by Mike Dennis
"Norma, don't you see? This is what I've always wanted. What I waited for the last three years I spent out there in hell. You wouldn't believe the shit I put up with waiting for this day. I forgive you, I forgive you everything. Please say you'll do it."
"Oh, Don Roy, I …I …"
She moved her head to look up at me, locking my eyes into hers. "I've always hoped you'd come back to me. Do you really mean all that?"
"You know I do, honey."
"Then, yes. Yes. I'll do it. Because I love you, baby. I love you so much. Yes! I'll do it! I'll quit. For you. For us."
I held her so tight, burying my face in her hair.
Beneath the Walgreen's perfume, I caught a whiff of her natural human scent. I'd never forgotten it. It made me high as I breathed it in deep. It swelled my nostrils, stirred my loins, gentle as a tropical breeze.
But more powerful than a September hurricane.
"As of this moment," I whispered, "you're free of BK. I'll see to it."
She squeezed me as hard as she could. We lay down together, and as I gathered her in my arms, great sheets of rain slapped the tin roof to a rolling clap of thunder. Very rare for this time of year.
EIGHT
IT rained most of the night. I was up and showered early, then out into the cool, wet street at about quarter of eight.
I didn't know what time BK arrived at his office, but I knew he wouldn't be there yet. I wanted to see him before he walked in.
You want to talk serious shit to a big shot, especially if it involves an underlying threat, you don't do it in his office if you can help it. That's his turf.
He's the one sitting behind the big desk with all the phones and the switches and everything at his fingertips, while everybody's kissing his ass. In there he's king shit. He feels like you can't touch him, and in a way, he's right.
But out in the street or in a parking lot, when he's on his way to the throneroom, he's just another square moe going to work. Out here, he's still vulnerable and he knows it. This is my turf, this in-between zone where I could hammer my point home in full stereo.
I went to the city garage where I waited across from his parking spot.
I skipped breakfast; eating would take the edge off. But as I stood around in the damp concrete structure, I felt a sharp desire for a cigarette. It was the kind of pang I used to have back in the joint when I was trying to quit. It promised me that if I grabbed that one smoke, then I could really stay quit afterward.
You know, the tension, the stress, that builds on you in prison day after day is tremendous. The strain piles up on you, no matter what. You've got to find some way of working through it, of relieving it, or else you don't make it in there.
I tried a lot of things. I lifted weights, I read a lot, anything to take my mind off it. A lot of times I wanted to light one up just to ease the load, it was so damn heavy. I only wanted one cigarette then, like I do right now.
Just one.
But I couldn't leave to go buy any because I didn't want to miss BK, so I beat back the craving.
Finally, about nine-thirty, his Dodge came sloshing through the garage entrance. He slid into his spot and got out without seeing me.
"BK," I called out as I approached him.
He turned. He was not pleased with what he saw: that's right, me again. He dragged out his standard smile anyway, taping it onto his face.
"Don Roy, what's up?"
"Let's sit in your car for just a minute."
"Sit in my car?"
"There's a little matter I need to clear up with you. It won't take long."
"Well, I don't know, I've got to get inside. There's some things I've got —"
I stood between him and the back steps of City Hall.
He knew.
"Like I said, this'll just take a second. You won't miss anything inside."
We got into his car. It wasn't fancy at all. I made it to be around an '86. Cloth seats, a few coins in the ashtray and around the console, takeout napkins on the floor, remnants of a Wendy's soft drink in the cupholder, leftover sections of a newspaper in the back seat. Didn't he ever clean it up?
He wasn't looking at me, but he knew I was taking up a lot of space, even spilling over into his. Things were very tight in this front seat and he twitched in discomfort.
So far, so good.
"I saw Norma last night."
Up went the eyebrows in faked surprise.
"Oh, really? Is she all right? Give her my best, will you?"
"The ride is over, BK."
"Ride? What ride?"
"You know what I mean. From now on, whatever you owe Mambo is your problem. She does not give you another nickel. And on top of that, she's not seeing you anymore, either."
At first he wasn't sure what facial expression to wear, whether to keep his wide-eyed "what-do-you-mean" look going or just to admit the whole thing. Embarrassing confessions weren't really in the front of his playbook, though. So for a split second, it looked like he was going to keep up the charade as a natural politician-type reflex.
But then he realized I had him, that I really knew what I was talking about.
He said, "Hey now, whatever she and I want to do is our business, Don Roy. You can't tell me —"
"I can and I am telling you. The ride is over."
"Listen, if she wants to help me out, then she's entitled —"
"I don't think you quite understand me. She doesn't want to. She's back with me now for good, and your little gravy train has reached the end of the line."
Lucky for him I was a lot calmer this morning than I was when Norma laid all this on me last night.
"Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what I can and can't do?"
I'd expected this, the indignation, perfectly timed.
I knew I had to tread very lightly here, yet leave a big footprint. Like I said earlier, this is the mayor, not somebody you can easily shove around.
"BK, I'm just stating a fact, and the fact is that the money lake has dried up. You're gonna have to get it somewhere else."
His lips closed tightly, then through gritted teeth he said, "You know, I could go in there and get your probation officer on the phone. I can get you sent back to prison today for doing this."
Time for the trip out to the end of the limb while BK revs up the chainsaw.
"For doing what? You mean for telling the mayor, who just happens to be a degenerate gambler, that he's gonna have to pay off his own illegal sports bets from now on, that my woman isn't going to do it for him? Like she's been doing for the last three fucking years as a prostitute. And if you bring cops out here to bust me, that's what I'll tell them. And that's what my lawyer will say in open court. That you're using your position to railroad me back inside just because I've upset your sweet little deal involving gambling and prostitution."
There was anger in his eyes, all right, but I could see the fear behind the fire.
Just to make sure he totally understood, I added with a raised eyebrow of my own, "And isn't there an election coming up in the fall? This isn't really the kind of thing that would make you look real good in the eyes of the voters, now, is it?"
He opened the door. As he started to climb out, he turned back to me, saying, "You will live to regret this. You and that cheap fucking slut!"
Instinctively, I wanted to reach over and slap him, but before I could, he was out of the car, so I never made the move. Just as well, because that could have violated me back inside.
Probably would have, too.
He walked to the door of City Hall. I didn't follow him.
Instead, I called out, "Remember what I said, BK. The ride is over."
NINE
I needed ID.
Even though I had no plans to leave the island, it was just something I thought I should have. Sort of a knee-jerk reflex kind of thing. I'd always had fake ID for my grifts, for one thing or another, so I kind of felt naked without it.
Yale Lando was the guy in
Key West to see for that. Driver's licenses, green cards, birth certificates, college degrees — no job was out of reach for him. He even licensed a few Cuban doctors up in Miami who didn't want the minor inconvenience of having to attend American medical schools.
To top it off, his work was flawless, never questioned. I'd gotten some Nevada ID from him before leaving for Vegas, and I'd referred some others to him over the years.
He worked out of his house on Havana Lane, a little street tucked away off Truman. The house sat behind a high wooden fence, nearly concealed by a canopy of very big, very old, orange bougainvillea and other heavy vegetation. His equipment was in a mother-in-law apartment in the rear of the house, but I never got to see it.
You always dealt with Yale in his living room, sitting on cheap furniture.
The Price Is Right was on his TV. The host was about to offer a squealing contestant a shot at a new car.
Yale leaned back in his ancient armchair, sipping on a glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice as he ran down my want list and gave me a price. He had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the excitement on the TV.
"Forty-five hundred," he said in his rich Conch accent. "Two grand for the passport, five hundred for the driver's license, and a dime apiece for the two credit cards."
I nodded.
He ran a hand through curly brown hair, then down through a matching beard. I knew we were the same age, but you couldn't tell by looking at his face, so much of it was covered up. His eyes, however, showed the truth, and the backs of his hands had the first faint traces of the gnarl that time would eventually put there.
"Remember, the license and passport will be in the same name, while the credit cards will be in two different names altogether."
"So the passport is backup to the license? In case I'm asked for two forms of ID."
"Check. But the passport will be totally valid for travel out of the country. And the license will be valid also, complete with a backup file in Tallahassee."
I always marveled at Yale's deep connections, how he managed all of this. He moved me over to a makeshift area in his Florida room where he set up a camera on a tripod. I sat down on a small stool as he snapped my photo.
"Light blue," he said, pointing to the backdrop behind me. "That's the color they use on authentic Florida licenses. Any other color and they peg it as a phony. We'll use a white backdrop for the passport."
"Do I pick everything up at the same time?"
"No. On the first deliv — hey, wait a minute!"
His eyes shot back to the TV. The woman contestant said something as he hissed, "No, you stupid bitch! The motor oil is more expensive than the fabric softener!"
He kicked off his sandals and headed back toward the couch, shaking his fist at her.
"The motor oil! The motor oil!"
Finally, the woman changed her mind at the last second, selecting the motor oil. It was the right move, so she advanced one step closer to the car.
Relieved, Yale went on. "Anyway, on the first delivery I give you the passport, the license, and one of the two credit cards. You can start using the card right away. It'll have a ten thousand dollar line of credit, and like I said, it'll be in a different name. A totally legit name of a real guy somewhere who actually has his real credit card safely buried in his wallet. This is an exact duplicate, number and all, so the charges will breeze through when you go to make a purchase. The real guy won't ever suspect a thing till he gets his bill."
"So, for all practical purposes, it's a real credit card? Not stolen?"
"Check. Now, you can only use it for a month, of course. Visa sends out their bills on the twenty-third of each month. So you can use this card until about the twenty-fifth of April. That's when the real guy'll get his bill, around that time, and naturally the shit will hit the fan when he sees what's happened. Then, on that date, you just cut up that card and come back here. I'll give you another card in another name. Also good for ten dimes. That'll see you through till May twenty-fifth. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Now, you can buy stuff around town with these cards, but just a little, not too much, all right? You don't want a lot of charges showing up from here. It's too small a town and too easy for the feds to cover. Remember, this's a federal offense."
He looked me straight in the eye, letting that one sink in. His eyes were the color of a summer sky, so bright I almost wanted to smile. But I pushed back the urge.
Then he said, "So if you really want to go to town, make some big buys, run up to Miami and do it. They'll never be able to track you up there. Except don't buy anything that's traceable in itself, like a car."
I agreed that was the way to go, so that seemed to close out our business. He got up to refill his grapefruit juice.
When he came back from the kitchen he turned his attention back to his TV. The woman was guessing prices or something, I don't know, while the host was becoming more breathless the closer she got to winning the car. The audience was getting more and more worked up as well. Yale seemed to be really into it.
"You know," he said, "this is truly the greatest show ever to be on TV."
He turned thoughtful here, kind of like a bearded philosopher, who was used to having his every word absorbed by anxious students sitting at his feet.
"They've managed to boil down the entire human experience to a few minutes of greed. Ordinary people, people like you and I know, like we grew up with, behaving like mad dogs for the chance to win a 'fortune in fabulous prizes!'" He said it just like those overheated TV announcers. "When those jerks get up on stage with Bob Barker, they have only one purpose in their miserable lives. To grab as much swag as they can, as quick as they can. And to do it in front of the whole country while drooling all over themselves."
I remembered this show. It had been on forever. Like an old friend who came to dinner and never left.
"They go crazy when they win this shit, right?"
"Check. It's like it validates their entire existence. You know, like their lives have meant something after all. They've been to the mountaintop with Bob Barker."
As soon as he said that, the woman won the car and went apeshit.
"Look," Yale said. "What'd I tell you? And if she'd lost, you can bet she'd go the rest of her life feeling like a complete failure. Forty years from now, she'd be telling her friends at the nursing home, 'You know, if only I'd guessed a higher price for that motor oil, I'd've won the damn car'." He chuckled out loud. "I guarantee you, bubba, every one of these people would buy one of those credit cards from me if they had the chance. Every fucking one of them."
"You think so?"
"I know so. They all want the new car, the free lunch, and they don't mind tippy-toeing a little on the other side of the line to get it. Especially if you can make them believe they'll never get caught."
"When can I get the goods?"
I didn't really want to get Yale off the subject. I could tell he was getting fairly intense here, making a pretty provocative point, but I had to get going.
"Try me...in about two weeks, okay?"
"Okay, but today's the twenty-ninth. Two weeks, that'll be around April twelfth. That's only going to give me just a little less than two weeks on the first credit card."
He looked away from the TV. They'd gone to a commercial. But he didn't look at me.
"Don Roy, you know when I give you a figure, that's it. You don't jew me down."
He paused for just a moment. I didn't say anything. I figured he was still working the count. Then he eyed me.
"But because we were altar boys together, and because we sat next to each other in English class two years in a row, I'm gonna drop three hundred from my original quote. Besides, you're right. It wouldn't be fair, because you're only getting two weeks play on the card." He thought for a second, then he said, "But I'll need half now, the other half on delivery."
I gave him twenty-one hundred dollars as we shook hands.
I was about to leave
when he said, "Hey man, don't go now. You gotta stick around. The Showcase Showdown's coming up. It's the best part."
I thanked him again and left.
TEN
I woke up next to Norma for the first time in nearly seven years. I had a hard time believing my good fortune.
Here I was, home only three days, but already I had a few grand in my pocket, another two hundred large on its way, a deal working for permanent ID, and the woman of my dreams peacefully sleeping next to me. Well, okay, maybe she wasn't exactly the woman of my dreams, you know, like Raquel Welch or somebody, but she was plenty good enough for me.
A lot more than I ever thought I could get.
You see, I was never what you'd call a real attractive guy to begin with, being so big and bullnecked, you know what I mean? I just looked like a big old galoot with big arms, big hands, and an intimidating appearance.
Not the kind of guy that the foxy girls are drawn to.
Never the slim, honey-voiced guy with the right clothes or the slick red car, bringing his model-gorgeous girl to a trendy nightclub.
Rather, I was always the anonymous, faceless bouncer type, working the door, pulling back the velvet rope for them to pass through, saying "Welcome."
The thing is, I'm probably a lot smarter than most of those red convertible-type guys. I'm really good with numbers — I've always been able to do quick calculations and figure odds.
And I can spot character flaws in people immediately.
Weeding out the bullshit artists from the heavy hitters is no problem for me. I can practically do it blind.
But no girl ever gave me a chance in high school.
Afterward, though, I got a few chances, but I usually blew them sky-high. I would never know the right things to say to a girl, you know, like in conversation when you're just getting to know them. It never came easy for me. Other guys always seemed to have the words I wished I could say.
I know I must've seemed like some pathetic baboon way out of his element. Not only that, my brainpower, along with the rest of the real me, had a hard time showing itself.