Jackie Brown (24 page)

Nicolet rubbed the bills between his fingers and handed the packet to Jackie. "There's coke dust on it. You feel it? Half the money in Florida, I think if you tested it you'd find dust."

Jackie fingered the bills. Ten thousand in her hand. She smiled, saying, "Are you tempted?"

Nicolet looked at her. "What, to put one of these in my pocket? If I did, I'd have to let you have one too, wouldn't I? Or we could take what we want, there's no receipt with it. Nobody knows how much is here but us." He took the packet from her and dropped it in the flight bag. "I've seen more money sitting on tables in dope houses, in cardboard boxes in property rooms. I've seen all kinds of dirty money lying around, and I've never been tempted to take any. How about you?"

Jackie said, "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Try to skim off Ordell?"

"Or me," Nicolet said. "Once I mark it, this fifty grand belongs to ATF."

"How would I take any of it," Jackie said, "if I'm being watched every second?"

"That's what I want you to understand, you'd be dumb to try. You put this fifty in your shopping bag, it's what I expect to find when I look in Sheronda's. You going with Saks bags again?"

"Macy's this time."

"Why?"

"Ask Ordell."

"I can hardly wait," Nicolet said.

What do you wear to walk off with a half million bucks? Go casual, with running shoes, or dress up? Max gave it some thought and put on his tan poplin suit with a blue shirt and navy tie. His instructions were to hang around the Anne Klein display on Macy's second level, women's clothes, and watch for Jackie to walk out of the fitting room at approximately four thirty. Give whatever surveillance they had on her time to clear out. Then approach a sales clerk and tell her his wife thinks she left a shopping bag in one of the dressing rooms. With beach towels in it.

He had read that a prompt man was a lonely man, and it seemed to be true: now a few minutes past four standing outside Gallery Renee, a newspaper under his arm, looking in at green paintings, no sign of Renee-until he heard her voice.

"Max?"

Sad, or maybe uncertain. She was behind him, standing in the middle of the concourse, Renee holding one of the busboy's paintings upright on the floor.

"It came this morning," Renee said. "A process server delivered it, like a court summons."

"That's what it is," Max said.

She seemed so small holding on to that big canvas, unaware of shoppers walking around her. It was a trait of hers, being unaware: stopping to talk in the middle of traffic, in doorways of public places, in a parking lot, a car waiting to take the space where she stood.

"I was sadly disappointed," Renee said. "I thought you might show more class than have a stranger inform me. After twenty-seven years, Max, do you think that's fair?"

He said, "Why don't you come over here out of the way?" Shoppers were looking at Renee, then turning as they went by to glance at him. "Here, let me help you."

She walked into her gallery, Renee wearing a baggy, Arab-looking outfit, layers of material in tan and white, black stripes running through it. Max followed, stopping to catch the glass door swinging at him. He got the painting inside and leaned it against the table in the center, ready for more of Renee, her tiny head with its cap of dark hair sticking out of the Arab outfit, eyes brightly made up. Renee looking at the canvas now.

"I was positive Ralph Lauren would buy one, after I schlepped it all the way over there. I said, `Hang something that has some life in it, energy, instead of those stupid English horse prints.' "

"What do they know," Max said, for some reason sympathizing with her. She was looking at him now, her expression telling him she was still sadly disappointed.

"You could have come to me, Max, told me what you planned to do."

"I did come to you. You were busy with your cheese and crackers."

"I sold three of David's paintings at the reception. Another one yesterday."

"You're doing all right."

"Twenty-seven years," Renee said, "as if they never happened."

He was thinking, No, they happened, they must have. But didn't say anything. Why start? Get her to accept the fact and leave. It was ten after.

Renee was looking at the painting again, the cane field, with kind of a lost expression, or vacant. She said, "We've had our differences. We've grown apart,

there's no getting around that. I have my art. You have . . . I suppose your business." She looked at him now. "But we had some good times too, didn't we, Max?"

Was that from a song?

Good times too, didn't we?

He tried to think of one in particular. There was that period in the beginning when he couldn't keep his hands off of her and he thought she would get to like it, way back, before he had given up trying to think of things to talk about. Maybe there weren't any, at least not memorable ones, the entire twentyseven years but not counting the periods of separation. Those weren't bad. The times with Cricket singing country to him, Cricket in what passed for moonlight . . . It was funny, he liked waitresses. Jackie was different. Intelligent but horny, in a quiet, unhurried way-reaching into his pants on the balcony and dropping her glass over the side, taking hold of him. He would never get tired of being with her. . . . He said to Renee, "Yeah, there were times," and saw her chin quiver.

She could do that, make it quiver anytime she wanted, and it seemed to always work; he'd feel guilty or sorry for her without knowing why.

She looked at the cane field again saying, "What's the use talking about it, you've made up your mind." Renee sighed. "If this is what you want . . ."

"Don't you think it makes sense?"

"I suppose." She raised her head to look at him again, the chin no longer quivering. "But that doesn't mean it isn't going to cost you."

Max said, "Renee, you never came cheap."

Frieda, the saleswoman in the fitting room with Jackie, stood in a fashion-model slouch, hand on her kidney with fingers pointing to her spine. She said, "The Isani's absolutely darling on you."

Jackie looked over her shoulder at the mirror. "I'm used to a narrower skirt."

"Your figure," Frieda said, "you can go straight or fluid and swingy. You're traveling abroad?"

"I thought I'd start out in Paris, drive through the wine country."

"Oh, you're going by yourself?"

"I may," Jackie said. "I'm not sure."

"Mix and match with separates, that silk jersey I showed you? It travels beautifully." Frieda picked up several dresses from the back of a chair. "You like a narrow skirt, why don't you try on that Zang Toi, with the off-center slit?"

Jackie glanced at her watch. "Okay. I know I want the suit. In fact I think I'll wear it-get out of this uniform."

"The black silk, it's a knockout on you," Frieda said, and walked out.

Louis and Melanie were by the Donna Karan New York display, Louis watching the opening in the paneled wall that said FITTING ROOM over it, down at the far end of the designer section. Jackie had said at the meeting to wait here and not come in before twentyfive after. It was getting onto that now. He was pretty sure he'd have a better view of the fitting room over by the Dana Buchman display. Once Melanie went in, he wanted to be sure he saw her when she came out. Women shoppers would creep by and he'd feel them looking at him. Like what was he doing here? Melanie kept busy. She'd hold up a blouse to look it over and then throw it back on the shelf. She never folded anything up again. She was all butt in her white tube skirt and denim jacket, but didn't look too bad. He was surprised she was interested in clothes, because she didn't seem to have many, always wearing those cutoffs. Louis was holding the Macy's shopping bag they'd exchange for the one Jackie had. He was afraid if Melanie carried it she'd be shoplifting, stuffing things in the bag. They didn't need mall security on them, guys in green sport coats and peachcolored ties. At least they didn't pack. Louis had on his new light-blue sport coat. He wished this was over. Melanie made him nervous.

He said, "Come on," motioning to her, and crossed the aisle to the Dana Buchman display. He looked back, motioning to her again, and bumped into a woman as he turned to look toward the fitting room. Louis said, "I beg your pardon," saw the woman's lifeless eyes, and realized, Christ, it was a mannequin. Melanie came up to him saying, "You talking to yourself, Louis?"

He thought this would give them a straight-on view of the fitting room, but there was another display between it and them, mannequins standing around in poses. They did look real. Louis nudged Melanie and said, "Come on."

She said, "What're we waiting for? Why don't I just do it?"

"She said four twenty-five."

"It's almost that now."

Louis motioned to her and she followed him to a section that said MICHI MOON on a display board. Melanie, looking at the clothes, said, "Far out."

"Get ready," Louis said, handing her the Macy's bag, beach towels in it Jackie had told him to buy. Now he saw a woman with dresses over her arm come out of the fitting room and start hanging the dresses on different racks. There were a few women in the area prowling through the racks, only one guy; he was sitting in a chair over by Ellen Tracy reading a newspaper. He looked up, toward the rear area, and Louis said, "Jesus Christ, it's Max."

Melanie turned from Michi Moon saying, "Who?" "That's the guy I used to work for, Max Cherry. What's he doing here?"

"I don't know," Melanie said. "Is he a crossdresser? Ask him."

"He's married, he could be here with his wife," Louis said, and remembered that Max didn't live with his wife, they were separated. Or he was here with his girlfriend, that could be. Louis glanced toward Melanie. She was gone, walking toward the fitting room. He looked at Max again, about fifty feet away, Max strolling off too, over to the Anne Klein section. Dressed up in a suit and tie, he had to be with some woman. Louis stepped to one end of the Michi Moon display. Melanie was already in the fitting room.

"That's cute. What's the top, cotton?"

"Linen," Jackie said. "The skirt's sand-washed silk."

"It's nice, and I don't usually go for a full skirt." "This's the look," Jackie said, "fluid and swingy."

"It's okay on you. How much?"

"Five fifty for the jacket . . ."

"Christ."

"Two sixty-eight for the skirt."

"I guess you can afford it," Melanie said, handing Jackie her shopping bag. "We could've worked this. You know that, don't you? You would've made out a lot better than you're going to, believe me."

Jackie pushed open the louvered door to a dressing room, went in with Melanie's shopping bag, and came out with her own.

"That's the same one," Melanie said, "the same towel? Are you putting me on or what?"

Jackie's hand went inside the bag, dug beneath the towels, and came out with a packet of hundred-dollar bills she held in Melanie's face, letting her stare for a moment before shoving the money down in the bag again. Jackie didn't say a word.

Neither did Melanie. She took the bag and left. In the dressing room again with the door closed, Jackie transferred the five hundred thousand from her flight bag to the shopping bag Melanie had brought. Packed her uniform in the flight bag. Put on the nifty black silk. . . . She'd have to pass on the Zang Toi with the off-center slit; no time to try it on. Pay for the suit and the Isani separates, which she'd take with her. But ask to leave her flight bag at the cashier's counter, pick it up later.

Okay, then as she's walking out say to Frieda, "Oh. Someone left a shopping bag in there. Looks like beach towels." She exits. A minute or so later Max enters, he's looking for a shopping bag his wife thinks she left in a dressing room. Beach towels in it.

Once she was out on the floor in plain sight she would have to appear anxious, helpless, and run off looking for Nicolet, someone, to tell what happened. How Melanie, just a minute ago, barged into the fitting room, grabbed the money, and took off. Melanie, the one who shot the guy-Jackie sounding a little frantic by then. Nicolet would go into action, do whatever they did, and when he got back to her with or without Melanie there would be questions, all kinds, but none, Jackie believed, she couldn't handle. The only real problem she saw down the road was Max.

Melanie had come out of the fitting room and moved through racks of clothes heading for the aisle. She caught a glimpse of Louis still at the Michi Moon display. He saw her and she saw him cutting across the floor now past Dana Buchman to head her off. They met in the aisle at Donna Karan New York.

"What're you doing?"

He said it with kind of a strung-out, spacy look that scared her for a moment.

"I'm getting out of here. What do you think?"

"Lemme have the bag."

"Fuck you. I can carry it."

She tried to push past him and he caught her by the arm to pull her around.

"Goddamn it, gimme the bag."

"What're you gonna do, hit me?"

"If I have to."

He was ready, his fist cocked close to his shoulder. He grabbed the open edge of the bag and when she tried to pull it away, holding on to the loop handles, the bag started to tear open at the seam-not much, but enough that she let go saying, "Okay, okay, take it, Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

He said, "I'm carrying it."

She said, "All right. You've got it. What'd you think I was gonna do, run off with it?"

He said, "If you had half a chance," holding the bag in his arm now, all that money crushed against his cheap sport coat. He turned and walked off. She followed him down the down escalator staring at his hair, at his scalp beginning to show through at the crown; followed him off on the main floor past girls offering perfume samples and out into the mall. Louis stopped.

Melanie said, "Remember where we came in?" He looked up at palm trees, at turquoise structural beams and the skylight ceiling way up there. He started off in the direction of Sears.

Melanie said, "The other way, Louis," and he stopped. "We came in through Burdine's, remember? Where you do your shopping?"