“So what are you, a tourist?” she said, reminding Jack of a ventriloquist, talking without her lips moving.
“How can you tell?”
“How can I tell? You’ve got a sign on you. Your clothes are brand-new like you just unwrapped them. I can see the creases where your shirt was folded.”
“I live down here.”
“Since when, this morning? I’ll tell you one thing, you don’t look like Palm Beach. Delray maybe, although you need a shirt with an alligator on it, but not Palm Beach.”
Jack sipped his drink, thinking this snippy Palm Beach bitch had sized him up, pegged him perfectly. He saw someone sit in the chair to his left and turned, staring at a sultry girl in a sundress, midthirties, tan legs crossed, sunglasses on her head, angled into dark, curly hair. For a split second he thought it was Vicki.
The girl looked at him and smiled. “Sorry I’m late, I got here as soon as I could.”
“Yeah, I was starting to wonder.” He was wondering all right, who was she? “What’re you drinking?”
“The usual.”
“Oh, the usual.” Jack raised his hand and signaled the bartender. “Cosmo up for the lady and another one for me.” He turned his back to the rude woman on his right. “Don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”
The bartender put the drinks in front of them on Ta-boo napkins.
“You look like you needed to be saved. Joan Rivers was all over you, in case you didn’t notice.”
“She was giving me a hard time for not measuring up to Palm Beach standards. Based on the way I’m dressed, she thought I was from Delray. What a slap in the face, huh?”
“I can see that.”
“Is everyone in Palm Beach a snob?”
“I don’t know. I don’t live in Palm Beach.”
“Since we’re going out, tell me your name.”
“Rita Najjir.”
“Where you from, Rita?”
“Jounieh, originally. It’s in Lebanon.”
“I’ve been there.”
“Come on?”
“I flew to Tel Aviv after college and drove up the coast and went around Beirut. The city had been destroyed by civil war.” He paused. “I’m . . .”—he almost said Jack McCann, but caught himself—“Richard Keefer.” She looked him in the eye as he shook her soft hand with pink nails.
“We’re not very popular after nine-eleven. I guess that’s an understatement.”
“You can’t blame all Arabs for what a small group of lunatics did.”
“It hasn’t been easy.” She paused. “You want to get out of here?”
“What about your drink?”
“I prefer arak with ice and water.”
“Who doesn’t.”
Rita smiled. “Ready?”
“You go ahead. I’m going to finish my drink.” After everything that had happened, going with this girl didn’t feel right.
Rita said, “You sure?”
“Yeah, another time maybe.” He sipped the fresh drink and watched her walk out.
Twenty minutes later, Jack was about to get in his car and saw Rita on the sidewalk, carrying a shopping bag, coming toward him. She stopped at a red Mercedes SL convertible, two cars behind his, popped the trunk and put the bag in. Now she noticed him. “Sorry if I did something to offend you. I was going to invite you to lunch. I’m usually not that forward.”
“Why did you sit next to me?”
“I watched you for a while in the bar, talking to Joan Rivers. I wondered if you were a gigolo.”
“Maybe it was our first date, we met online.”
“She looked ten years older than you, at least.”
He went back to a previous statement. “A gigolo, huh?”
“You’re a hunk. You have a hunkiness about you. You’re big and you look like you’re in good shape.” Rita smiled. “But, if you don’t want to come with me, that’s fine. I’m not going to beg you.”
Jack said, “Where do you want to go?”
“My place.”
He followed her driving south, passing mansions with water views on both sides: the Intracoastal on the right and the Atlantic Ocean on the left. Then for a stretch the mansions were replaced by immense gated estates. He followed her over a bridge and saw high-rises with ocean views and more ostentatious mansions that rivaled those he had seen in Palm Beach.
How they met seemed believable, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of paranoia. Was it happening again? Did Frank’s men get to Sculley? Jack should never have involved him. Now he saw it: Sculley, under duress, told them where he was and gave them his alias. Jack could see it happening that way. They saw him lying by the pool at the Sands in Pompano, followed him up the coast to Palm Beach, and sent in Rita, another good-looking young girl. Pick him up and bring him to us. After what had happened to Vicki, that scenario seemed plausible.
Rita turned off the highway into a gated community called Palm Cove. He could see a high-rise sticking up over a pink stucco wall surrounded by palm trees. A guard wearing khakis and a golf shirt came out of the gatehouse. Rita said something to him. The gate went up and then he waved Jack through.
They curved around a palm-lined boulevard to the high-rise. Jack parked next to her and stepped out of the car. “Are they upstairs waiting for us?”
Rita gave him a puzzled look. “What’re you talking about?”
“Frank DiCicco.” He watched her as he said it, but her expression didn’t change.
“Who’s that?” She glanced his way, still confused. “And why would he be at my place?” Rita hesitated. “Oh, I get it, you’re messing with me, aren’t you? You were kidding when you mentioned this guy, Frank, right? It sounded like you were serious. And if you are, you think I’m involved in something.” She moved toward him, held his hand in both of hers. “Which is pretty crazy since I’ve never seen you before today, and I’ve never heard your name. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m Rita Najjir. Grew up in Dearborn, Michigan. I’m thirty-one, divorced, no children, no boyfriends, no pets. I worked for Microsoft ten years, retired six months ago, bought the condo. Want to come up and see it, or go back to Palm Beach? Richard, it’s up to you.”
THIRTY
Six fifteen in the morning, Duane Cobb checked out of the airport hotel and took a shuttle to Newark. After what happened to Ruben and almost happened to him, LaGuardia was too risky. He still had the Ruger but couldn’t risk bringing it in his suitcase even though he was checking the bag. He dropped the reloaded gun in a trash bin outside the terminal, checked his bag at the Delta counter, and went through security that took forever after 9/11.
At the gate Cobb hid behind a newspaper, thinking about last night, picturing the anger on Frankie Cheech’s face when the gun was pointed at him.
Nobody’d ever done that and lived to tell about it. And then the adrenalin rush as he shot them. Christ, he was still high. Feeling no remorse then or now. Ruben had been right—there was only one way out of that situation.
After Ruben called, he’d wheeled his suitcase to his neighbor Cindy’s apartment. He knew they’d be coming for him anytime and didn’t want to risk going outside. She’d opened the door and said, “Duane, what’s up? Where’re you going?”
“Out of town.”
“Well, I can see that.”
“Just wanted to say good-bye.”
She invited him in and they stood next to the door. “Wanna have a drink and sit?”
“I only have a few minutes.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Florida.”
“Can I go?” She grinned. “Just kidding. I couldn’t get time off work anyway.”
Cobb gave her a fake smile. The little blonde-haired flirt had been hitting on him since he’d moved in six months earlier. He didn’t believe in tapping co-workers or neighbors, thinking that when the relationship soured, he’d regret it. Cindy worked in customer service for an airline and used to tell him the odd names of people who’d call up and compl
ain. One time a black woman named Clammy Weary, another time a guy named Justin Case. Were they putting Cindy on or what?
Cobb could hear footsteps coming down the hall and saw the blur of movement as they passed by the peephole. He could hear them bust open his apartment door and tear up the interior.
Cindy made a face and said, “Duane, what’s going on? Who is that?”
“Some men coming to kill me.”
She looked afraid now. “I’m calling the police.”
Then someone was pounding on her door. He put his index finger up to his mouth, stepped back, and drew the Ruger Lc9. When the pounding stopped, he heard them walking away.
Cobb scanned the gate area looking for Ruben, checking out people waiting to board, a couple of good-looking broads laughing, sitting next to two guys with short hair, wearing golf shirts, looked like insurance salesmen letting loose.
He barely recognized Ruben entering the gate area a few minutes later in sunglasses and an overcoat. Ruben looked like he was limping, glanced at Cobb, made eye contact, but didn’t say anything, and sat away from him on the other side of the gate. No reason to talk or call attention to themselves.
When Cobb was in line ready to board, he noticed a dark-haired girl wearing sunglasses standing in line several people behind him. He wondered if she was a movie star. She had that look about her, nice body in tight jeans and a lightweight jacket, something familiar about her like he’d seen her on TV or in a movie. The girl was talking to Ruben when Cobb walked into the Jetway, and he saw Ruben sitting next to her on the flight.
Cobb saw them again when they walked off the plane, and it bothered him. Ruben, this fucking Neanderthal, dealing a hot-looking babe who seemed interested. He went to baggage claim, got his suitcase, and waited for Ruben, who appeared five minutes later and now looked like a plantation owner in sunglasses, a straw porkpie, and one of those white shirts with vents on the sides barbers wore. The girl wasn’t with him. Cobb said, “Do I know you?”
Ruben gave him a sour look.
“The hell’s wrong?” Cobb said. “Still tense after what happened last night, huh? I don’t blame you. I’d say you’re real lucky.”
“They were punks.”
“Well, it’s a good thing. They were tough, you might not be here.” Cobb paused. “Where’s your girlfriend at?”
In the motel office, Cobb showed a photograph of Jack McCann to the manager, a fat guy looked like he was trying to eat himself to death. “Our buddy Jack show up yet?”
The manager looked at him like Cobb was speaking Urdu.
“Big guy, six feet, two hundred.”
“You’re not talking about Mr. Keefer, are you? I think his first name is Richard.” He turned to a fat woman with a Crisco ass standing at a file cabinet in the office behind the counter. “Candy, what’s that fella Keefer’s first name?”
“Pretty sure it’s Richard.” She had a tiny voice for a girl her size.
“That’s what I told him.”
Cobb said, “Let’s not make a federal fucking case out of it, okay? Jack’s his nickname.”
“You don’t have to use language like that. You can call him late for dinner for all I care. And yes, he arrived. Been here about a week.” He turned looking at the fat girl again. “Candy, how long’s Mr. Keefer been here?”
“Be a week tomorrow.”
“That’s what I told him.” The manager turned back to Cobb. “Although I ain’t seen him around much lately.”
“When you do, don’t say anything about us. He’s not gonna believe his buds from back home are here. What room’s he in?”
Sitting by the pool a half hour later, Cobb saw the maid knock on Jack’s door a couple times, wait, knock again, and use her key to go into the room. Cobb walked up the stairs and hung around the balcony outside Jack’s room, heard the vacuum cleaner, and when it turned off, he glanced in the room and saw the maid take her bucket of cleaning products in the bathroom. He went in and tried not to make any noise. He checked the dresser. There were clothes in the drawers and shirts hanging in the closet.
The maid came out of the bathroom carrying a pile of dirty towels, gave Cobb a suspicious look, or maybe she didn’t expect anyone to be standing there. “Looking for my buddy. Seen Mr. Keefer around?”
“I no see today,” she said with an island accent.
THIRTY-ONE
Diane, in her new disguise, looked for them in the terminal. There was a guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and a Western shirt, but it wasn’t Duane Cobb. He and Ruben weren’t on the flight. She flew first class, was third in line getting off the plane in Fort Lauderdale. She sat at the gate, waited till everyone walked out of the Jetway.
She went to baggage claim, pulled her bag off the conveyor, and rolled it outside to the National car rental stop, boarded a green bus, took it to the lot, and rented a Chrysler sedan.
Diane stared at her face in the rearview mirror, barely recognized herself, and doubted that Cobb or Ruben would, either. She had cut her hair last night and dyed it, a color called medium ash brown.
She followed the map north on Federal Highway, and then east to the ocean and found 300 Briny Avenue. It was a classic two-story 1960s motel called the Sands. This was the address Duane Cobb had in a desk drawer in his apartment. What did it mean? Did Jack rent a room? Were Cobb and Ruben staying here? Diane had no idea. But she’d find out soon enough.
She drove past the Sands, went around the block, and parked on the side of the street just south of the motel, lowered the front windows and felt a warm ocean breeze blow through the interior. Now she was hot and took off her sweater and folded it on the seat next to her.
Diane looked north toward downtown Pompano. There were one- and two-story motels lining both sides of the street and, in the distance, high-rise condos painted in pastel colors. Old folks coming down to take up residence and live out what was left of their time.
To her right was an empty lot with beach access. Across the street and one motel over was the Ebb Tide, a small place with a swimming pool in front and a view of the Sands.
She checked in. There was a pickup truck with a silver tool box across the bed parked in front, and a minivan with a luggage rack. A couple with two young kids were playing in the water, making a lot of noise. Diane went to her room, which was cheap and small, faded robin’s egg blue walls and white trim. She put her suitcase on the second twin bed and changed into shorts and a tank top, fit a New York Mets cap on her head, grabbed her sunglasses, and went out the door.
She walked down the street, crossed just south of the Sands, and headed to the beach. It was a perfect blue-sky day, sun high, a slight breeze. Diane stood by the lifeguard shack, looking at the ocean. There were sunbathers and joggers and two kids throwing a Frisbee and a group of teenagers playing volleyball.
Diane stepped out of her sandals, picked them up, and walked toward the Sands, seeing the renters on lounge chairs around the pool, too far away to recognize anyone. She spread her towel on the sand and lay down on her stomach, felt the sun on her neck and the back of her legs. This wasn’t going to work. Even if Cobb was out by the pool, she wouldn’t be able to see him.
After a few minutes, Diane stood up, grabbed her towel, and went back to the Ebb Tide. She grabbed a magazine from her room and sat in an aluminum lawn chair by the pool, paging through Vanity Fair, looking at pictures and articles, too distracted to read, the reality of what she was doing finally weighing on her.
The family came out of the pool a little after three. The mom dried off the kids, and they all went to their room. Diane was relieved; they were loud and annoying and she was tense. The manager came out of the office, crossed the pool enclosure, and waved. “How you doing? Soaking up some of our Florida sun, huh?” Like it was his. He got in an SUV parked in the driveway and drove away.
Now a guy in frayed blue jean shorts came out of one of the rooms with a can of beer in one hand and a small plastic cooler with a handle in his other. He was stripped to
the waist, his white body showing half a dozen bluish tattoos and a farmer’s tan. She fixed her attention on the magazine and saw him glance over a couple times. He walked around the pool and came toward her, put the cooler down, and sat back in a lounge chair about fifteen feet away, no towel, bare, tattooed skin on sunbaked vinyl.
He looked up and squinted, made a visor with his hand and said, “Hey, you ready for a cold one?”
Diane laid the open magazine on her lap, the pages curving over her thighs. “Not yet.”
“Let me know when you are.”
She nodded and went back to Vanity Fair. He was quiet for a while, sat there drinking a beer, but she could see he was restless. He got up gripping the can and walked in the shallow end of the pool.
“I don’t know it gets any better than this.” He drank some beer. “Where you from?”
Diane didn’t answer, hoped he wasn’t a talker.
“You here on vacation, or what?”
“My husband had to work. He’s either coming down tonight or tomorrow morning. We’re from Connecticut.”
“I hear it’s real nice up there.” He paused. “I’m working a construction job up in Belle Glade, got a couple days off, drove south, and ended up here. Looked okay, and the price is right.”
“Enjoy yourself.” She hoped that was the end of it.
“I’m Larry Fish, by the way. But everyone just calls me Fish. Need anything, don’t hesitate.”
Was he looking for some action, or just being friendly? Diane went back to the magazine, occasionally looking across the street. She saw Cobb come through the archway at the Sands and felt a jolt of adrenalin. He was standing next to a red Mustang convertible that had been parked in one of the spaces since she’d arrived. He opened the door and got in the car.
If she hoped to follow Cobb, Diane knew she didn’t have time to go back to her room and get the key to the rental car. She got up and approached Larry Fish. “Is that your pickup truck?”
“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “Who wants to know?”
“You mind if I borrow it for a little while?”
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