Zaharran found it soothing too and his big shaggy head soon began to nod. A pleasant haze enveloped him and an infant snore wriggled from his lips. The sound of the snore was enough to bring him awake and he sat up with a start and looked about him quietly, as if ashamed at sleeping on duty. As he did so a squat figure in red vest and running shorts trotted towards him, spinning at apparently inspired intervals to perform a spasm of shadow boxing. Zaharran's hooded eyes shone quietly. He had found Ari the Greek.
The nose was unmistakable, bobbing away in front of its owner as though loosely hinged to his face. Zaharran three-
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quarters closed his eyes and hunched down as if in untroubled sleep. He felt the wig slide forward but this time he was grateful for its added concealment. From the crevices of his eyes and from beneath the thatch of the wig he observed Ari the Greek carefully.
Ari, he decided, looked good. There was no doubt about that. He had to be in his sixties now, thought Zaharran, but he seemed as active and as lithe as ever. The ex-policeman, who had once been boxing champion of his state force, felt a touch of envy to which his back added a twinge of pain.
Ari the Greek sparred by him, revolving on a complicated pattern of footwork in front of the men playing the cello and spoons. His feet obligingly danced to the time of their music for a moment but he did not look at them nor they at him. It was the same with the chess players and the Slavonic dancers along the same path. On South Miami Beach everyone did what the new generation liked to call 'their own thing' without interference from others. Among the old folks it was called courtesy.
Zaharran permitted his eyelids to lift a degree more to follow Ari's progress. He could not hope to follow him on foot, especially with the burden of the suitcase, and he was grateful as well as interested when he saw the Greek begin jogging on the spot while he conversed with two young men in denims who appeared through the screen of old people. Zaharran settled back and observed. It was quite rare to see young folks in this part, especially young folks who talked intently to old folk. He gave a little start when a striking girl in jeans and a white shirt with military chevrons just above her brown arm walked from the opposite direction and joined them.
He wished that the cello and spoons would quit for a while, so he might catch a fragment of what they were saying. It was a serious matter, he could see, for none was smiling. The girl kept pushing her glance around furtively as if keeping watch. The rendezvous lasted only a couple of minutes before the party split in three, Ari continuing on his jogging run towards the ocean, the girl and the older of the two men walking towards Ocean Drive and the youngest man sitting
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on the grass and gazing at the diminishing figures of the other two. His expression was moody. Zaharran could sense the old detective magic working. He had almost forgotten the feeling. Today was the day he was getting the breaks.
Loose Bruce sat for a while on the grass wondering if Ossie would notice if he took Gabby to Daytona Beach when they made some money out of a robbery. The sun seemed to concentrate on him and he succumbed to its drowsing touch. Zaharran was pleased to see him lie back on the tough grass and close his eyes. The young man was not prostrate for long. He sat up. blinked, and then removed the cowboy boots and socks. He set them on the grass beside him, wriggled his toes and then the rest of his feet in the sunshine and with a sigh settled back again to doze.
Zaharran could tell when a man was really sleeping and when he was only napping. He had been inside too many prisons and watched too many prisoners not to know. The deep breathing told you nothing, only the small movements of the eyelashes giving away whether a man is in sleep or only feigning or napping. Eventually Bruce's eyes began the tiny butterfly movement that told the detective that he would not be easily disturbed.
The cello man and the spoons player were having a sudden but acute dispute about some aspect of their duet. It became acrimonious. The spoons man raised his spoons threateningly and the cello man raised his cello, projecting the pointed end towards his fellow player. He looked like an aged knight with a fat lance. They paused two paces apart and then burst into mutual friendly laughter and shook hands. They settled down to play again and, as if he had been waiting for the cover of the music. Zaharran got up and moved largely but easily along the path towards the sleeping Bruce.
Although there were dozens of people all around, they were so occupied with their various activities, whether it was bridge, reading, talking, dancing or listening to a transistor radio held against the ear, that no one noticed him. He approached Bruce and almost without pausing in his walk and by means of the merest stoop he bent and stole the young man's boots.
Loose Bruce wandered footloose, barefoot, disconsolate along the grass of Ocean Drive. His eyes searched ahead among the hundreds of sitters beneath the sun. His astonishment at finding, on waking from his grassy sleep, that his cowboy boots had vanished was- only matched by his puzzlement that anyone in that old-fashioned region should even have considered the outrage.
Zaharran circled him patiently, like a threadbare shark, his shabby suitcase in one hand and the purloined boots in the other. He waited on his moment and then, smooth and casual, approached Bruce from behind. 'Hey there, son,' he said with gruff cheerfulness. 'You wouldn't be looking for these now, would you?' Bruce turned quickly and beamed as he saw Zaharran holding out the boots.
'Gee, yes, thanks,' said Bruce, the words tumbling out gratefully. 'Where did you find them?'
'Right down by the ocean,' lied Zaharran blithely. 'Standing there on the shore, their toes pointing to sea, just like they was thinking of walking in after whoever it was that usually has their feet in them. I figured the guy had gone for good. I made the sign of the cross, picked them up and brought them here. Then I saw you walking around like some barefoot boy. Here, take them.'
He handed Bruce the boots and watched paternally while the young man sat down and eased them on his feet. 'No socks with them?' inquired Bruce. 'The socks went too.'
'Not a sock,' confirmed Zaharran. 'Guess you'll have to say goodbye to the socks. They're probably floating to Cuba.'
'Thank God I got the boots,' said Bruce. I ain't got any others.' He stood up on the grass and looked down fondly at the boots as one would look at twins recently lost and found. Then he glanced at Zaharran and held out his hand. 'My name's Bruce,' he said. 'I'm sure grateful mister.'
'George,' said Zaharran. 'I'm George.'
'That's neat and easy,' returned Bruce. He glanced at the suitcase. 'What are you doing in these parts?'
'Travelling,' shrugged Zaharran. 'Just going south. But I guess there's not much more south left. Only the ocean.' He glanced around. I guess this is where I'm going, right here.'
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The people were leaving the grass now because the afternoon was advanced, the sun slinking over the western buildings of Miami and the diners were offering their cut-rate meals to early eaters. They left the grass and the sea-grape trees in their droves, most of them carrying the little light chairs that were their badge of office and their physical and moral support.
'Got anywhere to stay?' asked Bruce. He sat on the bench and began to polish his boots fiercely with a piece of newspaper as though comforting them on their return. Zaharran smiled inwardly, grateful for the young man's making things easy for him.
'Not a single place,' he said. 'I was just considering that maybe I ought to start looking. It's just that I don't have much money. So I got to be careful. Can't stay at the Fontainbleu.'
'Nor me,' agreed Bruce. 'I stay right over there. See, under the trees.' He pointed under and up. 'See, Sunny Gables Hotel. It's okay. And the lady don't charge overmuch. You just have to smile at her.'
'A good Christian action,' suggested Zaharran.
'In her case no. Her name's Mrs Nissenbaum. You'll have to get your religions straightened out if you're considering moving in there.'
Zaharran tried to look as if the idea had never occurred to him.
'You think there might be a room?' he asked, thrusting forward eagerly. 'And the rent not too high?'
'Come along with me,' Bruce offered cheerfully. 'I can fix it for you, George.'
They shook hands solemnly and Bruce picked up the older man's suitcase and turned towards Sunny Gables. The wig slipped spectacularly over Zaharran's forehead and he pushed it back impatiently. It stuck out of centre. He did not care. He was always grateful if someone did his work for him. He stepped out heavily alongside Bruce.
"Where you from?' asked the young man. 'Where did you come from to go south?'
'Savannah,' replied Zaharran who had once been to Savannah. 'I been there for a couple of years. That's north from here, you know.'
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'Sure,' nodded Bruce, thinking there was nothing strange in the remark. 'Generally speaking if you're heading south it's the north you come from. That's nearly always the case.'
The logic caused Zaharran's wig to slide again as he raised his bearish eyebrows. He moved it carefully this time to a safer location on his head and looked speculatively ahead as they crossed Ocean Drive. On the outside terrace of Sunny Gables sat a line of old folk, looking at the world like a jury, set eyes, set faces, apart from small movements of the jaw. There was not much movement or conversation, although one lady did rise to brush a fly from a potted plant. She knocked at it seven or eight times with a battered magazine as though it were a locust. The insect escaped but the plant was destroyed by the onslaught. She stared at it in dismay and tried to prop up the broken stems and leaves only to see them flop hopelessly again. She shrugged and manoeuvred the plant pot behind some others.
The faces in the chairs viewed Bruce's approach with a suitcase and a prospective guest with mixed reactions. 'No room,' croaked one man glaring at the following Zaharran like one bull seal objecting to the approach of another to his harem. 'All sold out. Full up.'
'There's room,' argued a lady next to him, smiling beguilingly at Zaharran.
'Yes, there's room,' echoed two others. 'Plenty of room.' They were visibly cheered by the advent of a new male.
Bruce paused at the top of the short flight of steps which led to the hotel. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, setting the suitcase down on the stone. It had only just lasted the journey. 'This is George, from Savannah. He was heading south.'
'Then why don't he keep going?' asked the disgruntled man. 'There's no room. Just keep moving.'
'There's room,' snarled the grey lady at his elbow. 'You know darn well there's room. You're just jealous because he's ten years younger than you.'
'Hah!' snorted the man. 'His wig's ten years older. Hah!'
Bruce jerked his head towards the door and Zaharran walked after him towards the hotel lobby, raising his wig carefully as he departed from the terrace, an action which
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brought hoots of appreciation from the old ladies and further grumbles from the man. 'In the old days, I'd have beaten that guy to a pulp,' the man said, his trembling hands clutching his walking stick. But the fury passed quickly. He sat back and the dying sun touched his face and soon he was drifting into the sleep which occupied so much of his days and nights.
Lou Yen Lew's is a noted Kosher Chinese Restaurant on Washington Avenue, South Miami Beach. It is an ornate place, like a prayer house with cooking smells, with pictures of the Great Wall, Shanghai Harbour and former President Nixon on the walls, and ventilated by great sweeping old ceiling fans.
Some of the more well-off people eat there and others make it a place for commemorations and celebrations. One Jewish widow went there every year for ten years to mark the anniversary of her husband's death and every time wept copiously into her Kosher wun tun soup. The staff, from Cochin China, grew to know the date and placed a pile of clean napkins on the table, a kindly gesture typical of the Chinese Jew. In the eleventh year the widow did not arrive and they knew that she had gone to join her husband and would cry no more. It was just one of the small dramas that are to be found every day on South Miami Beach.
Sidewalk Joe and some of his acquaintances used to visit Lou Yen Lew's every Monday night for other reasons.
There would be eight or ten participants around the table. They would eat first, simply, cheaply and late, and then, when the other customers had gone from the restaurant and a look-out had been placed on the door, they would get down to the true business of the evening.
Each table was equipped with a turntable upon which were placed the various Chinese dishes. It was revolved by hand during the meal. But once the eating was finished this circulating top became the sort of gambling machine frowned on by the Miami authorities.
A simple arrow - usually a six inch nail - was placed on the table with the pointed end touching the rim. Bets were placed at the centre and the wheel was then spun.
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Around the table the gamblers watched its whirl and the winner, who found the nail pointing at his chest at the end of the spin, would collect sometimes as much as ten dollars.
The sessions, like all gaming sequences, were performed with a seriousness bordering on the grim. The lights in the restaurant were diminished and the spinning wheel illuminated by a single beam which made the six inch nail shine like the blade of a silver sword. The faces all around the circle were set, the shadows trapped in the creases of the skin, and even the winner, by some unwritten but acknowledged rule, was only permitted to smile seriously.
On the day after the arrival at South Miami Beach of George Zaharran, Loose Bruce had sought out Sidewalk Joe in his daytime pitch by Ocean Drive where he played in the aged men's poker school and asked his permission to take his new friend to the secret wheel of fortune at Lou Yen Lew's. Zaharran hovered like a large shadow beneath a sea-grape tree some distance away and he nodded a grim greeting when he saw Sidewalk Joe turn his head towards him.
'Has the guy got any real dough?' asked Sidewalk, turning back to Bruce. 'I don't care to play for pennies.' He looked down at the paltry stakes of his poker school. 'I have to, but I don't care for it'
'He's got a few bucks,' Bruce assured him. 'He's played at games in Savannah.'
'He ain't going to sing about it?' asked Joe doubtfully. He took another glance at the big, waiting figure beneath the branches. 'It's something we don't want any songs about.'
'Sure, I understand that,' said Bruce. 'He's to be trusted, Joe, I know he is. He's moved into the Sunny Gables. He's looking for some action at the table.' He leaned closer to Joe's old jagged ear. 'Ossie thinks maybe he could be some help with our other operation.'
Joe looked at him sharply. Throughout the conversation he had been dealing the cards with expert off-hand swiftness. His eyes reverted to the table. Bruce bent nearer and reassured him. 'Nobody's told him. Jesus, do you think we'd tell anybody! It's just that he might be useful. He's that sort of guy.'
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'Bring him,' said Sidewalk out of the comer of his mouth, in the traditional gangster manner. 'Tonight. Mind he don't forget his dough. Or his tongue. Okay?'
'Okay, Sidewalk. Thanks.'
Joe was already pushing up the bets a quarter a time. Bruce saw that he had two kings, a queen and two aces and he'd only picked up one card. He went back to George, nodding the affirmative as he went. Zaharran smiled.
That night in Lou Yen Lew's the table was spinning. It was not the smooth revolution of the genuine gaming wheel, for there were little undulations and slower and faster places on the circular jogging journey of the Chinese roundabout and thus there were seats at the edge of the board which were more popular than others because of the increased odds in the pointing nail stopping there. So lots were drawn for the places at the table and it was a rule when, very rarely, a trusted newcomer was introduced, that he had to sit at the chair where the wheel was known to travel by with the most speed. That seat was left for Zaharran.
Loose Bruce introduced George around the table. Sidewalk, in grey waistcoated suit and mended shirt, inquired, during the interval in the gam
e: 'And do you have another name to go with George, mister?'
'Seltzer,' replied Zaharran blandly. 'Like Alka Seltzer. That fizzy stuff.'
Nobody said anything. The wheel had begun to spin. Given a firm push the wheel would travel around for a minute or so before coming to its hesitant stop. The house was a big one for that school, a dollar a bet. The Chinese waiters, drawn by their inborn fascination for gambling, crowded at the back of the chairs. Often they split a fifty-fifty bet with the player sitting nearest to them.
Zaharran's head could descend into his body on occasions, in the manner of a ponderous, half-withdrawn turtle. It was almost as if its weight was too much for. the neck, which contracted in coils to accommodate it.
Now from its low position it moved infinitesimally from side to side, the eyes following the pointing curved journey
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of the nail but at the same time taking in the fixed faces around the rim of the table. Sitting immediately opposite was Ari the Greek, his nose making little pushing movements to urge the wheel. It was a nose like an extra hand. Gabby was to Ari's left. Zaharran noted her animated beauty appreciatively. Ossie was next to Gabby, his strong face watching the spin intently, his tough grey hair scattered untidily across his forehead. Bruce sat next to him, the sunburned expression full of naive hope and the eyes innocently expectant. Zaharran took in Ossie and Bruce. Considered them carefully. He wondered which one slept with the girl.
There were other players but, unless Zaharran's policeman's instinct was awry, they were not the people he sought. They were old men with gnarled hands and dulled eyes. But at the far side, in the best seat, suspiciously watching even the Miami fly that alighted for a brief ride on the table, was Sidewalk. Zaharran knew a genuine, old New York gangster when he saw one.
The table slowed as though it had become weary performing for them. Zaharran saw the eyes of Sidewalk and Ari rise to him even before it had commenced its final three circuits, soon to be joined by the eyes of the other players as it slowed obediently and the nail came to rest pointing directly at Zaharran's breastbone. He reached out without hurry and took the money.
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