Split Images (1981) (20 page)

"Well, it turned light tan since you seen it."

"Walter, did you follow him or not?"

"Yeah, I followed him. He went down to Hillsboro. That area there before you get to the inlet where you can't see the houses? It's all trees. He turned into a drive. I parked down a ways, came back. It's a big house made of like shingles. Right on the beach but back, you know? With all these sea-grape trees around it."

"Hillsboro." Daniels seemed mildly surprised, then pleased. "Go on."

"He picked up a broad. Skinny, but with great big ones, stuck out to here."

"How old?""Young broad, early twenties. Reddish hair with gunk around her eyes. Had on a lavender dress with little straps."

"What kind of shoes?"

"Sandals, like wedgies."

"Just testing you, Walter." Robbie was in a good mood now.

"They got in the Rolls, took Sample Road over to the Interstate and went down to Miami, all the way to the end. Got off in Coconut Grove, that area there and drove over to a high rise on Brickel Avenue just north of the Key Biscayne Causeway.

The place's got not only a fence around it, it's got bob wire on top the fence and a sign says beware of guard dogs. Fucking Miami, I'm telling you, the fucking natives're taking over."

"Between Brickel and Bay Shore," Robbie said.

"You know what you can see from the penthouse of that condominium looking east?"

"I imagine you can see the whole bay," Walter said.

"Yeah, but in particular," Robbie said, "from twenty-six floors up you've got a clear shot of Government Cut."

"Yeah, I imagine you would."

"And the Coast Guard base."

"Now you're talking," Walter said, raising an arm as though he were making a muscle and pulled his shirt out from his armpit. "I was wonderingwhat we're playing here. So the guy likes to watch the Coast Guard boats and he's not with the DEA, I know that, driving a fucking Rolls. So what's he handle, weed?"

"He doesn't handle anything," Robbie said. "He arranges for the importation of marijuana and cocaine, staying well above the action, and makes approximately, part time, two hundred thousand dollars a month . . . when he isn't inspecting embassies."

Walter said, "Wait. This is the same kid we been talking about? The kid sitting on the old man's lap with the Knights of Columbus outfit on only grown up now?"

Robbie paused, deadpan. He said, "Amazing," staring at Walter. "I'm the only person in the world would have any idea what you just said. To answer your question, yes, it's the same kid on the guy's lap with the Knights of Columbus outfit only grown up now."

"I think it was, with the Knights of Columbus outfit on. You left out on," Walter said and thought, Fuck you, too . . .

"Walter, why don't you sit down."

"Yeah, I think I will. Thanks."

"Okay. He went up to the penthouse, stayed about a half-hour. Right?"

"You followed him before?"

"Many times. Go on.""He was in the building twenty-three minutes,"

Walter said. "The broad waited in the car . . . This kid comes along--listen to this. This kid comes along looking for his dog. He's calling, 'Here, Piper! Here, Piper!' "

Robbie stared at Walter.

"The kid goes up the street. In a couple minutes here's this dog, this little white scottie comes along.

The broad sees it, she opens the door, goes 'Here, Piper!' The dog hops in the car and she starts playing with it. The guy comes out, gets in the car--now you could see him petting the dog, playing with it. The broad goes to open her door, too late, he drives off, the dog's still in the car. The dog's got this little red collar on, you know, with the license hanging on it? Probably has the name and address.

No, the guy drives off. He don't care if the dog belongs to the kid and it's gonna break the kid's heart, fuck no, take it. They drive off with the dog."

Robbie waited, making sure there was no more to the story. He said, "Walter?"

"Yeah?"

"Then where'd they go?"

"They went back up to Hillsboro, the broad's place."

"How do you know it's hers?"

"I call the Broward County sheriff."

"Walter, don't tell me that--""Mr. Daniels, what was I doing the past twentyone years? I identify myself as an officer with Palm Beach County, give 'em a phony name, a badge number they don't know from shit and ask 'em to look up in their directory who lives at the address in question. I talk to a clerk, it took maybe a minute and a half." Walter dug into his back pocket, brought out a notebook that was limp, curved to fit his hip; he opened it, licked his thumb to turn a few pages and said, 3524 Ocean Drive. The deed to the property and the lots on both sides are registered in the name of Doris Marie Vaughn.

Robbie said, "Dorie? " Amazed. "She's a polo groupie."

Walter said, "I don't know what she does for a living, but she's got dough. That property in there with the lots'd be worth a couple million."

"Jesus," Robbie said, "Dorie Vaughn. Well, you know what he's doing, what he's using the house for."

"I got a pretty good idea what he's doing when I left," Walter said. "Even with the gunk on her eyes, that's a tasty broad."

"She's a good kid, but flaky."

"Well, nobody says you got to talk to 'em."

"I want to see the house," Robbie said.

"I thought--you're all dressed up you're going out."

"I've been waiting a long time for this kind of asetup," Robbie said. "Jesus, Hillsboro. It's perfect.

Come on, I want to see the house."

Walter said, "I hope she knows how to take care of Piper. Knows what she's doing."

Robbie paused getting up from the chair, hands clamped on the arms. "Who?"

"Who we been talking about?" Walter said. "The broad."

Angela thought of an image. The tourists stroll past the expensive Worth Avenue shops. Near the end of the street they see any ordinary entrance gate, no sign, a pink facade, the unadorned back of a building. The tourists barely notice it. But it's the rear end of the Everglades, one of the world's most exclusive clubs. And Worth Avenue is the alley that runs behind it.

"I thought of it coming in," Angela said.

Bryan said, "Then what happens?"

"Boy, are you a smart-ass."

"No, I think you should write your rich people's book. Get it out of your system."

"If I can do it without the usual knee-jerk attitude. It would have to be straight impressions without cute asides. And no adverbs." Speaking as her eyes wandered.

"You'd better close your mouth then, quit staring.""I'm not staring."

He watched her gaze slide over the lounge that was like a formal living room. They sat in upholstered chairs, their drinks on a glass-top cocktail table.

"You are now."

She said, "My God. You know who that is?"

Nodding to point. "The three ladies sitting together."

"That's all're in here. It's like a woman's club."

"The one with the pearls. That's Mary Sanford.

Very close friend of Rose Kennedy. If you're putting on a charity you'd better have Mary Sanford or you're dead. I hear she's nice though."

"Are you from a big family?"

"Two sisters and two brothers. All older."

"And you had to wear your sisters' hand-medowns."

"For about ten years. How'd you know that? . . .

Damn it, I should've brought a copy of the Social Pictorial. Or the Shiny Sheet. The one's Mary Sanford. And I think the one next to her is Anky Johnson. That's Revlon money. But she usually wears a turban."

Bryan said, "How come you don't see any guys here?"

Angela's gaze began to move again, inching over the lounge. "They're all dead. Or they're upstairs playing dominoes. Or both . . . I hope we eat in the Orange Garden. I mean dine. That's the room here."

"We're gonna eat at McDonald's if Smiley doesn't show up."

"He's always late."

"Well, I read one time, a prompt man is a lonely man," Bryan said, "and it's true." He sipped his Wild Turkey. When they came in and sat down he was going to order their favorite, Jack Daniels, but he had said to the waiter, "While we're waiting for Mr. Daniels we'll have--" and paused awkwardly and changed the brand. Not wanting to call attention to himself. The homicide cop trying to act as though he belonged. Angela hadn't noticed.

She said, "Oh, my God," in a hushed tone. Then, without moving her mouth: "The one in pink, just coming in. The middle-aged Barbie doll. That's Robbie's wife. With the bald-headed guy with the white hair. And you know what? Robbie won't think a thing of it."

Bryan said, "The wild-west jacket and the hair, the guy looks like Buffalo Bill. I understand he's a count."

"He is? How do you know?"

Got her. "You hear things," Bryan said. "But how come, if his wife's here he doesn't know it?"

He thought of his former wife, Peggy.

"Because," Angela said, "as Robbie puts it, 'Patti and I do our own thing.' ""Why are they married?"

"Because it's too much trouble to get a divorce.

Split up the fortune. If they can both do what they want, why bother? One of his girl friends--here's an example, a girl who thought he was serious about her came to the house one night. She got right to the point with Patti. 'When're you gonna give him a divorce?' Patti doesn't even know who she is. They go in and confront Robbie. He looks up from his book and says, 'Don't get me involved in this . . . ' "

He thought of Peggy again. "My wife--I mean my former wife called last week . . ."

But Angela was watching the proceedings.

"Now they're paying their respects to Mary Sanford. Telling her how wonderful it is to see her. Little hand-kissing there . . . Gushing now, it's always good to gush a little."

"You better not write the book," Bryan said.

Then said, "Does Robbie have a girl friend now?"

"I don't know. He picks girls up." Angela thought of something and looked at him now. "It's funny, he talks about it, but he's not what you'd call a dedicated chaser."

"Maybe he likes guns better," Bryan said.

Robbie came out of the trees to the dead-end access road where Walter was waiting by the car, its frontend pointing toward the beach, the silver Rolls ghostly in the early darkness.

Walter said, "He still there?" The words came louder than he'd expected and he half-whispered, "In the house?"

"His car's still there," Robbie said.

"You didn't look in a window?"

"When I get that close," Robbie said, "it's gonna be done. But we're not quite ready yet. Two things.

I want pictures of the place--"

"What kinda pictures?"

"I'll show you the camera when we get home. I want movies. And I want you to watch the place for a few days. If he's bringing stuff in and out, and I'm sure he is, then I want to hit him when the stuff's here. You understand what I'm getting at?"

"You want the place put under one-man surveillance for a few days you say," Walter said. "I understand what you mean, but I don't think you do, if you don't mind my saying. The fuck'm I suppose to do, I camp here twenty-four hours? Who relieves me? Right now a squad car comes along, we're parked here in the fucking trees, two guys, the first thing they think of, somebody's copping somebody's joint. This whole area, any place you got houses worth a million bucks you got more security'n in a fucking bank, and I'm not kidding."

Robbie said, "Walter, look at the house."

"I think I saw it closer'n you did.""I mean--consider where it is. You can barely see it, even from the beach. Empty lots on both sides full of trees. You come out the driveway and walk across the road, there's the Intracoastal right there, almost in your backyard. And a dock. You notice the dock?"

"Yeah, I notice the dock?"

"Now we know little Dorie Vaughn didn't buy the house."

"All I know it's in her name."

"Walter," Robbie said, "a guy who makes two hundred thousand dollars a month on the side bought the house. Because it's exactly the house he wanted. He can take deliveries in front, right out of the ocean. Or he can come out the back door and pick up something left on his dock. A little watertight package that's worth around a million bucks.

But he doesn't pick it up, the girl does; she's got to be good for something. Then, I'll bet you anything, you see a yellow van stop by the house. The same van you'll see down in Coconut Grove. The same guy driving it who lives in that high rise on Brickel Avenue. It's all coming together, Walter. All the work I've been doing on this project is finally paying off. But now we get to the tricky part. I don't want to have to buy some stuff and plant it on him.

Christ, not when he's dealing in it. I want to get him, ideally, when he's in the house and there's a delivery sitting there. The police get an anonymouscall, they find the son of a bitch, he's dead and it's obviously a dope-related hit. That's the way I want it to work and that's why I brought you in, Walter.