The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  Coyle watched him turn and move deeper into the terrace and against the shock of light that was the entrance to the Marine Bar. Another pause and he was gone, but Coyle remained alone on the sand, his eyes tight upon the terrace, seeing Barney once again and holding the image alive in his mind, the tiny, lonely figure who was to return again and again to confound him, to irritate him, to remain with him …

  CHAPTER 15

  The picture of Barney Diaz rose up to confuse Coyle at the strangest moments; like this one, on the bed with Sue, her sleeping body glowing and fresh beside him. The blinds were down, but the sun caught the slickness of them and sent a myriad intricate beams fluttering on the ceiling, crisscrossed rays of light.

  What was the light doing now?

  There was a moment last night, when they were dancing at the Marine Bar, when the moving, gemmed chandelier had sprayed the room with a myriad of radiant pin points, skittering among the dancers, so that some of them fell on Sue. Beyond the orbit of the flickering sheen, back there by the bar, a white glass rose against the background of the night through the terrace door. A glass of milk? Barney? He had appeared suddenly, out of the terrace exit, to stand at the usual spot, on the right side, sipping his milk and munching his peanuts. He was talking to Kepper, a conversational pause, calm and poised. But he was looking at Sue. What sang in Kepper’s eyes? The big man moved his mouth in a quickened burst of speech, far away and muffled by the, noise in the bar. And Barney quieted him. Something went dead in Barney’s face, and then they were turning away toward the terrace. Kepper’s broad frame bent in an attitude of apologetic listening. The boss was bawling him out.

  Why did this picture of Barney and Kepper remain alive? Coyle moved off the bed and lit a cigarette and only stared at Sue before him, not seeing her in the present, but fitting her into the pattern of events gone by. How many times had Barney approached them on the beach? And in the Marine Bar? And on the terrace, while they dined? There were many occasions, and all of them friendly and spirited and full of kindness and good will. Barney would see them under the umbrella, on the sand, from his perch on the sun deck. And out of the corner of his eye, Coyle watched the little man approach, his head low, as if he searched for something precious on the beach. But always smiling and gracious, walking up with a quick and bouncy step, as though he had just spotted them casually and wanted to wish them good morning, and wasn’t it a swell day today, and were they having a good time?

  He would stand there, making idle conversation while studying Sue with an indifferent air. What was he looking for? Certainly Barney Diaz was an unhappy man, no matter how much pressure and force he put into the projection of gaiety and abandon. It came through whenever he talked—in whatever he said, a nervousness and unease that he couldn’t hide. And whenever he turned away after a pleasant good-by, Coyle found himself overcome by a wave of pity for the hotel owner. And whenever the sympathy rose up inside him, he fought to discover the hidden key to Barney’s identity, out of the recent past.

  Sue turned in bed, her head away from him, in a pose that brought another sunlit picture to Coyle’s memory.

  She had been sleeping this way on the beach a few days ago. She was sunning herself, fast asleep and snoring gently. Coyle lay alongside her, his head on a line with the hotel, so that he could see the path to the terrace and the line of palms and the garden beyond. He wore dark sunglasses and they helped him hold the scene in focus. When a person moved against the wall of whiteness that was the hotel, his figure stood out as though etched up there. He saw Bruck emerge from the garden, taking his usual path, the short cut to the cottage by way of the heavy growth beyond the walk. Bruck came forward and scanned the beach and started toward Coyle. But Bruck paused. And in the pause, Coyle caught the flicker of movement up on the terrace, the head and shoulders of a man. It was Barney, of course. In the next moment, Kepper appeared at his side and together they stood there and watched Bruck. In Coyle’s eyes, the tableau could have been a staged affair. Bruck hesitated, spotting Coyle near the beach umbrella. Bruck lit a cigarette for himself and only continued to stand his ground, meditating his next move. But, far to the left, up on the terrace, Barney and Kepper had walked forward and behind the protection of an abutment in the wall. The sight of them up there was almost humorous, two furtive figures playing sneak under the bright sunlight. Yet, they continued their game until Bruck turned and strode back toward the parking lot. And they were talking together for almost a half hour after that, alerted to Coyle now, unaware that he was just as studious of them.

  The picture blurred and faded and died.

  Coyle got up and went to the window. Somebody on the beach had tuned in a disc jockey and they were playing a rumba, an uncommon number, something he had heard a long time ago. In the Carrillon? In the Marine Bar? Was there a link between this tune and Barney Diaz? In some subtle way, the music moved him back beyond the Carrillon. Coyle closed his eyes, letting himself float free in the little tide of memories the number provoked. How far back would his mind pilot him?

  Camberton!

  Coyle kept his eyes closed tight, struggling for the clue, moving his mind down the difficult path, the vague intervals, the quick memories, the dulled recollections.

  Where was Barney Diaz?

  Beyond the periphery of his inner brain, the bumping, blaring rhythm of the rumba on the beach outside hammered and wore at him. There was another rumba not too long ago, a thumping tune in a crowded room, a melody lost in the cacophony of conversation around and about him. There was a band and a dance floor and he was looking beyond somebody’s shoulder to watch the leader shake his behind as he led the combine in the rumba. He was looking beyond Joey Bader; that was it.

  And then Coyle remembered Valdido’s.

  He was back at the table with Joey Bader and Joey was giving Valdido the high-pressure scare about Masterson. What were the words? Joey had said: “Didn’t you hear about what might happen to Barney Diaz down there?” It was all tied up with Masterson, of course, the way Valdido began to sweat at the mention of the great gambler. And Valdido’s pebble eyes were wet with fear. Valdido was gross and ugly and larded with fat, his face a broad and flabby caricature, indelicate and obvious, as unlike Barney Diaz as he could be. Yet, the expression in Valdido’s eyes that night spelled out Barney’s perpetual fear, the same dark horror coming through.

  And in the interval of recollection, Coyle held his own eyes closed against the reality of the room around him, knowing that when he opened them they might betray his own terror of Masterson. He found himself sweating now, caught up in the inevitable surge of heat and anxiety that always came when he remembered Masterson.

  He opened his eyes deliberately and walked into the hall and got himself a drink.

  He returned to the bedroom and wondered whether he should wake Sue now, so that her talk might sweep him out of his mood. He only stared at her. He could taste the flavor of her conversation without disturbing her. He could hear the inanities bubbling from her, the idiotic talk; the effervescence that betrayed her shallowness. He began to realize then that he did not really want her at all. She had outlived her usefulness to him, and bored him to restlessness with her stupid coquetry, her perpetual quest for entertainment. She had been good in bed, but that pleasure, too, no longer interested Coyle in the way that it had at the start. In his fumbling and groping for stability, he needed something better than Sue Welch, something more durable and genuine.

  He began to think again of Ellen. Twice, in the past week, he had driven out to Miramar, the first time to find her restaurant, the second time to slow his convertible and turn on the sand and park across the road to study the place. He had seen Ellen and the sight of her had made his heart pound like a kid’s again, the way it used to be back in Camberton.

  And he knew he would be seeing Ellen soon.

  The muted notes of the living room chimes brought him back to reality.

>   Somebody was at the door out on the patio. Sue turned over and buried her head in the pillow and Coyle left the bed. He went quickly to the living room and pulled at the big drape to look out through the picture window. The man was Nick Bruck. He had on a new lightweight suit of a dull mustard color. He wore a pinkish shirt and suede shoes. But he had not changed his green felt hat. Coyle stood in the shadows, allowing Bruck to wait while he examined him, enjoying the prospect of annoying his inevitable pursuer. But Bruck only sat in a wicker chair. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes and folded his big hands across his stomach.

  When Coyle stepped through the door, Bruck’s face broke into a schoolboy’s grin.

  “I didn’t figure I’d be waking you up, Coyle,” he said. “Jesus, you damn near slept the whole day away.”

  “I’m a late sleeper.”

  “Well, what the hell.” Bruck nodded understandingly, as though they might be sharing an intimate secret. “You having fun, is all that matters.”

  “I was having fun until five minutes ago, Bruck.”

  “Ah? So I did wake you up? Now, how do you like that? I said to myself, Nick, I said, you don’t want to go over there too early, you want to give Coyle a chance to get the old shuteye. So that was why I waited so long, honest. But I guess I didn’t wait long enough, eh?”

  “You’re knocking yourself out, Bruck.”

  Coyle did not enjoy the leer, the knowing grin that meant Nick was aware he had a woman in his bedroom, and beyond that he was aware of who she was and when she had arrived and just how Coyle felt about her. Was there anything Bruck didn’t know? He had always been close to Coyle, here and there, in the shadows, across the street, behind the garden wall and under a yellow umbrella on the beach.

  “Speak your piece, Bruck,” Coyle said, letting his annoyance come through. “What do you want?”

  “I only brought you the rest of your dough, Coyle.”

  “What held you up so long?”

  “That kind of question you’d better ask Masterson.”

  He took an envelope out of his pocket and held it up to Coyle. He watched Coyle with the patient amusement of a tolerant parent. “That’s a lot of cabbage, Coyle. A lot of loot.”

  Coyle counted the money. Bruck whistled a tuneless dirge through his teeth, his eyes hungry on the bills. Something was happening to his dog’s eyes, an added sparkle, Curiosity? His whole manner seemed radically affected by the flash and flutter of the money, his meaningless smile gone now; his eyes alive with speculation. Whatever his opinion of Coyle had been, it was changed now. The green pile of wealth pulled him forward in the wicker chair and he licked his lip as though he might be tasting the flavor of the bills.

  “A big bundle of cabbage, Coyle,” he said.

  “From what I see of Miami, this is chicken feed,” Coyle said.

  “You could be right.” Bruck fumbled his cigarette and ground it out under his heel with a certain amount of vehemence. He got up and moved restlessly away from Coyle, as though the money was too much for him to bear looking at, too overpowering a sight for him to tolerate.

  “I had you pegged all wrong, Coyle.”

  “How did you peg me?” Coyle smiled.

  “Small time. But now I’ve changed my mind.”

  It was all very amusing, the fresh and amiable cut of Bruck’s grin, the obvious pitch for information. Part of Coyle’s enjoyment of the scene lay in the fact that all this was taking place because of a wad of greenbacks. Money was power. What else on earth could ever move a man like Nick Bruck? What else could prick an ape’s sensibilities and stir him to subtle games and strategies?

  “You’re a strange guy,” Bruck said.

  “Maybe it’s Masterson who’s strange.”

  “Not Masterson. He don’t throw that kind of dough around for nothing at all.”

  “Maybe he’s getting his money’s worth.”

  “Ha. He always does. You’re in on a deal with him?”

  “Oh sure. A deal.”

  “Must be a big, juicy one.” Bruck grinned.

  Fencing? It was all crude and obvious, as wide open as a door. Bruck knew nothing, absolutely nothing. Masterson would use him only as an errand boy, a personal bloodhound, a human ferret, a leech. He would be assigned to stand and watch and ask no questions. But what would come later? Bruck’s presence stung and hurt. It would always hurt. He would turn grim later on; he would become a living menace, a skulking evil thing, once Masterson gave him his final instructions. He would be ruthless and cold and brutal, the first lieutenant and chief executioner in Masterson’s ranks.

  The sun was high over the ridge of palms skirting the lane of concrete out there. It was still cool and fresh and smelling of the garden’s awakening. Yet the sticky fingers of death touched Coyle and sweated him under the robe. It was an effort to sit here and make idle conversation with Bruck.

  “How long are you hanging around, Bruck?”

  “Until Masterson tells me to move.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t go to the john without orders, do you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “You can go to the john now, Bruck.”

  “Jesus, what a brain.” Bruck got up slowly, shaking his head. He picked up his hat and rolled it in his hands, hesitating before leaving the patio. He studied Coyle. “See you around, Coyle,” he said.

  “Don’t force yourself,” Coyle said.

  Bruck moved off to the path. He did not take the usual way out, through the garden and around the hedges to the parking lot. Bruck walked the other way. He went boldly into the brush on the far side of the house and stooped under the small trees and kept his body at an angle until he was deep in the shrubbery, on the hidden side of the grove. Away from the hotel? He was going off at a tangent, cutting through so that he would avoid passing the open spaces in sight of the entrance to the Carrillon. He moved smoothly, sure of himself. Had he been here before? There was a moment when Bruck seemed to pause in the foliage, to turn and look back at the cottage. A branch snapped. A leaf rustled. Then he was gone, far back near the road beyond the garden.

  Coyle stood on the patio for several minutes, staring at the spot where he had last seen Bruck. Then the tightness ran out of him and he lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the stone parapet and struggled to forget the quick wave of panic that had swept over him as he watched the figure moving through the garden. He shook his head at Bruck, but Bruck stayed bright and menacingly alive in his mind. Was it the dull edge of terror that he felt, sitting in the sun, the heat beating down on him, the shadows sharp and almost purple on the stones? An ant crawled out of the grass and squirmed up the ridge to the patio and ran skittering across the hot stones, under a fallen leaf and around and around, purposeless and yet alerted and probing this way and that in an idiotic pattern. Under Coyle’s slipper and out again, careening in its aimless flight, to the side and to the front and back under the leaf again.

  Then a shadow fell over the insect and came down and crushed the ant. It was a feminine foot, a platform shoe with brightly colored straps and a Mexican design.

  “I could eat a steak,” Sue said.

  “How do you want it done?” Coyle asked. “We’ll order a few dozen.”

  “Well done, Tommy.”

  “With French fries?” Coyle turned from her and avoided looking down at the ant. She watched him go and smiled at him through the window. He ordered the meal with a deadpan, lifeless expression. She pulled the silk robe around her and followed him into the living room. He had drawn the big drapes across the picture window, so that the room needed artificial light. She pulled the drapes open and stretched before the window.

  “Close the curtains,” Coyle said.

  “It’s so lovely,” Sue said, half petulantly. “Look out there, Tommy.”

  “Not right now,” Coyle said, and closed the drapes.


  “Your hands are like ice,” Sue said.

  “I’m always cold when I wake up.”

  “What you need is a good long walk, downtown.” Sue laughed. She primped and fiddled with her hair in the small mirror near the hall. She was satisfied that she looked well in the silk gown. She sat beside Coyle and kissed him passionately and came away from him when he began to warm to her. “Tommy boy, what you need is a shopping trip with Suzie.” She smiled. “I know the nicest place downtown, a swell little novelty shop.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Listen.” She reached for his hands and held them tight and made him look into her eyes. “Listen, Tommy boy are you mad at me or something?”

  “Don’t be crazy,” Coyle said, and kissed her.

  But, what happened to him? He jerked back the drapes now and the room burst into light, the hot, fiat, Florida light that sometimes made a room like this one seem barren and dead and as phony as a shop window. She was seated on the couch and she certainly looked as attractive as ever, as desirable. Yet, since the moment when Bruck had walked away under the palms, since the moment when she had appeared on the patio, some permanent change had taken place in him. He put his right hand in the pocket of his robe and felt the wad of bills under his fingers. He began to wonder whether Sue had seen Bruck hand over the bundle of bills. She could have been behind the drapes during the transaction. Certainly something had happened to her in the recent past, a brightening, an awareness of him; a fresh and scheming cordiality that reminded him of the look in her eyes during their last shopping jaunt, a few days ago. She seemed too eager to please him now and even as he crossed the room to sit near her again, he was making up his mind to confuse her, to keep her waiting for the next spending spree. He was convinced that she would leave him if he refused to spend. It was something to think about and under the pressure of his thoughtfulness, the image of Sue Welch began to sour in his mind, especially when she was in the presence of other men …