if he was the subject; but it had to do with a child-custody case in West Palm.) They booked the Holiday Inn room for another week and brought wine and fruit. They talked about playing tennis sometime. They didn’t talk about Andres or when or what if. They were together and it was enough. Mary said maybe being rich wasn’t that important. Moran said not as long as you can afford motel rooms. But it was a shame to pay when he had an entire motel going to waste, the place empty except for one guy and he wasn’t there during the day. Mary finally said all right, she’d come to the Coconuts. Tomorrow.

  She came at one o’clock in her warmups carrying her yellow bathing suit. Moran introduced her to Jerry and showed her around; it took about five minutes. Mary said she loved it. They went into Moran’s bungalow and he told her not to pay any attention to the tropical floral-print upholstery and the curved bamboo arms on the furniture, he was going to redecorate one of these days. Mary told him to forget it, his decor was back in. He showed her the bedroom next, where she could change, put on her bathing suit.

  They were still in there a little after two when Jerry called. Jerry said, “There’s a gentleman and a young lady here to see you.”

  Moran stood holding a towel around him.

  “Who are they?”

  Jerry said, “His name’s Rafi Amado. He says he’s from Santo Domingo.”

  10

  * * *

  MARY WATCHED THEM from a side window: Moran standing with his thumbs hooked in the low waist of his cutoffs, the bearded innkeeper, gesturing then, yeah, this is it. How do you like it? She could almost read his lips.

  The red-haired girl seemed, if not impressed, at least satisfied by what she saw. A strange-looking little thing, attractive, but all her colors wrong.

  Rafi, in a shiny black business suit, was squinting, cocking his head as he inspected the Coconut Palms’ center court—doors to a dozen rooms in a plain white facade with aqua trim facing the small swimming pool—as though if he caught the right perspective the Coconuts would become the Fontainebleu, a place with real swank.

  It’s your fault, Mary thought, but had to smile. Rafi was nodding, trying to look impressed. The red-haired girl would roll her lower lip, then lick it and roll it out again. Very strange. She wore a blue and yellow flowered-print dress—giant mutations that might be daisies—the dress tight in the bust but several inches too long, below her knees. Miss Sugarcane.

  That’s not nice, Mary thought.

  But did she have to be nice? Moran seemed to be handling the amenities, ma
king them feel at home, inviting them now to take a lounge chair. He came toward the house as they sat down, Rafi with a stern expression saying something to the girl.

  Moran came in and closed the door.

  “Not a soul here, the guy shows up all the way from the Dominican Republic.”

  Mary came away from the window. “Who’s the girl with him?”

  “Loret. That’s all I know.” Moran went to the refrigerator. “She wants a Seven-Up.”

  “Are they staying?”

  “He says he’s got something to tell me. Like bad news, the way he said it . . . I don’t have any Seven-Up. I knew I didn’t have any, I don’t know why I’m looking.”

  Mary said, “Should I come out?”

  Moran brought two Cokes and a bowl of ice from the refrigerator and closed the door. “Whatever you think.”

  “Aren’t you a little surprised to see him?”

  “I’m very surprised. He says, ‘And how is your buddy, Mary?’ and gives me a wink. I said you’re fine.”

  “You didn’t tell him I’m here?”

  “No.” Moran was at the counter now mixing a rum and Coke for Rafi. “I’ve still got a funny feeling about him. In fact I’ve got more of a funny feeling than ever.”

  “Do you think he knows who I am?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Should I come out? I’ve got to go home pretty soon.”

  “Shit,” Moran said. “The one time I don’t have anybody here. Maybe I can get rid of them.”

  “No, you can’t do that,” Mary said. “Assume he’s straight, but keep your eyes open. I think I’d better just slip out.”

  “You can go around the other side to the street.”

  “I’d better. Unless you want me to help you entertain.” Mary smiled. She walked over to him, raising her arms. “Our time will come, George. Hang in.”

  Rafi said, very quietly, “I like Loret to tell you if she can. She has trouble not only with the words but”—he gestured, touching his chest—”because of the way it makes her feel.”

  She didn’t seem too troubled to Moran: leaning over to slip her sandals off, the bodice of the dress opening to give Moran a peek at her full breasts. She sat back wiggling her toes. They looked dirty.