Shoot the Money

by Chris Wiltz

  “Like your house? Jimmy, I love your house but it is simply not real to me. The way my life is right now? When I moved into Karen’s apartment I thought I landed in the lap of luxury. This is not real, you know?”

  He turned away to head out of the room but not before she caught the smile. Some kind of secret smile.

  A fresh drink later they were in the summer house, well appointed, with its own bar and small kitchen, a lazy ceiling fan turning above them. It wasn’t twilight yet but the light was soft because of the trees, all the dark foliage. Raynie kicked off her high-heeled sandals and fell back into a deep-cushioned rattan chair, her feet on a matching ottoman, and thought she could go to sleep, listening to Jimmy drone on about being in the oil service business and how he had to entertain a lot.

  “And that’s where you come in.”

  Raynie shimmied herself straighter in the chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m getting tired of doing it all by myself.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Raynie, darling, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  He had his head tilted toward her. One eye seemed to be slanted down yet his smile was higher on that side. It was weird. Raynie shook her head so she’d stop seeing his face like that.

  “Yes. You said something about being in business and having to entertain a lot.”

  He straightened himself, which put his face into the off-balance Raynie was used to.

  “Indeed. The two often seem as one. Specifically, though, I’m tired of doing the entertaining by myself. And so I’m thinking that you could put your considerable skills as a hostess to work right here at my humble abode.”

  Raynie laughed. “Humble abode.”

  Jimmy looked pleased that he’d made her laugh. “You could help me host my dinners, sometimes at home, sometimes at restaurants, and the large parties I throw here every three months or so…I have to have the swells in, you know—all those rich, straight-laced kooks I tell you stories about. You’ve met a few. Actually, within their own little private community they can be quite entertaining with their various scandals and mismaneuvers, misalliances...”

  “So what are you saying? It would be a job? I mean, would it be part time and I’d keep my job at the restaurant?”

  “Sweet Raynie, you are so charming, so fresh, so unassuming, I often think that meeting you has been has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. No, darling girl, a job is not at all what I have in mind. I’m asking you to marry me, Raynie.”

  Raynie stared at him and he had to admire that she had kept a straight face. She did not laugh or seem shocked but rather locked into some variety of thought. He couldn’t wait to hear what she would say. He lifted his eyebrows, gave a small thrust of his head toward her.

  Finally, she spoke. “Jimmy, this is the strangest marriage proposal I’ve ever had.”

  “That pleases me greatly.”

  “I’ve only had one other…”

  “But I’m sure you’ll have at least a few more. After all, I’m old.”

  “I guess…”

  “And rich.”

  “Yes you are, Jimmy. Very rich. Are you sure you just don’t need a personal assistant, a highly paid personal assistant?”

  He threw his head back and laughed until Raynie saw a tear roll from the corner of his left eye.

  “It wasn’t that funny. I didn’t really mean it as funny…”

  “Oh, but Raynie,” he said, wiping at the tear, thinking how beautiful she looked in the near twilight, how perfectly she fit here in his beautiful house, “that’s what I mean about your charm. However, I’m quite sure that it is a wife, not a personal assistant, I want. It’s not a job, although…” he paused, considering “…you could, if it pleased you, think of it as a sort of business proposition.”

  “I could?”

  “You could if you considered it a definite step up from working in a restaurant or a lifestyle that includes cooking frog legs every night, which you’d never even remotely have to think about doing again in your entire life. You see, I’ve given this a great deal of thought…”

  ***

  Karen sat rapt as Pascal retold the story of Avery’s abuse at the hands of his enemies. She never figured she would know what had happened when Avery woke up; she would have liked it better if he’d been rousted by police and arrested for being a pervert. The way Pascal told it, she didn’t know if she was supposed to be amused or outraged.

  She decided on blunt curiosity. “Well, did he rape somebody?”

  “He says not. He says he has enemies.”

  “I don’t guess he told you what his enemies might have against him?”

  “No, but I thought he might have told you or that you might know.” What he said, the way his Daniel Craig blue eyes nailed her, he won on blunt curiosity.

  She put her hand up near her throat. “I—why would you think either of those might be possible?”

  “You were the bartender last night, right?”

  “One of them.”

  “The only woman.”

  She nodded.

  “Avery said the woman bartender was interested in him.”

  She thought later that aghast was probably the only word that fit what her face must have looked like. “Why would he think that?”

  Pascal’s shoulders moved, barely suggesting a shrug. “Didn’t you talk to him?”

  “I don’t think I did. I didn’t get him his first beer. When he asked for the second, I nodded and brought it to him.”

  “Hm, only two beers? Didn’t you wonder why he was so drunk?”

  “I didn’t give it a thought. He might have stopped at every bar on the block before he got to us.”

  “True.”

  She was more than uncomfortable, maybe intimidated, but the last thing she wanted to do was show him that by being angry or defensive. “What are you trying to say here?” Again, curious.

  “Nothing. I’d just like to know.”

  Karen’s cell rang. She didn’t move to get it.

  “Go ahead,” Pascal said with his chin lifting toward her purse.

  She reached for it, saw it was Luc, put it on silent and stowed it.

  “Did Avery leave with Jack O’Leary?”

  “Jack O’Leary…”

  “You must know him. Everyone around here knows Jack. You must if you work at La Costa.”

  “Sure, I know him. I think he left with Avery. A few people seemed to leave with him.”

  “He walked out? On his own?”

  “You’re doing that thing again, you know, ‘barking out multiple questions.’ I think I’m being cross examined and I’m wondering why you’re doing that.”

  “Because you were there.”

  “I was but so were a lot of people who were all crowded around the bar wanting drinks.”

  “So are you going to tell me if Avery walked out on his own two feet or if he had to be carried out—or what?”

  She was tempted, no, itching to tell him Buddha had carried Avery out like a sack of flour, but if she did she’d laugh and besides, she’d decided not to give him much information. “Are you going to accept that I don’t know?”

  He sat looking at her. “I guess I have to. Maybe you’d like to know that the green stuff they put all over him? It’s going to take a while for him to get it out of his pores. The whole time he was telling me about what happened his nose was glowing green.”

  Karen couldn’t contain it any longer; she laughed. “I’m so sorry. Please tell me you meant that to be funny.”

  “I did. I thought you’d been having trouble keeping a straight face for a while.”

  “I am sorry. It was the way you told it.”

  They both laughed. It felt good to laugh with him, felt good to be with him even though she knew he considered her a suspect in his brother’s humiliation. She wasn’t sure he cared; she wouldn’t bet on it either way. He was open, talking almost intimately. If she knew anything ab
out body language he was also closed and she would bet he didn’t or couldn’t let anybody all the way in. For fucksake—why did that make him so attractive? More to the point, why did it make her want to get in?

  He suggested they have dinner. He said he’d get one of the wait staff to cover while they were gone.

  They walked around the corner to K-Paul’s. Once they were settled upstairs in a booth Karen asked him what he meant about Johnpier wanting Raynie for himself.

  “I mean,” Pascal said holding up a crab finger, “he wants to marry her.”

  “Marry her!”

  He looked around as though people were staring at her. “He’s in love. People in love, they want to get married. So I’m told.”

  “Oh, not you.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been in love for longer than…” he looked up, calculating “…six months.”

  “Yeah, that’s one of those magic numbers. The one that shakes me up is seven years. Imagine, all that time, then you find out you can’t stand each other.”

  He grimaced. “That’s tough.”

  Even when he grimaced he was the best looking man she’d ever gone out with, not that they were going out exactly, not that she really wanted to think about that…

  “Yeah. But getting back to Johnpier, isn’t he worried about Raynie being so much younger than he is? In his shoes, I’d be worried that six months might be pushing it.”

  Pascal slid the meat off another crab finger. “I don’t think he’s worried at all.”

  “Why not, if he’s in love? It would be safer if he just trotted around with her on his arm or…” she speared a shrimp but halted the fork on its way to her mouth “…if he just screwed her once in a while. If she’d let him.”

  “That’s cutting to the chase. Would she?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure she’s thought about him that way, but I don’t know how she thinks. I haven’t known her very long.”

  He reached for his glass of wine. “Did you advertise for a roommate?”

  He had this way of asking a question that sounded as though he already knew the answer. He kept moving to the edge of everything she didn’t want him to know. Karen wondered if she was being paranoid.

  “Not exactly. That’s another story…”

  He stopped eating and turned to face her. “I get the feeling that everything’s a story with you. I have to get back soon. Are you working tomorrow night?”

  It fell right out of her mouth: “Not any more.”

  He was amused. “Don’t play with me. You weren’t working anyway, were you?”

  Twenty-one

  Jack had taken the brushed-aluminum brief case full of money to Solo’s hotel room, figuring that would be the last of his money problems with Solo. Maybe they’d find a little more action in New Orleans or maybe Solo would head back to Miami. Jack might go with him or he might stick around to see if he and Karen could make another go of it. He had walked through the Quarter swinging the brief case and whistling, one hand on Avery’s gun, which he carried in the pocket of his sports coat. He wasn’t worried; he’d sort it all out; he always did. Whatever he decided, life was his own private adventure.

  The air conditioning felt good after his twelve block walk. He took the elevator to Solo’s suite at the Chateau Sonesta. Ernesto opened the door.

  Jack held up the silver-colored case. “Look what I have for the boss, ’Nesto.”

  Ernesto didn’t so much as crack a smile. He held the door open. Jack was taking off his coat when Solo came through the bedroom door, wearing only pajama bottoms, his satiny chest bare except for his cross.

  “Don’ bother with that, Jack.” Solo pointed at the coat, circling his finger. “You won’ be staying long.”

  “Where’s that famous Cuban hospitality, Solo? I just brought you a shitload of money.” Jack grinned and slid the sports coat off his arm.

  “I am tired, Jack. It has been a disturbing night.”

  “But it all worked out. Don’t I always work it out, Solo? You’re just a little short in the faith department, that’s all. Open it up. Let’s see how much we’ve got here.”

  “Surely you already know this, Jack.”

  Jack lifted his arms, let them fall back with a slap against his upper thighs. He said, “How about a seat, Jack? Would you like a drink?” Jack looked around the plush living room. “Nice place you got here. I wouldn’t mind staying for a while.” He gestured toward the brief case on the coffee table. “All I did was open it up to see if the money was in there then I called you.” He got a devilish look on his face. “Wasn’t that the right thing to do, Solo? Should I have taken a dip first? Come on, hombre, cut me some slack here. Avery was a pain in the ass. Anyway, what about my cut? I set the whole thing up, the boathouse, the fish…”

  “Your cut? I believe you—cómo se dice?—ah, forfeit your cut when you leave Miami with my money.”

  “Maybe so but I figure I’m good for a finder’s fee. At. The. Least.”

  “Why do you figure that? I believe you have already dipped, as you call it. When you return the rest of the money, I will consider your finder fee.”

  “Jesu Christo, Solo, I’m broke. I need a hotel room. What am I supposed to use, my charm and good looks? Karen’s got the money. She’s got it locked up in a bank box cuz I searched every nook and cranny in her place and it ain’t there.”

  Solo shrugged. He walked around the coffee table and sat on the sofa, weary. “Perhaps you can find a way to make her give it to you, Jack. You are very imaginative, I believe. But if not, I’m sure ‘Nesto can get her to tell me then I tell him to cut both your tongues out.”

  Jack laughed nervously. “Solo, why can’t this money, much more than the other money—right?—square us up here?”

  “You ask, so I will tell you why I must have this money, Jack. I am going to invest in LaDonna’s movie. A quarter of a million.”

  “Holy shit, Solo. They need a quarter of a million to do a shitty little video of one woman talking? Man, I am in outer space here.”

  “I have other ideas about the movie. It will be much larger than…” he rolled his hand, searching for the name “…Ramon has envisioned. LaDonna and I have talked about it. It is what I am going to do.”

  Jack laughed, his conspiratorial laugh. “What, you bumped Ramon off his own movie? I always liked your style, Solo.”

  Solo did not answer.

  Jack paced in front of the coffee table. He glanced over at Ernesto who was standing sentry near the front door, his arms folded, his eyes glued on Jack. He stopped and turned to Solo. “I see you have a plan here, hombre. That’s good. I’ll help you any way I can. But how ’bout a coupla thou, you know, a little mad money. I’m not kidding—I’m broke.”

  Solo eyed Jack, considering. “’Nesto, give him a thousand. Work on Karen, Jack. She is a source of plenty for you. And don’ ask me for money again. Are we understood?”

  Ernesto, watching Jack as though he might at any moment go crazy on them, slid the case off the coffee table and took it over to a small desk where he opened it and counted out a thousand dollars.

  “Buenas noches, Jack,” Solo said and went off to the bedroom.

  Ernesto handed Jack the money then held the door open for him. Jack heard him hiss through his teeth as he passed.

  “Up yours, you spic goon,” he hissed back.

  Ernesto took a step toward him and Jack put his forearm up, holding against Ernesto’s big barrel chest. They stood that way, leaning into each other for a few moments then pushed off.

  Jack needed a drink. He walked the block to the Monteleone Hotel fast and went into the Carousel Bar. An old girlfriend was working the bar. That’s what Jack loved about this town. Everywhere you went, there was someone you knew. In no time at all Jack had a place to stay for the night. All he had to do was kill some time before the Carousel closed at midnight.

  ***

  As Karen walked down Royal Street after dinner with Pascal, she c
hecked voice mail but it was clear. No text message. Nothing. She realized she’d started it, not that she’d thought about starting anything, but Luc was keeping it going. She was sick of playing games with immature men, only now she had no idea what to say to him. Pascal had kissed her at the corner of Chartres and St. Louis and it had hit her in the knees. And that with no soul in the kiss, only a brief touching of their lips, his hand around her upper arm. He was a killer, no doubt about it, and she needed to jump off for some down time. She’d see Luc at work tomorrow.

  She turned the corner at St. Philip and saw the definition of the immature man leaning against her courtyard wall.

  “What does it take, Jack, a grenade?”

  “Look, I was calling you.” He held up a phone.

  “Calling ahead after you’re already here. That’s an improvement.”

  Karen got out her key. Before she could tell him to bounce he said, “Is the Cajun here?”

  “The Cajun?”

  “Your roommate.”

  “I’ve never thought of her as the Cajun.”

  “But she is. Is she here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Damn it, Jack, it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re not coming in.”

  “Got to, doll face. Something you need to know then I’m off.” He checked his bare wrist. “Come on, hurry up. I’m in a time bind here.”

  “For Christ sake.”

  They went into the living room. Jack craned his head around as if he couldn’t see the entire room from right where he was. “Good. Now listen. FYI. Solo says LaDonna is letting him buy into the movie, two hundred and fifty large.”

  “Why would she do that? Why would he do that?”

  “He’s got the hots for her; I don’t know what her motive is. He’s looking for your money to round out the figure. This may put the situation into urgent mode. I thought maybe you’d want to say something to LaDonna.” He scowled, an indication that he was thinking hard. “I might want to say something to Ramon.”

  “What do you need to say to Ramon?”

  “Sounds like he’s got it in mind to get rid of Ramon.”

  “What do you mean, get rid of?”