He was surprised when Jack’s car pulled in at the gatehouse and was met by a guard wearing khakis and a pink golf shirt with a little palm tree on the upper right side. Guy talked to Jack, and the security gate went up. Cobb drove down the road, turned around in a condo lot, and glanced at Ruben.
In the sunglasses and guayabera shirt, he looked like a barber on vacation. “Got any ideas?”
Ruben took off the sunglasses, bewilderment on his face, like Cobb had asked him how to split an atom. “Wait till he comes out.”
It sounded like a question. “Okay. But when’s that gonna be?” Cobb didn’t see it as a problem, though. He enjoyed the competitive nature of the situation. Who was gonna get to the red zone first, take it to the house?
Was Jack visiting someone, shacking up, or was he now living here? And where was he hiding the money? They agreed to see it through a while longer, got a carryout from a Mex restaurant several miles down the road, Ruben’s suggestion, what a surprise.
They parked in a marina lot on the Intracoastal across from the Palm Cove entrance. Cobb sat there, Ruben’s aftershave mixing with the smell of enchiladas and refried beans, Cobb’s stomach making noises. He cracked the window and let the ocean breeze clear out the car.
When Ruben finished eating, he wedged his body between the seat and the door and put his head back. A few minutes later, he was snoring, taking a siesta.
Cobb got out of the car, laid the shotgun in the trunk next to the spare. He walked south down the beach road, crossed over to the Palm Cove property, and moved through a flower bed to the pink stucco wall that was about as tall as he was. He reached up, got a reasonable grip on the cement cap, and hoisted himself up, running shoes kicking, trying to grip the smooth stucco, got enough purchase, and went up and over.
The complex was much bigger than it appeared. There was a ten-story high-rise and three smaller buildings—all built close to the water. On the north side of the property was a private marina. He could see dozens of yachts and pleasure craft.
Cobb pictured himself cruising around in a yacht, pounding down 7 and 7s, surrounded by knockout babes. When they got out to sea, girls had to take their suits off. Captain’s rule.
It was a good thing Ruben wasn’t with him. Guy that looked like him, wasn’t wearing a uniform, his name on the shirt, someone’d see him, call security: There’s a spic, looks like a serial killer, just hopped the wall, Jesus, get over here quick. Cobb walked through the parking lot behind the high-rise, and there was Jack’s rental car with the cracked side window. He walked to the building, went in the lobby, and looked around. No one there except an old-timer, had to be seventy-five, in a blue suit coat, eyeing him from behind the reception counter.
Cobb walked toward the guy and said, “You seen Mr. McCann this evening?”
“Sir, I don’t believe I know a Mr. McCann. Does he live here in the tower?”
“I thought so.” Cobb frowned. “You have a directory I could take a look at?”
The man reached under the counter and handed him a booklet with a photograph of the Palm Cove complex shot from the ocean side. Duane opened to M and went down the list, didn’t see McCann. So Jack was visiting someone.
“Sir, will you describe him?”
Cobb looked up. “He’s good size, tall as me with about thirty-five more pounds, has light brown hair, dresses like he’s screwing the pooch.” The old man glanced at him as though he was having memory failure, and then surprised Cobb.
“I believe the gentleman you are looking for was accompanied by Ms. Najjir, one of our tenants.”
“Sounds A-rab. You let them in here after what happened on nine-eleven?”
“Sir, I don’t have anything to do with that.”
“Oh. I thought you owned the place.”
“No, sir.”
“Where’s Ms. Najj-ir live at, exactly?”
“Sir, I’m not at liberty to give out that information.”
Duane grinned. This old buzzard was a piece of work. “She live in this building?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“She live in this complex? You can tell me that, can’t you?”
Shook his old gray head.
“But you gave me her name.”
“I know. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, we agree on something.”
The old boy wrote on a Post-it note. “You can phone Ms. Najjir, and she can give you her address.”
This was some crazy shit, but okay.
Ruben was still snoring when he got back to the car. Cobb slammed the door hard. Ruben’s eyes opened and his body jerked forward. “Jesus, the fuck’s going on?”
“I wake you? Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Where you been, uh?”
“Looking around.”
Ruben was snoring when Cobb drove through Pompano, deserted at ten forty-five. He parked behind the motel, Ruben, head back, mouth open, making sounds Cobb had never heard before. He left Ruben in the car and went up to his room, turned on the TV, and took his clothes off, folded the shirt and shorts on the spare bed. He brushed his teeth, looking at himself in the mirror, flexed his biceps a couple times. Good muscle tone but he needed color. Take care of Jack, put in some serious pool time.
The closet door slid open; Cobb reached in and grabbed the AR-15, sat on the bed, unwrapped the gun, and saw the magazine was missing. What the hell? Did he put it somewhere? Searched his mind, saw himself bringing the gun in the room, popping the mag in, and wrapping the AR in a blanket that was on a shelf in the closet. Who did it? Couldn’t have been Jack. It wasn’t the Eye-talians. They’d have been waiting in the room for him.
So who was it?
Cobb didn’t much like the idea of someone watching him and thought about Diane McCann. Not a chance it was her, right? The way things had been going, he couldn’t be sure of anything.
He checked his suitcase, found the empty envelope. The hell’s going on? Cobb picked up the shotgun, a High-Standard Flite King he’d bought at the store on Dixie Highway—no three-day waiting period on shotguns and long guns in Florida. Was that civilized or what?
He racked a shell in the chamber. Put the gun on the bed, slipped on blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a Chicago Bears cap. He tied two pieces of rope around the trigger guard and fit the looped end over his left shoulder. He had cut the barrel down and the stock off.
Now he swung the gun up with his left hand, caught the fore-end with his right, and was ready to fire in like a second. He slipped on the windbreaker, glanced in the full-length mirror, and saw a small-town high school football coach.
From the balcony outside his room, he scanned the pool area and the beach. It was warm and quiet. He walked down the stairs and out to the Mustang. Ruben was gone, must’ve woke up, went to his room. Cobb wandered south fifty yards or so, checking parked cars on both sides of the street. No one in any of them sitting there spying on him.
Back in the room, Cobb slept in his clothes on a mattress between the beds, the shotgun next to him. Ruben, the tough guy who didn’t need a gun, was on his own.
THIRTY-SIX
Ruben opened the door a crack, rubbing his eyes, silver rings on mangled fingers. Cobb could see a bluish bruise sticking out of white surgical tape wrapped around his rib cage. Cobb made a face. “How’s it feel?”
“I’ve been hurt worse than this.”
A foot away, and Cobb could smell his sour morning breath. Ruben swung the door open and backed into the room. He was naked. The ex-fighter had put on some weight in the five years since he’d stopped training, but still looked like he could handle himself.
There was a girl in bed behind him. She pulled the sheet off and sat on the side of the bed, nude, and lit a cigarette. The girl had a decent rack, dark hair streaked blonde, and a line of Chinese characters tattooed low just above her naughty meat. “Hey, what’s your tat say?”
“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back. It’s a Chinese proverb.”
Ruben glanced at her and said, “Hey, you better go.”
The girl balanced her cigarette on the end table, picked her underwear up off the floor, and slipped it on. She dressed quickly, got the cigarette, and kissed Ruben on the cheek. He slapped her butt, and she walked to the door, stopped and looked back. “So, you gonna call me?”
“You’ll find out.”
The girl smiled and closed the door.
“Who’s that?”
“I met her in the airport, hairdresser lives down here. I called, she come over.”
Again, Cobb couldn’t believe it. Sure he remembered her, the girl Ruben was talking to in Newark. She was a quality piece of ass. What’d she see in this barbarian? “Hey, Ruben, would you put some fucking clothes on, or wrap a towel around you?” He was uncomfortable standing next to this naked Neanderthal.
Ruben got dressed and came back, staring at the dark green khaki uniform Cobb had taken out of the bag and unfolded on the bed, sleeves and pant legs spread out like whoever was wearing it had evaporated. The name over the pocket said Manny.
“What’s that for?”
Now Cobb realized he was doing it all wrong. He should’ve told Ruben the plan before he showed it to him. “You want the money? This’s how we’re gonna get it.”
“What you talking about?”
Cobb told him what he was thinking, but Ruben was stuck on the uniform. “Where you get it at? You steal it? I ain’t wearing somebody’s dirty fucking clothes.”
“I got it at a uniform supply place,” Cobb said. “It’s brand-new, okay? Never been violated by a spic laborer.” He’d bought it earlier at a store on Dixie Highway. “In this, nobody gives you a second look.”
“Why don’t you wear it, then?”
“It wouldn’t look right on me.” Nobody’d believe it, Cobb wanted to tell him. Why was that hard to understand? It was so obvious.
Thirty minutes later they walked down to the car, Cobb in a yellow golf shirt and white pants, Ruben in the uniform, wearing sunglasses and a straw porkpie. Cobb couldn’t talk him out of the hat, and thought, fuck it.
They headed north to Palm Beach, Duane having a hell of a time looking at Ruben in the uniform without laughing, biting his lip or he’d have lost it for sure. The florist was on Worth Avenue. Cobb went in and bought a dozen long-stemmed red roses. He bought a Show Your Love bouquet with blue orchids and a vase that weighed as much as a cinderblock. And he bought a Love You Fur-ever stuffed bear.
The woman behind the counter said, “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying, you have exquisite taste. Most men who come here don’t have a clue.” The woman paused. “How many notes will you need?”
“One.”
“Oh my. One truly special person.” She handed him a little card and an envelope.
He slid it back to her. “Would you mind? My handwriting isn’t too good.”
“Not at all. What would you like to say?” The woman picked up a pen and looked at him.
Cobb had thought about it and come up with something earlier. “When you look at them, think of me.”
The woman smiled. “Very romantic.”
With the flowers in the backseat, Cobb drove down the coast past these big goddamn mansions, and when they were close to the condo, he said, “You got to get in the back, lay down on the floor. I’ll cover you with the blanket. Guard sees you, he’s gonna think you’re Freddy Kruger.”
“What if it don’t work?”
“We drive away, think of something else.”
It was amazing, Ruben always took the negative point of view. Probably ’cause his parents never gave him confidence. In Cobb’s experience, that’s where it started—when you were a little kid. His own folks, Herb and Donna, treated him like a little prince. His mother told her friends she thought Duane was truly gifted. “He was a genius or something.”
Cobb drove in the Palm Cove entrance and stopped behind the security gate next to the gatehouse. The guard, a doughy fifty-year-old with a gut, came out and said, “Can I help you?”
“Delivering flowers.” Cobb pointed over his shoulder with his right thumb.
The guard looked in the backseat. “Where you from?”
Duane handed him a business card from the flower shop called Fleur-de-Lis. The guard studied it and handed it back. “Who you delivering to?”
It sounded like the guy was accusing him. “A Ms. Najj-ir. You know her?”
“How come you don’t have a van?”
“Man, we’re busy, got three drivers out. I’ve got to run back, pick up another load.”
“Ms. Najjir’s in the tower.” The guard pointed. “Park in front by the door, go in the lobby.”
The security gate went up. “Thank you, officer.” Cobb grinned and took off. “Ruben, how you doing back there? Don’t go to sleep on me.”
There was a lot of activity in the lobby, groups of seniors sitting around talking and playing cards. Cobb led the way, carrying the roses and the pump gun wrapped in decorative paper, Ruben behind him with the vase of orchids and the stuffed bear. They stopped at the reception counter, and Cobb said, “Delivery for Ms. Najj-ir.” He handed the receptionist the flower shop business card, but she fixed her attention on Ruben, the humble laborer, holding him in her gaze. “Hope you don’t mind,” Cobb said, “I borrowed Manny from your landscaping crew to help.” The girl, who had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, seemed worried, as if Ruben being in the building was breaking some Palm Cove rule.
“I guess it’s okay if you make it quick. Ms. Najjir is on the fourth floor. Four oh three.” She pointed. “The elevators are over there.”
That’s what Cobb wanted to hear.
“Hey, buddy, you did good,” Cobb said to Ruben when the doors closed and they started up. “Ever decide to hang it up as a collector, I think you could make it as an actor in Hollywood.” Ruben stared at him, the flowers and stuffed animal not going with the uniform, Cobb letting a little grin slip out, trying to pull it back.
He set the roses on the elevator floor, undid the tape at the end of the paper around the shotgun, gripped the handle, and picked up the flowers as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
Duane Cobb found 403, positioned himself in front of the peephole, holding the roses, and knocked on the door. The girl downstairs said she was going to call Ms. Najj-ir, tell her they were on their way.
The door opened, Cobb was staring at a nice-looking dark-haired girl. He handed her the roses. She cradled the bouquet and smiled. “Who’re they from?”
“I’m only the driver. They don’t tell us that.” He paused. “And look, there’s more.” Cobb pushed the door open farther, and she saw Ruben. “Manny here was kind enough to help me. Where do you want us to put everything?”
“Come this way.”
They followed her across the marble foyer into the kitchen. He saw Jack through the window stretched out on a lounge chair on a huge balcony, reading the paper, a view of the ocean that could’ve been on a postcard.
“Anywhere is fine.” She placed the roses on the counter next to an industrial stove, pulled off the envelope that was taped to the paper, and read the note. “Oh my god,” she said, excited, sounding like a young girl. Ruben was still holding the vase and teddy bear. She said, “Bring those over here.” Ruben did and put them next to the roses. She picked up the bear and hugged it. “Isn’t he cute? So cute, so cute.”
That’s all it took. Give a girl a stuffed animal, she went fucking goofy, started saying shit that didn’t make sense. He looked out at Jack, relaxed, no clue what was about to happen. Now Ms. Najj-ir glanced at the package Cobb held wrapped in decorative paper, and said, “What’s that?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Another one?”
“I’ll hold it, you pull off the paper.” She grabbed a fistful, and it came off in one piece. She frowned looking at the shotgun, trying to make sense of what was happening, and was about to say something when Ruben put his hand ove
r her mouth and held her in place.
“Do what you’re told, nothing’s gonna happen. We’re not here for you.” Cobb paused. “You got any duct tape?” Something they forgot. He felt like an amateur having to ask.
She nodded and pointed at a closet door on the other side of the kitchen.
Cobb found the roll, ripped off a piece, and wrapped it around her wrists.
He ripped off another piece and put it over her mouth. Then he looked outside at the balcony. Jack was gone.
Jack heard the phone ringing in the kitchen, and then heard Rita’s voice. She came out to the balcony where he was sitting, reading the Palm Beach Post, drinking strong Lebanese coffee Rita called kawha.
“I just got a call from the receptionist. Someone sent flowers.” She smiled. “That’s so nice. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Richard Keefer?”
Jack had no idea what she was talking about. He was going to tell her he was leaving. It didn’t feel right, and Rita was clearly into it, talking about places they should go. “All right, my short list is Lyon, St. Tropez, Barcelona, and Istanbul.” She was coming on too strong, and they had just met.
Jack finished the last of the coffee and felt a jolt of energy, like taking a hit of speed in college to study for finals. The view was spectacular, ocean on one side, Intracoastal on the other. He could feel the morning sun on his face. It was beautiful here, but it was time to go.
He heard Rita’s voice, thought she was talking to him. He sat up, looked into the kitchen, morning sun reflecting off the glass making it difficult to see inside. He made a visor with his hand, saw Rita directing two guys carrying flowers. Two guys delivering flowers. That struck him as odd.
Jack moved along the balcony around the side of the building to the master bedroom, opened the sliding door, and slipped in. He walked through the bedroom into the hallway, heard a man’s voice that sounded familiar, and then saw Ruben holding Rita from behind and Cobb wrapping duct tape around her wrists.
Unknown Remains Page 20