I played around with it awhile, trying to minimize her role. Supposing, I asked myself, I discount Rakoubian's assignment of the blame? Even then, if I believed the whole scheme had been his and she'd been only his confederate-even then, because of its awful logic, she'd still helped to set me up and throw me to the wolves.
Well, I didn't care about Rakoubian anymore. Or Mrs. Z. Or Arnold Darling-I didn't care whether he'd gotten carried away with Sonya, or what kind of a perverted sexual monster he might be. All I could think about was Kim, and the rage I felt against her. Better that she'd been just a call girl; at least there was a particle of degraded honor in that. I could find no merit in her having been a member of a kinky performance group.
was this woman whom I had loved and held and kissed-was she really so cold, false, cruel and corrupt? Had I really been so unimportant, so insignificant in her life? Had she really held me in such contempt?
3
The following morning at La Guardia airport, I stopped to call Sal Scotto from a phone booth.
"Where you been?" he asked.
"Trying to get hold of you.
"I got your messages," I said, "but I've been out of town. "
"We need to talk."
"That's why I'm calling. I'm at the airport, about to leave again."
He hesitated.
"Don't think you should leave just now, Geoffrey. Dave and me, we need clarification on a couple things."
"Like what?"
"That super over in Devereux's building-we've been looking into him. There're a few little items that don't quite add up."
"Forget about him."
"What do you mean 'forget about him'? You're the one steered us to him in the first place."
"I was wrong. He didn't do it."
"How do you know that?" He paused again.
"If you do know something, Geoffrey, you'd better tell me right now. Way I've gone out on a limb for you, wouldn't want to think you're jerking me around."
"You didn't go out on a limb for me, Sal. My life was threatened. I asked you for protection and you refused."
"Protection! That's in the movies! I did everything I could.
"Doesn't matter. Forget it. When and if I have something to tell, I'll tell you, okay? Meantime, my regards to your charming partner. 'Bye, Sal."
"Hey! Don't hang up…… He was still sputtering when I did.
It's a three-hour flight from New York to Miami. Any month between December and March is a good time to go, and October and May can be okay too if you're not a nervous sweaty type and don't like to walk too fast.
But if you make the trip when I did, on the last day of August, and arrive a little after noon on what the natives tell you is the hottest day of the year, and if you haven't lived all that perfect a life anyway, and it's occurred to you you may deserve a little stint in purgatory for your sins, you will, upon arrival, have the opportunity to know just how hot the furnaces of hell are going to be.
Actually at first it didn't seem so bad. I stepped off my air-conditioned plane into an enormous air-conditioned airport full of congenial happy people, most of whom were speaking Spanish. From there I took an air-conditioned minibus to the parking lot of the car rental company of my choice, and there transferred into my rented airconditioned car.
It was the few moments in between when I was in the open air that I'll remember all my life. I'm talking about a dank humid ovenhot heat that hits you like a fist. I've photographed in the tropics, been baked and broiled and smelled the smells, but I never experienced such a scalding hotness as I did that August day. It was composed of torrid wind, coming off the Everglades, tainted with decay, then made noxious by aircraft and automobile fumes.
And I was about to drive a hundred sixty miles deeper into the fire. In retrospect, I'm glad I did. It would have been too simple to take the plane. It wasn't that the drive to Key West was all that difficult-I was one of very few maniacs braving the road that sweltering August afternoon. But those three and a half hours on the highway gave me a chance to rest and think, and also a sense of the distance I had to go. If Key West is, as they say, "the end of the line," then it may be necessary to literally travel a little of that line in order to fully appreciate the meaning of being at its end.
The turnpike led me through the southern suburbs of Miami, then on to the fringes of Everglades National Park. The divided highway ended at Florida City, and from there on it was one long commercial strip of Long John Silver's, Captain Bob's, Bojangles, boat rental agencies and live-bait shops,
Once on the Keys I started to move: Key Largo, Islamorada, Long Key, Conch key, Grassy Key, Boot Key, and then the interminable Marathon, after which the honky-tonk gave way to the empty road, an asphalt ribbon crossing the islands, rolling across the bridges. There was hardly another car in sight.
My eyes began to smart as I drove into the sun. Colors were bleached to tones. The roots of the little mangrove islands looked like snakes poised to strike, and the water off the reef took on the flat purple-gray color of a bruise.
A pickup truck passed, going ninety-five. There was a rifle in the window rack, and two shirtless men in back with ragged beards and billed fishing caps, sipping beer from the can. they gave me a sinister wave, a silent greeting that said, We'll be seem' you later, hub, and, when we do, don't mess with us. Then they were gone, and ahead there was only the empty road again, the black baked-out ribbon, rolling south toward heat and emptiness.
Big Pine Key. Ramrod. Sugarloaf. Torch. The scrubencrusted islands called Saddlebunch. Then Boca Chica and Stock Island, a huge automobile graveyard, and thenfinally and at last-Key West.
At first it didn't look like any kind of paradise I had ever seen. There were gas stations and fast-food joints and a couple of shopping malls and an enormous flatroofed Sears. But when I got off the highway and drove deeper into town, a breeze blew forth, the sky began to darken, and I found myself in another world.
There was a special texture to the quiet shady streets, lined with old wooden buildings-shacks, houses, mansions all mixed together, some rotting, others superbly restored. Magnificent tropical plantings too; I counted banyans, jacarandas, sapodillas and palms, hibiscus, oleander and fountains of bougainvillaea pouring off bal ies. And surrounding everything was a beguiling scent,
warm sweet aroma of night-blooming flowers.
I wound my way through this section (which, I rned from my map, was called Old Town), I began to ecompress. I passed a young black girl skipping rope, a group of laughing Cubans clustered on a veranda playing cards. And then I spotted a truly beautiful woman of a certain age, sitting alone on a second-story balcony. I slowed my car, our eyes met, then, slowly, she smiled at me and waved.
I checked into a motel called the Spanish Moss, a little shabby, but a veritable Ritz Carlton compared with my lodgings in Cleveland. Then I took a walk.
I wanted to get a feel for the place, and so headed for the main street, Duval, to join the throngs. Here I merged with sailors, gay couples, bikini-clad adolescents carrying fishing poles, all headed toward Mallory Pier for the famous ritual of Key West-bearing witness to the sunset.
The pier was crowded, with circles formed around various human and animal acts. There was a juggler, and a jazz combo and a bagpipe player. There was a lady hawking cookies, and a sinewy youth, stripped to the waist, cracking open coconuts. I also saw examples of a type I hadn't seen in years: tall, thin stooped young men with gentle eyes and wispy beards, escorting stout young women, in tie-dyed clothes, with waist-length tresses and beauteous smiles.
There were whistles and cheers as the sun sank into the Gulf, and then the mob broke up. I was exhausted. In thirty-six hours I'd traveled between four cities, broken into a house, terrorized a man, and had learned crushing things about the woman I had loved. And so, even though it was only 9:00 P.m., I ate a quick dinner at a cheap Cuban restaurant, then went to bed.
I woke ten hours later, refreshed and eager to stalk my prey. On my way to m
y car, I ran into my motel-room neighbors, a friendly retired couple from Arizona with Mount Rushmore faces, struggling with two odd-looking machines.
I gave them a hand. The machines were metal detec tors, which they were going to use to scour the beach for coins and rings. After I helped them load the contraptions into their car, the woman took hold of my hands.
"Thank you and God bless you, son," she said.
"May you have good luck with your quest here too."
The Key West Post Office, on Whitehead Street, is a modern building with a normal enclosed section, and also a long grilled-in open-air arcade. It is in this later portion that the P.O. boxes are situated, in easy view of the parking lot. The only trouble is that occupation of spaces in the lot is limited to fifteen minutes.
I found Kim's box and peeked inside. Nothing there. I certainly didn't expect to find it loaded with mail; she was in hiding, after all. But if Grace Amos was the only person who knew where she was, and if she and Grace spoke regularly on the phone, it could be as long as a week before she showed up to check her box. Could I mount a watch that long?
I had no alternative. Though I knew she was a waitress, it would be madness to track her down aggressively. The moment I started asking questions she'd hear about it, get spooked and run.
The hours for the arcade were 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.m., but since I couldn't possibly maintain a twelve-hour-aday surveillance, I needed a control for the times I wouldn't be there.
I entered the Post Office, bought a prestamped envelope, then returned to the arcade and started riffling through the contents of a trash container. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for, a discarded advertising flyer. I folded it neatly, sealed it inside the envelope, wrote "Boxholder" and Kim's box number on the front, then pushed the letter through the slot for local mail.
Once that envelope was in her box, I could check on it whenever I renewed my watch. If it was gone, or in an altered position, I'd know she'd been there while I was away.
That first morning I established my routine. I found a parking space on Whitehead, with a sight line to the arcade. But since the boxes were too far away to observe with the naked eye, I mounted a 135mm. telephoto on my Leica and used it as a telescope.
Even in the best cop movies I've yet to hear a character adequately describe how tough it is to man a stakeout. It's not just a. question of physical discomfort, though being cooped up in a car is excruciating enough. For me the most difficult part was the strain of keeping alert while watching a specific spot for hours at a time.
I had to constantly fight off the wanderings of my mind. I had to avoid moving around too much lest Kim appear from an unexpected direction, notice me and run. I dared not play the radio too long, lest I run down the battery, and although Key West in late summer is very hot, if I ran the engine, in order to run the air conditioning, I also ran the risk of running out of gas.
I coped by varying my position from time to time, and rationing myself to ten minutes of radio and air conditioning an hour. I also ate large quantities of unhealthy food, with the result that the backseat of my car was soon covered with crumpled bags. I tried every kind of crisp_ and salty snack, even purchasing a twenty-bag sampler pack-Corn Twists, Cheese Doodles, nacho and plantain chips, and, of course, plain old potato chips. I tried them "Hawaiian style…… kettlecrisped," "thick cut…… wavy…… with 'tater skins," and fried in every sort of oil. It was the need for things that were starchy, salty and crunchy to keep my concentration sharp.
I had another problem too: sitting in a parked car all day would sooner or later attract attention. All I needed was for some Post Office employee to ask, "Why's this guy waiting around out front? Better call the cops."
By the end of my first day of surveillance, I had an upset stomach. I also dozed off twice. My back was sore and my muscles ached, but my control envelope was now safely in Kim's box.
The second day was equally painful, even though I raised my ration of radio and lowered my input of chips. The third day was so miserable I spent a good part of it wondering if I'd do better canvassing restaurants. I also spent some time thinking about how lucky I'd been in Cleveland, an en, with despicable self-pity, about how my good luck never seemed to hold.
It was just before noon, the fourth day of the stakeout, when I finally caught sight of her, and then it was only by a fluke.
I had turned my attention away from the arcade for a moment when I caught a glimpse of someone familiar in my rearview mirror. It was a young woman riding a bicycle up Whitehead Street in the direction of the Southernmost Point.
A quiver of excitement ran through me, and also the thought that perhaps my luck still had a way to run.
I was afraid to follow her by car; I had seen enough of Key West to know there were numerous one-way streets and impassable narrow lanes. So I grabbed up my camera bag and started after her on foot.
At first I thought I'd lost her. I was devastated. But then I saw her standing astride her bike, talking to another girl on the sidewalk in front of the Green Parrot Bar.
I took a position in front of a motorcycle store across the street, where I could see them reflected in the plate glass. When I was sure they were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice, I turned and raised my camera to take a closer look.
No mistake. It was Kim. The wet place where my shirt stuck to my back suddenly felt cold. That telephoto brought her close, right against my eye. I tripped the shutter out of sheer perversity.
A funny thing about a single lens reflex camera: when you use it to watch a person, there's a certain distancing, no matter how powerful your lens. It has to do with the complex system of mirrors, the pentaprism, that stands between the subject and your eye. For this reason many photographers prefer a range-finder camera; they feel the viewing is more sensitive because it's more direct. But I have always liked the distancing makes me feel safer and helps me cast a colder eye.
After I took that picture of Kim, my eye went very cold indeed. I was no longer just following her on the street; I was a photographer using my camera to inspect.
I focused on her hair. It looked different from when I'd seen her last. She'd cut off a lot of it, and it was lighter, streaked by the summer Florida sun.
I tilted down to her chest: her breasts heaved beneath a dazzling white T-shirt with the words "Key West" emblazoned on the front. I tilted further: she wore matching cotton shorts. Her white clothes made brilliant contrast with her tanned skin. With my camera I caressed her bare legs and thighs. She looked good. But she'd betrayed me, suckered me. I'd been her-"fall guy," her "cover photographer." Yet, for all of that, I longed to reach out to her and touch. . . .
The street conversation was over. The other girl went off. Kim started walking her bike along Southard toward Duval.
I followed. Would she turn around? If she did I'd raise my camera and use it as a shield. I almost smiled when I thought of that; that was what Rakoubian had done when he'd stalked us in New York.
On Duval she reversed direction, headed north. I let people pass, so there were bodies between us, then I too joined the parade.
She was moving less quickly now, slowed down by the crowds. I got her nicely framed between two young men in matching white tank tops. Then we marched along united for a block, she, the guys and I in lockstep, fifteen feet apart.
As I followed her I felt my excitement grow. Stalking Grace in downtown Cleveland-that had been cool, smart, passionless. This was something else.
I felt the bloodiust of a hunter on the track of a rare, seductive game. to follow or to kill-the choice was mine. That hunter's power made me heady; it also reactivated the hibernating photojournalist inside. As we walked I twisted the telephoto off my Leica, mounted on a 35mm. Elmarit, then raised it to my eye.
Even as I followed I wanted to take a shot at her. But when I looked through the viewfinder, all I could see were the backs of the two guys in front. The place between them where she'd been was empty. My prey
had disappeared. It was twenty minutes before I gave up my search for her. Thinking she might have turned into a shop, I checked all the stores on the block. But of course you don't walk into a store with a bicycle, and her bike wasn't parked anywhere around.
There was a little alley she might have used; it was for pedestrians, but she could have ridden through. Or perhaps, in the instant when I'd looked away, she'd spotted me, mounted her bike, turned at the next corner and driven off.
All that seemed so unlikely that I began to doubt myself. Had I really seen her? Had she really been walking just ahead? Or had I gone delusional? Had the heat and all the salty starchy food clouded my brain?
I was standing on the sidewalk, wondering what to do, when suddenly I sensed a presence just behind. I trembled as I felt her breath upon my ear.
"Hello, Geoffrey," she whispered.
She said I should come with her, that she knew a quiet bar where we could talk. And so we walked in silent tension to the end of Duval, all my bitterness held tight inside.
She guided me into the compound of the Pier House hotel, where, the moment we entered, we were cut off from the rowdiness of the street. But the quiet there only added to my stress. By the time we reached a proper little bar called the Chart Room I felt I was about to burst.
Kim ordered a Bloody Mary. I ordered a Perrier. The waiter went away, and then our eyes finally met.
She peered at me.
"You look fit, Geoffrey."
"Do I? I'm not feeling very fit."
She was studying me the way one might study someone one had wounded, to measure how serious the injury was.
"No," she said, "I don't imagine you are."
"You never said good-bye."
"Oh, God!" She shook her head.
"Didn't you owe me that?"
"I'm sure I did," she said gently.
"I'm sure I owed you a lot of things."
The waiter brought our drinks. She smiled at him.
"I hope this isn't going to be one of those conversations, Geoffrey.
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