Naked Moon (14 page)

Cicero nodded his approval, then turned back to the window, eyeballing the passersby. There weren't any.

“Business is slow?”

“Got a call late yesterday. From a divorcée.”

“Same one who was outside the other day, checking our directory?”

“Haven't met her yet. She and her new boyfriend—according to her, the ex-husband is sleeping with the guy's wife.”

“It takes all kinds.”

“Yeah.” He gave Dante a look. “I guess it does.”

L
ater, Cicero and Dante had taken the drive over to the Victorian in the Heights, and now they stood in the man's living room. Over the past year, Dante had followed Lake on more than one occasion. He had seen Lake and Marilyn walking together and seen, too, the relaxed pace, the easy banter. Dante wanted to tell himself there was no spark between Lake and Marilyn, that this would fade, but he'd seen then—as he saw now—the look in the man's blue eyes.

“This concerns Marilyn?”

“As I explained,” said Cicero. “It's a touchy situation.”

So far, Dante had let Cicero do the talking. It was possible he could have handled arrangements on his own, but Cicero had a gift that he did not have—a likable smile, a shrug of the shoulders. He wanted Cicero here to diffuse things if the conversation went wrong. Even with Cicero, he
worried how Lake might react, especially now, as he described his cousin's death.

“But what does that have to do with me?”

“It's not you we're worried about,” said Dante. “It's Marilyn.”

“The killer's still out there,” said Cicero.

“I don't understand.”

Dante could see Lake vacillating, wondering if he had made a mistake, letting them into his house.

“You have to take her out of town,” said Dante. “The two of you should go off, immediately.”

“We don't mean to alarm you,” said Cicero.

“That's exactly what you mean to do.”

“You're in love with this woman?”

“I don't see how this is any of your business.”

“I've known Marilyn for a long time.” Dante saw the flash in the other man's eyes, but he went on regardless. “I know you proposed to her,” he said, “I know that.” He lowered his voice, as if speaking to a friend, but he and Lake, they were not friends. “She told me, at my apartment. Not so long ago.” He didn't need to mention the apartment, but he had wanted to see the small quiver as Lake imagined the two of them, their shadows intertwined in the little place on Fresno Street. The man's uneasiness gave him some small satisfaction, but whatever pleasure Dante took, at the same time, he knew Marilyn had spent time here, in Lake's house. Walking barefoot in her morning clothes along this carpet, up those stairs.

“Just listen,” Cicero said. “Then do what you think best.”

Dante let Cicero do the talking. It was the same story Dante had told Cicero. Not the truth exactly, but close enough. There were debts, gambling debts. The people who killed his cousin wanted their money, and they had made threats if Dante did not cover those debts. They would go after people close to Dante.

“What about the authorities?”

“The authorities couldn't protect my cousin,” Dante said. “They won't be able to protect her.”

“I don't like this.”

“We are going to need money,” Cicero said.

Dante glanced at Jake. This hadn't been part of the plan. Dante had already put the cash on the table, but apparently Cicero wasn't satisfied. Dante knew he shouldn't be surprised, because he'd seen it before, the way Cicero worked a case from both sides, putting the touch on clients at either end.

“You want money, to pay these people off? To get rid of gambling debts?” asked Lake. “Is that why you are coming to me?”

“There are arrangements that need to be made.”

“This is blackmail.”

“The first thing you need to do is get on your knees and propose,” Cicero said. “Then climb on that private jet of yours and fly away. Meantime …”

“What?”

“You don't want anyone following. Do you?”

This was the moment, Dante thought. David Lake made a move as if to get out of his seat, as if to end the conversation. Dante did not want him to do this. Because if Lake
rose, he would have to stand up and block his way. He would have to find another means of persuasion. He recalled the dead man in the alley and the pleasure he had taken, despite himself, driving the knife into his heart.

“You have to take her away,” said Dante.

This next part, too, he left to Jake. The smooth talk, the details of the coming excursion. Jake in his polo shirt and his chinos. Tanned Jake. Golden-tongued Jake. Who made the whole idea seem like a vacation. Who described a little cottage in a faraway place. A plaza with cobbled stones. A chapel.

“Take her on her honeymoon. A long honeymoon. By the time you get back, all this will be over. Meantime, again, there are expenses on my end,” Cicero said, “and I will need advance payment.”

“What kind of expenses?”

“No one can know that Marilyn has gone off with you. We need to make it look as if she is not with you, but somewhere else. The details, the particulars, I can inform you, if you'd like. Though honestly, it would be better for you to stay in the dark.”

David Lake sat with his hands between his legs. He had inherited his parents' money, and then inherited his ex-wife's money when she died. Now Marilyn was being given to him, too. Perhaps he didn't want her this way, but ultimately it didn't matter what he wanted. He seemed to understand this now. There was a hitch, though, Dante knew, and it was not the money. She had not accepted his proposal.

“She loves you.” Dante saw the mixed emotions on the man's face, wanting the knowledge, wanting to hear it—but not from Dante. “The thing between me and her, it's just something that happens in the dark.”

Lake looked at him with disdain, and Dante realized his mistake, he had pushed it too far. Lake lowered his eyes and said nothing. You should tell me to fuck off, Dante thought. You should be at my throat, a comment like that, with Cicero trying to pull you off. You should be pushing me against the wall, the way I pushed that man in the alley. But Lake didn't do any of these things. A better man for it. Maybe.

“How do I know, soon as we're back in town, this won't start all over?”

Later this afternoon, Dante was supposed to meet with Marilyn, out at the house in Marin. He would prove himself then. He would make sure it was over—but he didn't need to tell this to Lake.

“You'll be married.”

“You'll be back, won't you? For more money.”

“I don't want your money,” said Dante.

Cicero held up his hand. “Let's make it simple. One payment, in advance. Cash. For operational expenses.” Cicero smiled—his old-man smile, cherubic, his eyes sparkling—but there was a hardness there, a seriousness, and it was clear he wasn't going to let the matter go.

“Give Jake what he needs,” said Dante. “Just do as he says. And let's not talk about this anymore.”

D
ante and Jake Cicero were in the car now, headed up over Franklin toward the Broadway Tunnel.

“Is he going to do it?'

“I think so.”

“He won't go to the cops?”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you sure you can do this?”

“What?”

“Let go of her?”

Dante glanced into the mirror. A car had pulled up behind him. It followed for a few blocks, dropped off. Then there was another car.

Just cars …

He studied them anyway.

“About the money, the way you pressed him?”

“It's business.”

“You could have warned me.”

“Marriage is expensive,” said Cicero.

Dante knew how it was with Jake and his wife. Louisa liked to shop, and Jake liked to go with her, watching her sift through the racks, the high-end stores, trying on one outfit after another. He would touch the clothes before she put them on, the pleated skirts, the buttons, the blouses, and then she would model for him, turning in front of the mirror as he sat in one of those soft chairs, listening to the store music, while a clerk hovered nearby, expensively dressed, pearls about her neck, smelling of the store's perfume. The cost of
these outings, and others like them, all the things Lousia liked to do, they added up.

“There's this jacket. Coco Chanel.”

“Does she look good in it?”

“Real good. I'll have to call the clerk soon as I get to the office, put it on hold. But I want you to tell me, who are we dealing with here?”

“It's not your concern.”

“It might be.”

“Make the arrangements. Do it like we discussed.”

They had already been through this, and there was no reason to go through it again. Cicero knew a young woman, a criminal investigator who used to work vice and liked to put herself out there. Do her hair, dress her in the right clothes, and she could pass for Marilyn, once the real Marilyn was gone.

A decoy.

It was a touchy business, but Dante didn't need her long. Then she, too, could be on her way.

Dante pulled the car to the curb. Cicero's office was at the top of the hill, but he wanted to be sure no one had followed.

“So you going to make me walk?”

“It's better.”

“Yeah, I need the exercise.”

“Stay away from me, from here on out. Any communication, we do it by phone.”

“I'm already gone,” Jake said, but he didn't move. “What if they figure it out? What if they track me down?” A shadow
crossed the old man's face. Earlier, Cicero's concerns had been brushed aside by the man's own bravado, by the pile of cash on the table, by the excitement of the job.

“They might insist that I tell them where she is. Or they might want you,” said Cicero. Then the smile was back, creasing his leathered cheeks. “They might offer money if I let them know.”

“You've got your money.”

Cicero laughed. The old Italian laugh. The laugh of a million
paesans.
His smell filled the car. The smell of tobacco and whiskey and shaving cream, of cologne under the arms, all over his gray-haired chest.

Cicero the wise. Cicero the idiot. Cicero, the old fool, in love with his young wife.

“Louisa will look good in the jacket.”

“I miss the bocce sometimes. Rolling the ball.”

“She's a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is,” he said. “And I'm a lucky man.”

“She's a lucky girl.”

Dante watched Cicero go on up the hill, trudging, bent over but unstoppable, vigorous and old all at once.

Cicero, the undefeated, who knew better than to look back.

But at the last minute, Cicero paused, turning at the corner, surveying the hill behind him. He put his thumb in the air.

All clear.

Dante fired up the car.

He swung a U-turn and headed for the bridge.

S
ooner or later, you had to leave. Sooner or later, you had to get out. When the old Italians abandoned North Beach—the mold, the leaking houses, the fucking Chinese—this is where they came.

Across the Golden Gate to sunny Marin.

Buying up the earthquake cottages, the vacation shanties, the dairy land with its cows meandering in the yellow grass.

Marilyn wanted him to see the bungalow, the little house on the corner lot with the palms out front and a trellis over the gate. He knew what was on her mind. She wanted out of the Beach, just like those old Italians. The place was a bit farther up the road, but he pulled off early, taking the ramp down into Sausalito. He'd spotted a car lingering in the rearview, tagging him since he left the Beach.

But he was mistaken. The car did not follow.

Dante went into town anyway, just to be sure. He walked under the pepper trees on the main street, past the boutique
shops and the chocolatiers and the waterfront houses that had been turned into bed-and-breakfasts. He studied the faces of the passersby, a man slouching on the corner, a middle-aged woman in her Porsche. The woman gave him the once-over, but that's all it was: an attractive woman, well-kept, bored, glancing at a man in the street. He went out to the end of the marina and smoked a cigarette, staring across the Bay at Angel Island and at San Francisco and considered the idea of doing this thing another way. The cigarette tasted awful, but he smoked it anyway, inhaling the black smoke, letting it do its business down there in the soft part of his lungs.

Forget David Lake. Forget the company.

Get Marilyn in the car, and together they would snake down the coast and leave this whole business behind.

Across the border, down into Baja, a little casita in the hot sand, where no one would ever find them.

An idiot dream.

The company would not rest; he knew that.