By nightfall of the following day, I noticed that the music on the car radio had segued over from heartsick country ballads to catchy Latino orchestrations, signaling that I was nearing my destination. But I could not fully enjoy the music since a driving rain had started up, and I could barely make out the highway signs. (So much for their vaunted perfect weather.)
Each time I thought I was in Miami Beach I went sweeping off on to some freeway and ended up in places like Grapeland Heights and Key Biscayne. I got so frustrated that I pulled over to the side and just sat there, thinking of what it would be like if I never got there and had to return all that money to Peabody. To top it off, my wipers had gotten jammed. It was one of those days.
I got out of the car to see if I could get them going again and saw a yellow Cadillac pull up behind me with a gray-haired oldtimer behind the wheel. Ignoring the rain, he got out of the car and approached me, having obviously sympathized with my situation. He wore a baseball cap, a jogging suit and sneakers with the laces untied. Yet, despite his get-up, he did not strike me as being the athletic type.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You lost or something?”
“I’ve been trying to find Miami Beach, but I keep sliding past it. Basically, I’m lost.”
“What do you mean ‘basically’? You’re either lost or you’re not.”
“I guess I’m lost.”
“You guess you’re lost? What is this, a guessing game? With prizes? Maybe we should get a sponsor.”
“I’m lost goddamit.”
“All right, don’t get excited. You get excited, then I’ll get excited and next thing you know we’ll be rolling around on the ground and slugging it out. I did that once with my brother, and I ended up with a back condition. And you and I don’t even know each other. So calm down. Now that we got it straightened out that you’re lost—and believe me, it wasn’t easy—maybe I can help you. You look like a nice man, and we don’t want you to go home with a bad impression because then you’ll never come back, and frankly, we need the money. I’d ask you to come for dinner, but if you tasted my wife’s cooking, then you’d really have a problem, and you’re in enough trouble already.”
He seemed to be putting on a little show for me, and if it wasn’t for the driving rain and my situation, I would have found it most enjoyable.
Still, I could not restrain my curiosity about him.
“Are you a comedian?” I asked.
“Are you crazy? If I was a comedian why would I be standing out here in the rain talking to a perfect stranger? What’s so funny about that?”
“Why not just point me toward the highway.”
“Point you toward it? What good is that gonna do? Are you gonna sit here and study it? I’ll do something even better. Follow me and I’ll show you exactly where you wanna go.”
True to his word, he got back in the Cadillac and led me to the correct turnoff. Then he waved through the window and did not even stop for a thank-you.
By this time, I had identified his humor as being of the Borscht Belt variety, which is generally not to my liking. But his was an exception. And I certainly did appreciate his help.
If he wasn’t a good Samaritan, I’d like to know who is. (And by the way, is there any such thing as a bad Samaritan? Someone should check that out. For all I know, I might even be one.)
I found my condo/hotel easily enough. Much like Peabody’s office building, it was a spare and chilly-looking structure that had a global feel to it. I could still smell the plaster drying, which led me to believe it had just been built. The lobby was empty except for an Hispanic fellow who took a glance at my reservation form and said: “Just follow me, Señor Morning.”
Hearing my alias pronounced aloud gave me a little jiggle since it was the first time it had been put to use. (I believe the French call it a frisson.) I followed the fellow up in the elevator to an apartment on the twelfth floor. He handed me the key and left without a word, leading me to believe that he had been trained to say and do as little as possible. Like myself, he was probably a small player in a global network, and might not even have known that he was.
The apartment, as I had imagined it would be, was sparsely furnished, but it had a terrace with a sweeping view of a canal and what I took to be the skyline of Miami itself. You could see planes twinkling in to the airport, no doubt carrying shipments of drugs from South America, to further sap our nation’s vitality. A single look at the map is all it takes to see that it is impossible to stop the flow, and that our only hope is to get at the root cause of this craving for noxious substances. Yet obviously, there are bigwigs with a need to see this traffic continue. (I just wonder why!)
Still, the view was magnificent, although I was so exhausted that I could not really drink it in.
I unpacked and got into a shortie nightgown, one of a three-pak that Glo, God rest her soul, had picked out for me at the Wal-Mart. She would always buy as many as a dozen items when one would do—no doubt a result of her being from a military family that had to move around a lot—with all the attendant insecurity. It was financially ruinous for us, but I put up with it, since, in Glo’s case, the good far outweighed the bad. On one occasion, I retired our credit card, but quickly applied for reinstatement since I could not bear to witness her silent grief.
I looked around for something to read. No matter how tired I am, I always try to get in a chapter or two before retiring. It works like a sleeping pill. Since I had not brought along any reading material, I picked up one of the half-dozen volumes that were displayed on the bookshelf, probably for show. It was called, Investing in Cold Blood and the flap said it had to do with leaving your emotions behind when you set out to make money. It was written by a fellow with a Ph.D. who claimed to have done that and gotten rich (as a young fellow he had invested emotionally and lost his shirt).
I riffled through a few pages to see if it would hold my interest and came across a piece of a memorandum that had been used as a bookmark and had probably been left in there by accident. Possibly by the previous operative. (Dreams of glory! I had started to think of myself as an ‘operative.’)
At the top, where it was torn, it said … “tremely confidential. For your eyes only.”
Once again, I got a shivery feeling. It was my first Confidential Memo. From what I could gather, it was part of a prospectus letter to a select group of investors, offering them a chance to get in on the takeover of a tool-and-die company in Switzerland and promising them the “usual” return of 315 percent over a period of four years. The plan was immediately to fire a few thousand people and make it a leaner operation. And there was a note indicating that US regulatory statutes did not apply.
It certainly beat the four percent return on my CD, and I made a note to ask Peabody, in a roundabout way, if a fellow like myself could get in on something like that.
After all, I was a global player, albeit a minor one.
In case I had any doubts about being in the big leagues, the memo put an end to them. I slipped it back in the book—in case someone came back for it. Then I got into bed and amazed myself by falling asleep immediately.
It may not have been the sleep of the just, but it was good enough for me.
Up and at ’em, big guy, I said to myself, as I opened my eyes the next morning. It’s time to get serious.
The sunlight came streaming in through the terrace door, which I took to be a hopeful sign.
I got out of bed and did a variety of warmup exercises that I had picked up over the years, some for strength, others for circulation, and a few I had seen on the O.J. Simpson workout tape. Say what you will about the controversial (and some might add guilty-as-sin) gridiron star, his fitness tape is excellent. So he had done some good in that area.
Despite the dark nature of my assignment, I saw no reason not to kick off the day by eating a substantial breakfast. With that purpose in mind, I set off down the street and soon found a crowded little Jewish deli that looked inviting.
The customers represented what I took to be a cross section of Miami Beach society—little old ladies in all their finery, Cuban gentlemen bent over rice and beans, a gathering of bearded Hasidic fellows and right alongside them, some girls who looked like models, each one a stringbean and a heart-breaker. Sitting around the biggest table was a contingent of broad-boned military-slick police officers, each one with a small cannon sticking out of his holster. Crouched over their plates, they surrounded their food with beefy forearms, looking up warily from time to time, as if someone was going to snatch it away. If I had to guess, I’d say their breakfasts were on the house.
Oddly enough, their presence made me feel secure, which was ridiculous when you consider the purpose of my visit to Miami.
There was only one waiter for the whole restaurant, a fellow with sparse red hair who wore a flowered shirt and khaki shorts and Reebok sneakers. I can’t say why—it was just a feeling I had—but he came off as being a little on the gay side. If so, he was of the quick-tempered variety that you do not mess around with. (I should point out that I am a little afraid of gay people in general—and I don’t have to be told that it has to do with various insecurities of my own. I know that and would prefer not to go into it right now.)
I noticed that the waiter—who may or may not have been gay—got snappish whenever a customer was indecisive about his order. So I made sure mine was ready when he showed up. It was coffee and corned beef hash with fried eggs set out on top of it, designed to drip down onto the hash. But sure enough, I was slow in making up my mind about what type of juice to order—and got a groan and a roll of the eyes from the waiter in return.
To his credit, he called the ninety-year-old ladies “girls” (“Some more coffee, girls?”), which I thought was a nice touch. Too often, old-timers are treated rudely in our society. (I feel this is our loss as much as theirs.)
All in all, the deli was a far cry from the Edward Bivens diner with its complement of bland statehouse types.
After polishing off my hash, which was superior, I paid the check and asked the proprietor for directions to the Bancroft Hotel. He said it was within walking distance and showed me how to get there.
“I catered a party there last month and I’m still waiting to get paid. They’re nice people until you try to get a quarter out of them. Then, all of a sudden, they don’t know you.
“Maybe you can pick up a few dollars for me while you’re over there. I can’t give you a commission, but next time you come in, I’ll seat you at a lovely table and make sure the eggs are fresh. I personally don’t like an egg to be fresh to me, but that’s my problem.”
I responded with a chuckle and noted that everywhere you turned in Miami Beach, there was a comedian in your face. It occurred to me that I had never met a Jewish individual who did not have a comical side. (Abner Teitlebaum being the one exception, which should have thrown up a flag.) No doubt this arises from their troubled past. When faced with history’s indignities, what choice did they have but to laugh or cry. They had chosen the former, and I was with them all the way. In that sense, aren’t we all Jews? (But maybe that’s a reach.)
I found the Bancroft Hotel in short order, and what a little treasure it turned out to be. It had a quiet kind of luxurious atmosphere that did not hit you over the head, a style that I had never known and probably never would. The walls in the lobby were constructed of rich antique wood and the corner moldings had little Greek mythology-style cupids attached to them. There were groupings of fresh flowers set out on tables that stood on little curved legs. It reminded me of the old hotel I had stayed at on my trip to the Republic of Czechoslovakia. If anything, the Bancroft seemed more authentic, as if it had been picked up whole and shipped over from the Old Country.
Never mind the rooms—I could picture me and Lettie moving right into the lobby.
On a more somber note, there were security guards all over the place, stationed ten feet apart, each one a well-built dark-complected fellow in a business suit with a walkie-talkie in his pocket and a cord leading up to his ear. The Bancroft was probably the most secure establishment I had ever come across (with the possible exception of our topless bar, Frolique), which is no doubt one of the reasons why Dickie Moué and the other well-heeled residents had elected to stay there. Yet for all of the security I was able, amazingly, to sail right through the lobby to the desk of the concierge without drawing so much as a suspicious glance. So clearly I did not fit the profile of the type of fellow they would want to frisk or fling to the ground. To the contrary, decked out as I was in my all-purpose blue suit jacket, freshly pressed jeans and white sneakers (and don’t forget, my sparse hair was slicked back in a Fred Astaire Roaring Twenties style), I probably came across as a preppy-type fellow who fit right in with the clientele. (The possibility existed, of course, that I was secretly being clocked—and they were not letting on. But that is probably my paranoid side at work.)
The concierge was a gray-haired fellow in a green uniform with epaulettes—who wore pince-nez and had his own desk, way over in the corner.
To show that I was not in awe of my surroundings, I deliberately affected a high-blown manner of speaking.
“I wonder if you would assist me,” I said. “I’d like to know the whereabouts of Dickie Moué.”
“Of course, sir. Mr. Dickie Moué is one of our most valued and honored guests and returns to us year after year. Those of us on the staff feel privileged to be able to serve him—who shall I say is calling?”
“Bill Binny,” I said, completely forgetting my alias.
It was a blunder, but perhaps understandable considering I had never addressed a concierge before and that I had, after all, been Bill Binny all my life.
“What I mean to say,” I added, in an attempt to recover, “is that I’m Matthew T. Morning. Bill Binny is an associate of mine. We work so closely that sometimes I forget who’s who.”
“Of course,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly, but only for an instant. “To my recollection, Mr. Dickie Moué and his lovely wife, Ilyana, are reclining on the terrace, as is their custom after breakfast. May I have the honor of announcing you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m an old friend of the Moués and would prefer to surprise them.”
“As you wish, sir. It was my pleasure to serve you. Feel free to contact me if you find yourself in need of further assistance.”
He bowed and then stood up triumphantly as if he’d presented me with a prize, when all he had done really was to pass along a piece of simple information. I could just about imagine how he would carry on if I’d asked him something more complicated—like how do you rent a boat. Then I realized he was looking for a tip and handed him a crisp five.
“No, no,” he said, throwing up his arms and recoiling as if I had offered him a snake. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“I insist,” I said.
“Very well then,” he said, snatching the five out of my hand and putting it in his pocket. “But I assure you, it’s not necessary. My sole interest is to serve.”
I crossed the lobby and followed the signs to the outdoor patio, sliding past another contingent of security guards who showed even less interest in me than the first bunch. At least outwardly. As I stepped out onto the crowded patio, I got hit by a babble of foreign tongues. It was as if I had walked onto the floor of the United Nations. I felt like I was the only American out there, which was not surprising. How many of us could afford such unbridled luxury! I counted three swimming pools, each one oblong shaped and with its own decorative individually designed waterfall.
I took a seat at a little counter bar over on the side and ordered a tropical drink, telling the cocktail waitress to go easy on the rum, since obviously I needed to keep a clear head. She was a nice-looking redhead who wore a halter top and bluejean cutoffs and spoke with a Texas accent. I felt better knowing there were at least two of us who were Americans.
The women around the pool, regardless
of age, all wore thong bikinis, many of them going topless, no matter what kind of shape they were in. I am no stranger to the naked female form in all its contortions, having made my small contribution to the billion-dollar-a-year video porn industry. But there is something about a normal everyday woman baring her breasts in a public situation that gets to me. One of the guests, a middle-aged blonde with a good figure—who for all I know may have been a mother—excused herself from her international party and walked over to a secluded corner of the patio to adjust her thong; from what I could see, she was trying to get it to go even deeper up her butt. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It had been deep enough for me to begin with. But maybe if I had asked for some more rum in my tropical drink, I would have appreciated what she was trying to achieve a bit more.
I asked the cocktail waitress if she could do me a favor and point out Dickie Moué. She must have been new at the job, and whenever she didn’t know the answer to something—or couldn’t find some item behind the bar—she would put her hands to her cheeks and say, “Oh Lordy.” She did that when I asked her about Dickie Moué, but then something in her head must have clicked; she nodded toward a couple at the far end of the patio who had their backs turned to the other guests and appeared to be staring soulfully out at the distant ocean. The woman was tall and slim and wore a straw hat and a white linen dress. The man beside her was in a navy blue blazer and white slacks and wore a paisley ascot around his neck. He was in a wheelchair.
“Are you sure that’s Dickie Moué?” I asked.
“That’s him, bless his poor soul.”
Trying not to be conspicuous, I moved closer to the couple and saw that the man in the wheelchair was indeed the fellow that I had come looking for—although he was at least sixty pounds heavier than he appeared to be in Peabody’s photographs. Not only that, but even though he continued to look rakish and arrogant, one of his eyes was unfocused and his hands shook.
Despite his unhappy state, he seemed much too young to have been a classmate of the elderly Thomas Gnu, unless, of course, his condition had ironically thrown the aging process into reverse.
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