Green Ice (15 page)

It was something else they had in common.

Something else, she agreed.

He told her about his family in Key West, living in a mobile home.

“They probably like it,” she commented.

Wiley couldn’t believe that.

He also told her about Jennifer, not all the sordid details, just the sordid highlights.

At first he detected a hint of sympathy for Jennifer; that disappeared, however, when he related some of her tactics, her last-minute charge account binge, for one thing.

“Doesn’t sound to me as though you had a good enough lawyer. What did you say his name was?”

“Simon and Simon.”

“Simon-ese twins.”

Wiley laughed but was seriously regretting he hadn’t been able to settle with Jennifer. Leaving her empty-handed had backfired quickly. He wasn’t free.

“A married man,” Lillian said thoughtfully, “is about the only one of my absolutely inflexible rules I never break.” She turned onto her side, knees knifed up in a sleeping position, her back to Wiley.

He thought, twenty-five thousand—no, closer to forty counting attorneys’ fees and all—was what he needed to dispense with Jennifer. He’d get it. It had become essential that he get it. At the moment he was too tired to consider how.

He clicked off the light, plumped and positioned his pillow and fit himself snug, front to back, against Lillian.

His mind began shutting down for the night, except for one thought that refused to be put away. It insisted on being said.

“I love you, Lillian.”

Nothing from her, not even an
uh-huh
.

She was probably asleep.

11

Next morning, when Wiley was shaving with Lillian’s razor, it occurred to him that he might already have enough to pay off Jennifer. Possibly more than enough, depending on what the emeralds were worth. The emeralds that had gotten him into that Prentiss scrape in Las Hadas. No doubt those men had searched the suite for them. He’d left the chamois pouch on the bedside table but dropped the emeralds into a bottle of green crème de menthe at the bar. Perhaps a clever enough hiding place.

He figured if that emerald transaction was worth three million, those seven sample emeralds in the pouch had to be fairly valuable. Purely guessing, he thought eight thousand each.

Fifty-six thousand. Add on his twelve thousand cash hidden in the lamp base. Subtract forty for Jennifer. Left him a free man with twenty-eight thousand.

The prospect was so appealing he nicked himself shaving, just below his left earlobe. The sight of blood made him think of that he’d already shed. In a way he’d earned those goddamn emeralds.

Lillian was in the shower, which consisted of numerous separate sprays, including three that spouted from the floor. When she turned it off and stepped out, Wiley told her he had to return to Las Hadas.

“For what?” she asked.

“Can’t go around in those forever,” meaning the raw cotton
pantalones
crumpled like dirty laundry on the floor.

“I’ve already arranged for your things to be brought here.”

“When?”

“By tonight, they’ll be flown down.”

“What about my money?”

“That too.”

“Who’s bringing it?”

“Marianna.”

“A friend?”

“A sort of personal secretary. Actually I don’t give her much to do. She welcomed the responsibility.”

“Is she someplace we can reach her?”

“This very moment?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose we could radiophone the plane, but by now she may have already been there and gone.”

“I left something else in the room, something I forgot to mention.”

“Forgot?”

“Anyway, didn’t.”

“What?”

He told her, what and exactly where. The emeralds.

She chided him with a glance, then went into the bedroom to use the phone. Wiley remained in the bathroom and brushed his teeth, stopping every so often to overhear some of what she was saying. Evidently she got through, gave Marianna instructions regarding the emeralds.

Wiley felt good about it. He’d feel better when he had everything there.

“Meanwhile,” Lillian told him, “we’re going shopping.”

“I’ve nothing to wear.”

“That, darling, is the reason we’re going.”

“Can’t I just hang around like this until tonight?”

“I’m in a shopping mood,” she said. She was getting dressed, seemed to give little thought to what she chose to put on. Nevertheless, the result was perfectly fashionable. A beige tunic dress of wool crepe with an elongated coat; tied low, slightly blouson, a scarf of the same. She hid all her hair in a cloche and slipped on a pair of light-scaled Charles Jourdan shoes, also beige.

Wiley had never seen anyone become so chic so quickly. There he was, still standing in his altogether.

“Comb your hair,” she said. “I’ve got a coat for you.”

They took the limousine, a Daimler, because they would be needing room, Lillian said. The chauffeur’s name was Bryan. Good man. He didn’t even blink while holding the car door for Wiley, whose bare legs and bare feet were visible below the coat. It was a trenchcoat, much too large around and with not nearly long-enough sleeves. It had been left by someone, Lillian said. She honestly didn’t know who.

“No matter what, I’m not getting out of the car,” Wiley said.

“Thought you might want to stand around and flash.”

“Okay, pick me a corner.”

“What size are you?”

“That matters?”

“I mean in a suit, for instance.” She had out a pen and pad.

“I don’t want you to buy me any clothes.”

“I want to.”

“No.”

“You’re going to spoil my entire day.”

He didn’t want to make her unhappy, not for a second.

“I want to have lunch at Fouquet’s,” she said, “to show you off and everything.”

He could pay her back whatever she spent, he thought, so he told her, “Forty long.”

She jotted that down, along with all his other sizes and measurements. “Now we’re really getting intimate,” she said with a grin.

“One thing you missed.”

“What?”

“Which side I dress on.”

“I already knew.” She gave him a kiss so he wouldn’t think she was such a smartass.

Soon they were in the city’s Zona Rosa, near the Paseo de la Reforma. They double-parked on Amberes while she went into one of the shops along there.

Wiley felt restive, slouched down, shoved his hands in the coat pockets. In one he found a box of Dunhill cigarettes with three in it. He lighted up. It tasted good, though stale, because it was his first of the day. Usually by that time he’d finished off close to half a pack. It was foolish of her to believe she could get him to stop. Although, come to think of it, since the night before last he’d smoked only five, maybe six. He took two fast drags, deep ones, to make up for it some.

She came out to the car, threw a couple packages into the rear seat. “No fair peeking,” she said and was gone again, down the street.

Bryan cruised after her, double-parked while she went in various places all the way down Amberes and around Londres and Génova to Avenida Chapultepec. Each time she brought back more packages to the car. After two and a half hours, she got in, flopped into the plush seat and let out an exhausted sigh. So many packages by then, there was hardly any leg room.

Bryan drove around while Wiley dressed. Lillian indicated which packages he should open. He assumed the others contained things for herself.

For him she’d chosen a dark-gray vested suit of fine wool flannel, with a subtle pinstripe. The trousers were pleated and cuffed. Its label said Nino Cerruti. To go with it, a pure silk shirt of a creamy shade, hand-detailed, and a wide silk geometric-patterned necktie. Everything, including shoes and socks, co-ordinated and fit perfectly. It wasn’t easy for him to dress in the car, particularly to get his shirt tucked in so it felt neat, and he thought it only luck that he was able, first try, to knot the tie nicely without a mirror. She put the finishing touch on him by stuffing a blue silk square into his breast pocket, fussing with it.

She was pleased with his appearance.

They had a late lunch.

She passed him money for the bill under the table, and he didn’t mind because the circumstances were temporary. He’d even up with her that night.

It was nearly nightfall when they arrived home. Wiley had in mind going straight to bed for a while. But someone was waiting in the study.

Meno Argenti.

The heavyweight himself, looking casually meticulous as ever, curly hair and beard glistening. He gave Lillian cheek kisses and cooed a flattering hello.

She seemed glad to see him. For a moment she forgot to introduce Wiley.

“We met, I believe,” Argenti said during their handshake.

Wiley thought the man’s huge hand was in keeping with his power.

“I was here on business and decided I should surprise. I am not intruding?”

“’Course not,” Lillian said.

Why not the truth? Wiley thought. On second thought, maybe it was the truth.

“You’ll stay for dinner?” she asked.

“Better than that, I’m yours until tomorrow morning,” Argenti said. “I assumed you would want me in the same room as before, so I had my bags taken up.”

“Only till tomorrow morning?” Lillian seemed disappointed.

Argenti apologized. “As for my dinner, please, a salad of some sort. I am on a regime.”

“What a shame. I was going to have cook do up some of your favorite pastries.”

Same room as before, favorite pastries—Wiley felt like a second-string rookie.

They sat there in the study, Lillian on the leather-covered sofa, Argenti and Wiley in facing armchairs. There was an energetic blaze in the fireplace.

“You look well, Meno,” Lillian said.

“I conceal my pain.”

“Oh?”

“My longing for you. Like a clawing animal that runs through me.”

“That’s a new one,” she said, amused.

“It pleases you?”

“Well, your overheated-blood routine was getting passé.”

“My congenital disposition.”

“If you say.”

“My grandfather at ninety-seven was accused of violating the mayor’s daughter,” Argenti said. “He was acquitted because of his age.”

“And because he didn’t do it.”

“He most certainly did do it. Considered it a personal insult that anyone should believe otherwise.”

Argenti beamed. His teeth seemed extremely white and lethal.

Wiley decided it would be unwise to ever take the man lightly. He could probably live up to his boasts, a dangerous rival. And not only because he was worth millions.

Lillian wanted wine. She called a servant, ordered some white, Le Montrachet ’70.

Not quite good enough for Argenti. Besides, he was in the mood for a red. Did she have any Latour Pauillac ’70?

No.

Then a Margaux ’70, perhaps?

Perhaps.

Wiley, observing closely, believed he saw a flash of pique in Lillian’s eyes. She covered it quickly with congeniality.

The servant brought the wine. A bottle of Le Montrachet for Lillian and Wiley, and a bottle of Pommard ’69, nowhere near the quality of the reds Argenti had requested.

Argenti didn’t try to disguise his annoyance. He took a sip and put his glass down on a table in a manner that conveyed he’d never touch it again.

Lillian smiled, excused herself and left the room.

Argenti glanced around, at everything except Wiley. He asked, “What do you do, Mr. Wiley?”

Various lies came to mind, but Wiley told him, “This and that, here and there.”

“If you are looking for something, I can always use a good man.”

“How do you know I’m good?”

“You look it.”

That again, Wiley thought.

“Besides,” Argenti continued, “I am incredibly intuitive when it comes to judging a man. I am never wrong.”

“You just met me.”

“I am even better at first impressions.”

What, Wiley wondered, could be better than perfect?

“Anyway, my insight also tells me these times are bad for you. Am I correct?”

Wiley didn’t want to admit it. But he more or less did, by not denying it.

“I have a spot for you,” Argenti said.

“Doing what?”

“Traveling. You would be a sort of courier. Do you enjoy traveling?”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t be anyone’s messenger boy.”

“It would hardly be that, certainly not for a hundred thousand a year. Plus bonuses that would bring it up close to two hundred thousand.”

Argenti wasn’t serious, merely playing rich man, Wiley decided. No one would offer a stranger two hundred thousand a year.

“On top of that,” Argenti continued, “would be whatever you could steal from me. As much as double the amount.”

“What makes you assume I’d steal?”

“I would expect you to—to that extent.” Argenti stood abruptly. “I must piss,” he announced, as though he might honor Wiley by doing so then and there. He left the study.

Wiley went looking for Lillian, found her in her bedroom, lying on a slant board, with only bikini panties on.

“How’d you get along with Al Capone?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Lucky Luciano.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’m sorry I deserted you.” She did one situp and fell back. “I already did fifty,” she claimed. Her stomach was tight as a drumhead, reminding Wiley of the stomachs of girls in television commercials for exercise salons.

He unknotted his tie, slid it off, unbuttoned his shirt and vest. Sat on the edge of the bed.

“By the way,” she told him, “your room is now the first one down on the right.”

Because Argenti had taken over that room in the other wing, Wiley realized. It bothered him, but he reasoned that having the room right next to hers was better, anyway. He doubted he’d be using it much.

“Did What’s-her-name get back?” he asked.

“Who?”

“From Las Hadas.”

“Oh, Marianna. Yes.”

“She got everything?”

“Bungalow 114 was occupied by a fashion editor and her model friend. Marianna walked in on them. It was rather embarrassing.”

“But she did get my things?”