Road Dogs

by Elmore Leonard

  Give him a break, he's a good guy.

  You picked him up at Glades Correctional, Lou said. That's where they keep the good guys, uh? I'll bet you a hundred bucks, Lou said, Foley robs another bank in the next thirty days. Watching her he started to grin. You can't bet me he won't, can you?

  Chapter SEVEN

  THERE WERE PHOTOGRAPHS OF DAWN NAVARRO ALL OVER the house, blown-up prints in the front room, Dawn not bothering to smile but patient, blond hair across her eyes lined in black like the eyes of a pharaoh, Dawn the psychic staring at Foley from photos taken more than seven years ago. And yet he had the feeling she was looking at him now. Her Egyptian eyes telling Foley she could see him, Foley standing there in his prison underwear, the room dim. Dawn saying, I can see you, Jack. She even knew his name. He said to her face in the photo, No, you can't. She kept staring at him and he said, Can you?

  There were shots of Dawn taken on the walk along the canal, on the patio, on the concrete steps to the second-floor veranda. Foley could see Cundo following her with his camera saying, Look at me. Saying, Yes, tha's it, just like that. Dawn looking over her shoulder.

  The property, little more than thirty feet wide, ran back a hundred or so feet to Cundo's garage in the alley. Here he had shot Dawn behind the wheel of his Volkswagen convertible, twelve years old but looking good, dark green with the tan canvas top. Or maybe it was hers. But why keep it here if she lived in the pink house? Foley didn't use the car until his second day in Venice.

  The first day he drank rum from Puerto Rico and listened to Carlos Jobim until he passed out in Cundo's king-size bed.

  There was a painting of Dawn in this master bedroom on the third floor, close to life size, though at first he didn't realize it was Dawn, now with dark hair, no exotic eyeliner, a more naturallooking Dawn than the ones with the eyes in the photos.

  The painted Dawn lying in this bed looking at him, her hands at her sides, was a naked dark-haired Dawn on the wall next to the bed. He saw Dawn when he closed his eyes and when he opened them in the morning, Dawn still looking at him now from the painting.

  In all the photos of her she was blond.

  The next day he put the VWs top down anybody who wanted to look at him it was okay and drove through the streets of Venice to see what they had here, all the million-dollar homes that wouldn't sell for a quarter of that anywhere but on the California coast. It didn't matter. According to Cundo everybody living in Venice was happy to be here. There rich people and not rich people, but they all have class. Everybody is included except the gangs. They here, but not invited to the block parties. Foley didn't see any gangs. He drove around, stopped and walked up one of the streets that was a sidewalk separating front yards facing each other, each house with its own idea of what the landscaping should look like, from tropical plants and palms to thick patches of bougainvillea.

  Foley drove along Lincoln Boulevard until the sign ROSS, DRESS FOR LESS lured him to the lot behind the store. He used his prepaid credit card to buy new clothes, the first time in more than ten years: three pairs of faded Levi's, white T-shirts and briefs, tennis shoes, sweat socks, a green cotton sweater, an off-white drip-dry sport coat, limp, no shape to it, for sixty-nine dollars, then had to pick out some dark T-shirts and a couple of silky black sport shirts to wear with the coat. He drove up Lincoln to Ralphs supermarket and bought bathroom supplies, shampoo, a skin cleaner, a pair of flip-flops, in the habit of wearing them in the shower at Glades; he bought four bottles of Jack Daniel's, fifths, a case of Dos Equis he remembered he liked, six bottles of red from Australia, six rib-eye steaks, Wheaties and bananas, a sack of oranges, apples, cheese, popcorn, milk, French bread and real butter. He asked a clerk if there was a sporting goods store around. The clerk said you bet, the Sports Chalet in Marina del Rey, and he stopped there to buy a basketball before going home. There were courts on the beach. He liked feeling a basketball in his hands. He wanted to shoot hoops while the sun was bringing down a red sky to sink off the edge of the ocean.

  Cundo owned a pair of Zeiss field glasses he'd told Foley one time he always had with him he went to Santa'nita for the horses. Or when he went up on the roof, three stories high, man, and looked down into these homes so close together, into people's lives and see what they doing. These glasses, man, you see a guy on his porch looking at a newspaper? These glasses you can read the fucking paper yourself.

  Foley used the glasses to look around, see if anybody was watching him. Like the same guy in the same place three days in a row not doing anything. Who knew he was here? Nobody, but it didn't matter, if that wacko fed wanted to find him, he would.

  What do you do, put up with it? There was no way Lou Adams could get the feds here to put a surveillance on him during banking hours. Or watch to see if he leaves town. They couldn't do it. Could Lou hire his own crew on a government paycheck? Who would he get to work for free? And Foley thought, Jesus Christ, who do you think? Some asshole he'd threaten to put in jail if he didn't.

  That was an idea right there. Get some gangbangers to help him out. He wondered if Lou was already here.

  During the first three days Foley went up on the roof with the Zeiss glasses that put you wherever you were looking. He checked on who was around all three days, in plain sight working construction, little Mexican guys doing yard jobs, hanging out in the alley. He didn't see anything going on that he wondered about.

  Once he swept the places for people who could be watching, he'd swing the glasses over to the pink palace where Dawn had been living the past almost eight years by herself, settle on the roof, adjust the focus and come down to the front yard, the patio, poke around through the shrubbery and try to see in one of the windows. He never saw a soul over there. He was hoping the dark-haired Dawn Navarro liked to lie in the sun.

  Cundo called from Glades the morning of the fourth day, Foley about to go up on the roof.

  How you think about it?

  Foley said it was the home he'd always dreamed of.

  You like it, uh? You see Dawn?

  Not yet. I just finished counting the pictures of her. You know how many you have?

  Man, I took a hundred. I couldn't stop.

  Thirty-seven, not counting the ones you taped to walls as you ran out of time, thinking of her right up to the end. You're a beautiful guy, Cundo. I saw the shots of you and your Hollywood buddies. I even recognized one or two. But all the shots of Dawn she's alone.

  Mood shots, Cundo said. I take them when I see her in different moods.

  I'd look at her, Foley said, and have the feeling she was looking out of the picture at me.

  Cundo's voice on the line said, Yes.

  I mean like she could actually see me.

  Yes, I know what you mean, she can see you looking at her.

  Even though she's looking from seven years ago.

  Almost eight. It's her gift, man, she knows you there. Listen, when I'm taking the pictures I look in her eyes and see like she's thinking something. Or even I look at a print of her, the same thing. This is when we come back from Vegas and I can't stop taking pictures of her. I hold one up and say, 'Baby, what are you thinking about in this picture?' I wait for her to make a face, say how can she remember that? No, Dawn say she wasn't thinking, she was feeling love for me. All these years by herself, man, she still waiting for me, still saying she loves me. You believe it?

  No, he didn't. Foley said, You can't ask for more'n that. When'd you start taking pictures?

  Remember, I tole you the guy that shot me three times in the chest, barely missing my heart, took pictures? Negroes in church waving their hands in the air. A cemetery, people there in the rain. An old Jewish woman putting on her lipstick. Joe LaBrava, man, use to be in the Secret Service, quit and became famous taking pictures. I thought, Tha's all you have to do? Take some real-life shots like that, things you see every fucking day and you become famous? But all I've done so far is take pictures of Dawn.

  They're good, Foley said. I like the painting
of her too.

  And knew as Cundo said, What painting? he'd made a mistake.

  Foley said, Oh, you haven't seen it? The dark-haired Dawn bare naked had nothing to do with Cundo, eight years and three thousand miles away.

  Now he wanted to know, Who painted her?

  Foley said, I don't know. But didn't you tell me one time she paints?

  I don't know, maybe, Cundo said. I don't remember. But listen, Jack? I like you to do something for me. Keep an eye on her till I get out. See does anybody come to visit her and let me know.

  Foley said, Isn't the Monk watching out for her? I thought he might come by here, but I haven't seen him.

  The Monk say she's fine, no problem, Cundo said, what he always say to me, 'Yeah, Dawn is fine.' Sometimes he say, 'She wants me to tell you she misses you very much,' but I don't hear her saying that.

  They aren't her exact words, Foley said, but it's what she meant. The Monk can't remember what she said? Why you making excuses for him? You don't know him. I don't want you to worry, Foley said, get upset, with your release coming up.

  I can't help if I worry about her, what she's doing. Cundo raised his voice saying, For Christ sake, all right, to someone watching him on the phone, and to Foley, Fucking guardia. He makes a sign like he's cutting his throat for me to get off the phone, line of guys waiting to use it.

  That's what I'm talking about, Foley said. Stay calm, will you? Don't fuck up now you're ready to get out.

  I want to know Dawn is a saint, Cundo said, not fucking some guy for painting her picture.

  You don't think it's a self-portrait.

  She don't fucking paint, Jack, her gift is to tell fortunes. I want to know she's a saint when I come home, I want you to see she's without sin, like a virgin. We road dogs, man, we do for each other no matter what.

  It was a custom to pair off as road dogs inside, living among gangs with their own signs and tats; inmates who weren't with them were against them; gangbangers could make living inside a daily chore, watching not to look any gangsta in the eye. A five-foot home-boy, a new arrival, said to Foley in the yard, What chew looking at, butt-fuck? Foley said, I'm looking at you, asshole, and nodded to the gangbangers watching. They took the kid away telling him not to fuck with Foley, he was the real thing, the star bank robber at Glades, respected, you could talk to him. While Cundo was the jive Cat Prince with money, lots of money he used for favors, Jack Foley watching his back.

  I see us more as social road dogs, Foley said. We don't need to be that serious about it.

  How you see it don't matter, Cundo said. Is how the population sees us. They know, even if you making a wrong move, do something stupid, they know I back you up. Con sees you come at him with a shank, he knows your road dog is right behind, also with a shank. Is how it is.

  When did I ever have a shank on me?

  I'm telling you what is a road dog, tha's all. If I go to stick some guy bothering me, I know you right there to back my move.

  When did you ever stick anybody? You pay guys to take care of your business.

  I'm talking about the principle of it, of being road dogs. We road dogs as long as we together, here or outside.

  Like being on call, Foley thought. Because Cundo had eased him out of doing thirty years with a check to Megan for thirty grand. What still bothered Foley as much as not having any money: why was Cundo giving him a free ride? Because Foley was the only gringo Cundo could talk to? Believe that, he could believe the little bugger's heart bleeds. He put money on you for the future. Watch over Dawn for now. It's when he's released he'll get down to the gritty. Do a job for me, man, an easy one. He'll say, Jus' this one, okay? Then another one. Wait and see.

  The only thing to do, get out from under him, out of this house that was a shrine to Dawn. Dawn everywhere.

  Dawn in bed with the dark hair, his favorite.

  He was thinking he should get in touch with Karen. Call the Miami's marshals' office, let her know he missed her. If she wanted him to do anything for her like come back to Florida, rip her clothes off and throw her on a bed he'd be happy to. When she came on the phone he'd say, Is this my little zoo-zoo by any chance? And she'd say

  The phone rang.

  He was thinking, staring at the painting of Dawn in the giant bed, that lust could be part of love, or it just meant you were horny.

  The phone rang again. Foley knew who it was without knowing why. He did, he picked up the phone and said, Dawn? I was about to call you.

  He heard her say, Don't tell me you're psychic, sounding pleased in a quiet way. She said, You're right, Jack, it's time we got together.

  Chapter EIGHT

  I'LL COME OVER, DAWN SAID, I HAVEN'T BEEN ACROSS the bridge in weeks. She said, Are all the pictures of me still up? Cundo made me swear I wouldn't touch them. You know I lived there almost a month but had to move. Everywhere I looked I saw myself and I never changed, the blonde with exotic eyes, so I moved to the pink house. It's terra-cotta, but Cundo says it's pink and he's too macho to live in a pink house. She said, We could meet now if you want. It isn't too early, is it? I love to sip Jack Daniel's in the morning.

  Foley said, You're sure that's what I have?

  And Mexican beer, but I like the sour mash.

  You must be psychic, Foley said, or you've been going through my trash.

  Or I saw you shopping at Ralphs, Dawn said, and I thought, Why that must be Jack Foley trying not to look furtive, a former inmate in the world again. I got that from your body language, Jack. What I learned about you took place your first night here, getting smashed on Puerto Rican rum till you went to sleep. I thought, Well, that's done. He's celebrated his release, spent a day hung over and now he'll call. I know you've been dying for us to meet, but had to settle in first. You're still uneasy being out in public, going to stores. She said, Let's see if I can get you feeling like yourself again.

  Foley said, I always feel like myself.

  You think you do. I'll be over, Dawn said, let's see, about twelve-thirty.

  You need an hour to comb your hair?

  I want to bathe and look nice for you. This is a big day for us, Jack.

  He watched her cross the footbridge over the canal, the dark-haired Dawn in a white sundress and pink heels, coming to visit in the early afternoon. He liked the way her hair came close to her eyes in a free fall to bare shoulders, this slim girl who could be a fashion model but told fortunes instead.

  She took his hand and held on to it, both smiling, very pleased to meet each other. The sky gray but so what. Things were looking up for Foley, fresh out of stir. He couldn't stop grinning at this confident girl who lived by herself and posed in the nude. He said, Why don't we go inside.

  They went through to the kitchen, Dawn saying, I want to see what you have in the fridge.

  Foley got out the ice and made drinks, Jack Daniel's and a splash of water, while Dawn poked around in the refrigerator, used a spoon to taste his cold butter beans and onions, seemed to like it, found a wedge of Brie and spread some on a stalk of celery. She said, I know where we should talk. Bring the bottle and a bowl of ice. Dawn running the show. Foley went along.

  Up to the third floor, to the low table and red leather chairs in the alcove off the master bedroom, across from the painting of her by the bed. She said, There's another one of me dressed, reading a book. Jimmy has it in his office.

  I like the one of you bare ass, Foley said. I did happen to mention the painting to Cundo. He said, 'Wha' painting?'

  You tell him I'm naked?

  I only said I liked it.

  I haven't told him, Dawn said. I wouldn't be his little saint if I let you see me naked, even in a painting. He wanted to know who did it. Little Jimmy, Dawn said. Cundo has him watching over me.

  He calls Jimmy the Monk, because for twenty-seven years Cundo's believed Little Jimmy's gay. But the little fella himself has never been that sure. But which does he like better, pussy, or being one? Jimmy said he's beginning to lean toward
pussy.

  This girl who'd taken a bath and wanted to look nice for him talking about pussy in an offhand way that took Foley back to the yard. He said, Cundo never called the Monk Little Jimmy.

  It's a name I gave him. He likes it.

  I told Cundo I thought you did the paintings.

  It seemed to please her. That's not a bad idea.

  He didn't go for it. He said, 'She don't fucking paint.' Foley giving her his Cundo Rey. 'She only tell you your fortune.'

  That's not bad either. Give me your hand, Dawn said. Here, rest your arm on the table. She moved the tips of fingers over his fingers and his palm. She said, You don't show it, but not having money is driving you nuts. She said, You know what you should've been doing all this time? I mean instead of robbing banks?

  Throws it out like telling Foley she knew all about him.

  You were a boy you wanted to go to sea.

  I thought of joining the navy.

  Now you wouldn't mind owning a deep-sea fishing boat. Op erate out of Biloxi?

  Costa Rica, Foley said. How long have you been reading palms?

  When you're a Sagittarian, Dawn said, born with a Grand Trine in the center of your natal chart, you know you have a gift. You can call me Reverend Dawn, if you'd like. I'm an ordained minister of the Spiritualist Assembly of Waco, Texas, though I started out doing nails. She sipped her drink, still looking at him. I went to beautician school, ran around acting crazy, did drugs, almost bit my nails off I was so fucked up. That was my Sagittarius rising with Mars on aspect. I got it together and now I'm a licensed psychic, clairvoyant, astrologer what else spirit medium. I interpret dreams and do past-life regressions. I can cite events in your personal life and tell you what they mean your involvement with a woman, a federal officer, who was hot on your trail Dawn's eyes holding his you took to bed Wait, and the next day she shot you?

  Foley said, Cundo told you about that, uh? Dawn smiled now. Yes, he did. What's her name, Karen Sisco? She sounds like fun.

  His zoo-zoo, in his mind for only a moment, bumped out by Dawn Navarro playing with him, letting him know that right now she was more fun than Karen.