He blinked, rubbed his eyes, stared groggily at the stubbed out plumbing where the stove and refrigerator would be installed, assuming that it would in fact be installed. Too bad the refrigerator wasn’t here right now, so he could store what was left of the beer in the freezer while he went in and took a shower.
There being no refrigerator, however, he did the next best thing and popped another beer, took that down the hall with him, leaving his options to percolate for a while.
He did his very best not to think at all while he stood under the steaming water, the beer singing in his veins now, although it did occur to him that whoever moved into the place was going to appreciate the good water pressure and the fact that the hot water seemed to last a long time. He also congratulated himself on springing the extra $82.50 per unit for the shower doors he’d installed. Be a shitload of water all over the floor without those doors, mmmm-hmmm, because he’d brought no shower curtain. He finally turned off the water and got out. Opened another beer.
He had remembered to pack a towel, a thick one, a Janice towel to be sure. Before they were married, he’d favored thin white towels on extended loan from motels he had visited. But Janice had been right about a thick towel, he had to admit. He rubbed himself down, luxuriating in the fading ache of his thighs and triceps. Then the glow went away when he realized who he’d been thinking about.
He had another slug of beer, then began to hum, a nice, heavy sound that filled up the inside of his head and left no room for thinking. He broke off momentarily to finish the beer. Then the hum became a kind of growl and finally segued into a rendition of “Louie, Louie,” a song which Flivey Penfield favored when they were college roommates. No ache thinking of Flivey. A good sign.
Deal moved into the bedroom that adjoined the steaming bath, adding a little body English to the music. Just as good as stereo. Better than stereo, in fact. Groping in his bag for his briefs, one leg, hump, other leg, whump, where you gonna go now…pull up yo pants, whoa-o-oh, now…but what was that strange popping noise…?
And then he froze…fuck shit piss, back against the wall.…A huge man, across the room from him—Leon Straight, no doubt about that—he must have been leaning in the doorway of the bedroom all the time, idly cracking his knuckles, waiting for Deal to notice, waiting for him now to get his pants pulled up.
“I knocked,” the big man said, “but I guess you didn’t hear me, on account of the shower.” He nudged his massive shadow away from the door frame. It was too dark to see his lips move, but who else could have spoken? Deal felt the smooth wall behind him, getting himself steady, getting his balance. He thought of that huge ray lifting off the ocean floor when he was snorkeling. About the size of Leon’s shadow. The same threatening grace.
“That’s right. I didn’t hear you.” Deal felt his throat creaking. Had he left the door unlocked? He couldn’t remember.
“The boss asked me to come pick you up.”
“Alcazar?”
“That’s right.”
“What if I got something to do, I can’t come right now.”
Leon’s head swiveled about the barren room. “Like you were getting ready to throw a party or something?”
“Whatever,” Deal said. His irritation was growing, the adrenaline shock beginning to leach away.
“Okay by me,” Leon said. He turned, his shadowy mass headed for the door.
“Wait a second,” Deal said. Leon stopped. “What’s this about, Leon?” There was a pause. “That is your name, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t matter my name, Mr. Deal. I don’t know what it’s about. Maybe he wants to build something. That’s what you do, isn’t it, build?” He said it the way you’d humor an idiot.
Deal thought about things a moment. It was an option he hadn’t considered, except for the stray thought of waylaying Alcazar, tying him and Penfield back to back and dropping them both out the window of Penfield’s office.
But why not? Why not go to the source?
“You mind if I get dressed?” Deal said.
“Take your time,” Leon said, and ambled off, down the hallway.
Leon ushered Deal into the back of a soft gray limo parked at the curb outside, snapped on the television, showed him the bar, the tape player. “There’s fuck tapes, new movies, whatever you want.” He pointed out the stereo, the CD, the button for the sun roof, then got in front and pulled out.
A City-County cruiser was parked down the block. Neither cop so much as glanced at the limo as they passed. They might as well have been a ghost car, Deal thought. How could you ignore a stretch limo in this neighborhood? And then the answer occurred to him. They damn well knew to ignore it.
It took them about thirty minutes to reach their destination, a sprawling auto-sales complex laid out on some acreage newly skinned from a melaleuca forest at the north end of the county.
They spiraled down off the turnpike on a brand new ramp that would one day serve a gojillion commuters. Right now the only lights in the area came from a series of television transmission towers strung out in the distance, and closer in, the dealership, lit up like downtown Vegas.
The place was actually a series of glassed-in pavilions, each featuring a different make of car, set up around some artificial terraces and lagoons they’d dug from the coral plain. The ponds all had fountains and rock waterfalls and the same kind of landscaping you’d expect at Walt Disney World.
Broad swathes of lawn connected the various pavilions, sparkling in the sprinkler irrigation that was pulsing just now. Take out the buildings, you could play golf here, Deal thought. An enormous American flag fluttered at the entryway, a road that seemed as broad as the freeway interchange they’d just left.
Leon took them down the road toward the large central building, a conglomeration of fieldstone and smoked glass that hugged the ground and featured several different foreign makes discreetly lit behind the windows. Leon found a break in the curb that Deal hadn’t seen, and piloted the limo along a narrow strip of blacktop, straight for the huge glass windows.
The big slabs of glass slid back as they approached and Leon took them right up a hidden ramp into the showroom itself. Deal sat there while Leon said something into a car phone, then got out and came to open his door. The television inside the limo was still playing, an old black-and-white flick with Rod Steiger in some outrageous makeup and a marcelled hairdo ogling a pretty girl in a mortician’s workroom. The picture was wavering, now that they were inside. Deal hadn’t bothered to turn up the sound.
Leon jabbed his sizable thumb toward the rear of the building. “Mr. Alcazar’ll be with you in a minute. You can wait out here.”
Deal nodded and got out. The place was quiet, only the soft rush of air-conditioning in the background. There was the same smell of paint and new carpet as the fourplex, but he doubted there’d been any flak from the building codes office on this project.
Leon stood by the limo with his arms folded, watching Deal like some palace guard. He’d been watching too many tough-guy movies, Deal thought.
He strolled over to a wedge-shaped yellow car, a Lotus, glanced at the sticker on the window. Eighty-nine thousand. Flivey had owned a Lotus once. He saved up two thousand dollars from the construction job one summer, bought the car, ten years old, from a guy in Fort Lauderdale. He drove it a week before it refused to start and spent another two thousand on the electrical system before he sold it in disgust for fifteen hundred.
Deal felt someone’s eyes on him and straightened up, surprised to see a middle-aged man in shirt sleeves staring at him from an open-air desk near a window. The guy had been running some figures on a calculator, it looked like. There was a ledger sheet spread out on the desk beside him. The guy got up, wiping his hands on his pants, coming after Deal as if he were a customer.
“I’m just waiting for Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said.
The guy cut a glance at Leon, who was inspecting a thread on one of his coat buttons.
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br /> “Sure,” the salesman said, uncertain. “Look around, you have any questions, I’ll be glad to help.”
Deal nodded.
“We have a lot of interesting cars here.”
Deal nodded again. The inveterate salesman, he thought. Once his button’s pushed, the whole tape’s got to cycle.
The guy pointed at a pair of black Ferraris angled nose to nose near the front. “The one on the right is a Ferrari Daytona, the real thing. The other one’s a copy. A McBirney kit over a 1969 Corvette chassis. That’s what Sonny Crockett drove when the ‘Vice’ series started.”
“Is that right?” Deal said. Not that it mattered to him, but he still couldn’t see the difference.
“We’re asking sixty for the McBirney. The Ferrari’s at two-fifteen. That’s a steal.”
Deal stared at him.
The guy shrugged. “Black’s not a mover. Lot of folks go into a Ferrari for the investment. You’d want red in that case, like the F-forty there.”
The guy pointed at a fiery red machine sitting on a pedestal in the center of the showroom. It had a vague resemblance to the black Ferrari, but, with a huge spoiler hulking over the rear deck, it looked more like a race car than anything you’d see on the street.
“Eight hundred thousand dollars’ worth of automobile,” the guy said. “A special edition. Top-end of two hundred two miles per hour. You need a special license to drive it.”
“A license to print money?” Deal said.
The guy hesitated, then laughed. “That’s good,” he said. “A license to print money. I like that.”
Leon glanced up from his grooming. “Give it a rest, Morton. The guy’s not in the market.”
Morton gave him a look, but his tape had clearly wound down. “Here’s my card,” he said to Deal. “Call me any time.”
Deal stared at him. Maybe the guy really did wind up with a key. The guy still had the card extended when a door opened in a distant corner of the big showroom and Alcazar strode out, flanked by two Latinos, one slender, the other stocky, with a designer’s haircut and a suit nearly as well draped as his boss’s.
Leon stepped away from the limo, toward Deal. Morton saw who was coming and pocketed his card. He was scurrying back to his desk when Leon called after him.
“It can wait till tomorrow, Morton. Go on home.”
Morton never broke stride. He made a smooth cut to the right, snatched up his suit coat from a chair and disappeared outside.
The trio advanced across the thick carpet. “Mr. Deal,” Alcazar said, extending his hand. “I am glad you could come.”
Deal stared at his outstretched hand, then at the man’s face, Alcazar’s gaze about even with his own. He hadn’t paid much attention that night aboard Penfield’s yacht but now he noticed a shading of gray at the temples, like himself. And a similar set of sun lines at the eyes, although not from working outside. Composed. Intelligent. More so than you’d like to give him credit for. He’d have a Latin jury eating out of his hand.
“My attorney…” he paused, flashing the briefest of smiles, “…Mr. Penfield told me you turned down our offer.”
A car rumbled away outside—Morton in a smoking Chevrolet, its vinyl roof poofed up in the wind. “That’s not what I’m interested in, Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said.
Alcazar went on as if he hadn’t heard. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Mr. Deal. Very sorry. Your wife was a lovely woman.” He paused, his tone shifting slightly. “It is a tragic matter and I wanted you to know that I respect your feelings. I wanted to say this to you personally.” Alcazar stopped and stared at him, as if he’d said something momentous. Deal looked around at the three oafs who wore practiced expressions of disinterest in their employer’s affairs.
Alcazar continued. “If a cash settlement offends you, perhaps there is something else I might do. I speculate in real estate, for instance. Possibly your current project is something I’d be interested in.”
His current project? What, had Penfield told him everything? Shown him the balance statements, come up with the right figures, the right buttons to push. Poor old Deal, he’s in a bad way, let’s get this over with, get him out of his misery…
Deal felt himself swelling with rage, but he contained himself. He shrugged. “Come see me when I’m finished.”
“The status is not important,” Alcazar said magnanimously. “I am merely trying to help.”
Deal stared at him, ready to explode. This scum bag, extending his charity to Deal?
“I appreciate the thoughts, Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said. “But can I tell you something?”
Leon glanced up, on the alert. Alcazar waved him off, then nodded at Deal. Deal glanced around the lobby, at all the shining cars. Porsches, Jaguars, the malevolent-looking Ferraris. Every paint job glowing as if with inner life.
Deal cleared his throat. Why did he feel intimidated by a bunch of cars? He shook off the feeling, reached down deep. He’d try to make his point, one last time.
“Used to be, Mr. Alcazar, every kid in school learned that old story about George Washington, he cuts down the cherry tree and then he comes and tells his dad, he did it, he’s sorry, but he has to own up for what he did.” Deal paused. “Maybe you never heard that story.”
“Something like it,” Alcazar shrugged. Leon stared at Deal with something between astonishment and disgust.
Deal continued. “I don’t have to tell you how things have changed these last few years, Mr. Alcazar. Not that anybody really did what George was supposed to have done, of course, at least not after you got old enough to understand that owning up got you a good ass-whipping. But we, all of us over here, we pretended to believe in the story, you know what I mean?”
A hint of a smile had come to Alcazar’s face. He was either amused, or was convinced Deal was mad as a hatter.
Deal nodded, took a few steps toward a Porsche Targa. Glossy black on the outside, buttery gray upholstery on the inside. Deal kicked one of the tires and Leon glowered. Deal turned back to Alcazar.
“But lately, I try to think about that old story, instead I see this little kid in a Richard Nixon mask, he chops the tree down and when his father comes out to see what’s going on, the kid plants the hatchet right in his old man’s forehead.”
Leon smirked. It was apparently something he could identify with.
There was a silence in the room so deep you could hear the rush of the fountains outside. Deal pondered the madness of it, standing in the middle of an autos-of-the-gods dealership, lecturing Raoul Alcazar about owning up. For a moment, he had the sensation that this was all some terrible dream, that he might wake up, back in his condo, Janice turning restlessly in her sleep, asking if Deal might rub her back.
Instead, it was Alcazar who spoke. “Every country has its myths,” he said. “I grew up hearing about the streets of America, how they were paved with gold.” He waved his hand about the showroom, gave Deal his thin smile. “And I have found it to be true.”
Deal glanced around, nodding, feeling Alcazar measuring him, hearing the man’s voice sliding into a patronizing, we’re-all-friends-here tone.
“I think you have been under a great deal of strain, Mr. Deal. Mr. Penfield tells me you are a decent man. I am a decent man—”
Deal turned back, interrupting. “You asked what I want, Alcazar. And I’ve just decided.” He glanced at Leon who barely concealed a sneer. “I’d like you to buy some time on television, take out a couple of pages in the Herald,” he said. “I want you to explain what happened and why your people were at fault. That if everyone had done what he was supposed to, my wife would still be alive.” He took a breath.
“Just admit you were wrong, Mr. Alcazar. Stand up. Maybe it’ll help turn the tide. But most important, it’s going to make me feel better. You can forget about George Washington—I just used that to make my point.”
A phone was ringing somewhere. The smile had disappeared from Alcazar’s face, his g
aze stony now. He drew a breath that seemed to tax him. “Mr. Deal, am I to take you seriously?”
“What do you think this is about, Alcazar? Lawsuits? Money? Bringing my wife back?”
Deal paused. “What I’d really like to do is beat the living shit out of you.” Leon started forward, but this time Deal waved him off. “But now that I’ve spent fifteen minutes in your presence, I figure this would hurt you a hell of a lot worse.”
Alcazar shook his head in disbelief. “In my country, it is a particular sin to harm a madman. But you are testing me…”
He broke off. The phone had stopped ringing and the stocky thug, the one with the good suit, had come to whisper in Alcazar’s ear. Alcazar’s eyes flickered, came back to Deal.
“Excuse me,” he said and followed the thug into a glassed-in office. After a few moments on the phone Alcazar covered the mouthpiece. He glanced out at Deal, then said something to the thug with a dismissive gesture.
The thug looked through the glass at Deal, shrugged, and came outside. Alcazar had returned to his phone conversation.
“Mr. Alcazar wants you to have something,” the thug said, his voice echoing as he approached Deal. Deal had the odd feeling that he had heard the voice before somewhere. Then he forgot that, wondering what Alcazar might be offering. A pair of broken arms? Cement overshoes? An ice pick in the ear? There wasn’t a soul who knew he was here. He could join the primeval sludge of the Everglades. Disappear without a trace. Like Janice.
“Mr. Alcazar says take any car you want.” Alejandro waved his arm about the showroom. Leon’s eyes had narrowed in disgust.
Stunned, Deal followed his gesture. Alcazar was still engrossed in his conversation. Deal looked back at the thug.
“He wants to give me a car?”
“Except for the red Ferrari up there,” the thug said. “It’s sold,” he added. Deal didn’t think he said it very convincingly.
Leon spoke up. “Man wants to do right by you. He didn’t ask me. If he did, I’d tell him to kick your crazy ass. Kick your ass so bad you could tell George Washington about it.”
Done Deal Page 15