

## THE LAST HUSTLE

### Jerry McIlroy

Copyright 2016 Jerry McIlroy

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

This book is dedicated to my brother, Jack, who was a hustler and who gave me this advice, "Screw em all, kid, all but six, you might want pall bearers."

### Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Prologue

Mexico, 1980

In the early evening, just after supper time, the young women of Compestella come to the square. The women are unmarried and they come with a momma or younger brother or sister to stroll about the square in their shawls and long skirts. Walking slowly and regally they pass through the circles of dusty yellow light, past the solid wooden benches, then aro8nd the statue in the center of the square upon whose base young boys, wide eyed and solemn, sit with legs dangling. Then back again and around again.

The air is heavy and warm, just beginning to cool. Tobacco smoke is mingled with the tang of the Hibiscus flowers and the dusty smell of dry earth. The branches of the hibiscus trees that frame the square bend heavily, thick and full with leafy blackness, their brilliant red flowers muted, blending into the dark leaves.

The voices of the women are subdued, rich and soft like distant music with hints of laughter and intimacy. On the benches the still, dark, spectators rarely speak; a few words, a nod, the lighting of another cigarette. Even the usually boisterous teen age boys are quiet. They stand against the trees and talk in near whispers, shifting their weight from one leg to the other, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of their jeans. Posing and eager they look and comment, nudge and tease.

Like actors consciously ignoring an audience the women stop to talk; a shoulder is thrust back, a shawl adjusted, a head angled down toward a younger brother. Their movements have a practiced deliberation; the hands never flutter but move with a sure and precise grace. And then the turning to bless us with the briefest sideways glance.

My friend Diaz calls it, "the parade of the little momas," There is an air of ceremony to it, they might have come from church, after the wafer and wine, after the genuflections and the holy water, to participate in this other, older, ceremony.

The church at the north end of the square is brown stone, solid and square with a heavy iron fence and gate. Diaz tells me it is the second oldest Christian church in Mexico. Diaz has not gone to church in years and dislikes the clergy. "they suck the marrow from the bones of the poor." Yet he still seems proud of the church, because it is old and it is in his village.

"Will you be gone a long time?" Diaz offers me a cigarette and the match flares in the darkness. At the end of the bench an elderly couple get up and begin to walk towards the center of the square. The woman's arm is comfortably entwined with the man's. The sky has changed from dark blue to purple black and a few faint stars are visible.

I try to remember the bright, harsh lights of gambling casinos and shopping malls, of bustling downtown avenues. I shrug my shoulders. "A few months at least. I have to make some money." In truth I do not know if I will be back.

"We'll go to Maria's then? She's made food."

"Of course, I wouldn't miss it for anything."

The parade of the little mommas is over. The square is dark and quiet, only a few black silhouettes remain on the benches. Most of the people are gone, disappeared into the dark streets and into the houses marked off from the blackness by squares of yellow window light.

After a while we too leave. Almost the last to go we walk down the main street of Compestella, Avenue August 15th, to the Taberra Morena, the Brown Cafe. The night is all around us, soft and still, with the faint music of the dance hall coming to us. It is old American rock and roll, the familiar rhythms and words an echo of another time and place.

As far as I can tell the Brown Cafe has no formal name, certainly there is no sign, inside or out, stating a name. Perhaps in the bureaucracy of licensing and taxation it has a name, possibly something grand and romantic, but it is always referred to simply as the Brown Cafe.

The outside of the cafe is painted a pale, unhealthy shade of brown trimmed with peeling black enamel. Inside one wall is white the other three a dark lime green, The only decorations are signs for beer, brandy, and tequila, and one picture; a travel poster, unframed, that shows ruins and a deep blue sky.

There are five tables in the cafe, square wooden tables covered with yellow oilcloth worn white in spots. The chairs are of all sorts and sizes, some from old kitchen sets with chrome legs and patched plastic coverings and these are the most comfortable, the other chairs are wooden, square cut and solid.

Mostly the Brown Cafe sells beer and brandy, some tequila and some coffee. The brandy is brandy in name only, it is cheap and potent and tastes like a mixture of cheap wine and straight alcohol. In a glass case there are buns, some sweet pastries, and a type of spicy, cold sausage. There is no menu for the owner is not particularly interested in selling food, however if you ask he will make you a small meal or snack depending on what he has on hand,

I often go to the Brown Cafe alone, often at supper time when I will eat with the owner or with his beautiful daughter who works in the cafe, Knowing that my Spanish is not that good they speak to me in a slow and deliberate manner and listen intently when I speak. They politely seek my opinion on various matters and weigh my responses carefully and respectfully as befits how they see me, as a mature man who has traveled much and seen much

One reason we often go to this cafe is because the waitress, the daughter of the owner, is an incredible beauty. She is so wonderful to look at it is hard not to stare at her, and she is as beautiful the fiftieth time you see her as the first. I wonder if you lived with her, were married to her, how long it would before you could go beyond the beauty, or if you ever could.

Diaz has a running joke with her in which he asks her father for her hand in marriage making all sort of ridiculous promises. She laughs shyly and is a little charmed. I have the feeling she does not know how beautiful she is. The father laughs too and carries on the joke but I sense that he does not like this kind of talk about his daughter.

Diaz is thirty-five, twelve years longer than I am, and he plays in a mariachi band. They play when and where they can, so his living is pretty much hand to mouth, The band is volatile, always changing; members leave, new ones join, there are quarrels and crises. There is almost always, with a sigh and a shrug, "trouble in the band".

Although not good son-in-law material Diaz is well liked. He is a charmer and thought of as sophisticated and as a lady's man, although his reputation for the latter far outweighs the facts. Also he has traveled, not just to Guadalajara and to Mexico City but he lived for six years in the United States.

There are three other customers in the cafe, regulars that I have seen there before They laugh softly at the running joke then quietly talk among themselves. I am conscious of the music from the dance hall, a slow ballad popular three or four years ago.

Just before we finish our beer Diaz tells the owner that I am leaving the next day.

"Only for a few months I'm coming back."

"We should have found him a good woman then he would have stayed." Diaz says

When we are leaving and I am paying the bill I buy a round for the owner and the three regulars. "To be drunk after I am gone, it is the custom where I come from."

Outside the night air is cool and the sky is filled with stars, the music from the dance hall is louder and I stop by the door to listen. The tequila has given me a feeling of looseness and of anticipation as though I was on the verge of something, some great truth or adventure. But it is always just beyond me, just missed,, gone by in the turning of a head, lost in the dark night.

I sit down on the steps. "I want to hear the music." I say to Diaz.

Sitting in the bright doorway of the dance hall there is this feeling, for just the briefest moment, but it fills me and I sit, poised and alert, like a bird with its head cocked hearing something we can never hear. Time stops and I wait, wanting to laugh, to walk forever. It comes from the great black sky. The million stars, from the dark quiet trees and beyond them the back desert, from the music and underneath the music the soft laughter and Spanish voices. It comes from Diaz and the night, the great huge night, a night so enormous as to be unimaginable. The song ends but I don't want to leave so we sit and quietly smoke our cigarettes. Diaz asks, a little shyly.. "Do you want to bring someone?"

"No, its all right." I get up. "A good night to be with friends, but first we need to get some liquor."

We go to a small shop that sells liquor and cigarettes and I buy bottles of brandy and tequila, some beer, and for me Kaluha and condensed milk. That is my drink in Mexico, equal parts Kaluha, tequila, and condensed milk.

After the first hour the party is mostly a blur; a jumble of toasts, hugs and handshakes, of jokes and promises to return. Music is played, some of it dedicated to me, I even attempt a couple of dances with Maria.

Then, almost quickly, the party is almost over, the songs have become sad, some people are sleeping, some have left. I am afraid to get out of my chair because I know the room will spin. Roberto and I are talking but his words are slurring and he is talking too quickly so it is hard to follow him. His wife is curled up beside him, knees pulled up, her head nestled against his shoulder. She seems to be asleep but every now and then she opens her eyes and murmurs something to him. A man is playing a guitar and a young woman is sitting on the floor singing a sad song about a lover dying in a war or a revolution and something about a flower. I want desperately to sleep and must fight to keep my eyes open.

After a while Robert and his wife leave and I keep slipping into half sleep. I am afraid that if I sleep I will miss my bus which is due at eight o'clock. Already the sky has become lighter. My watch says six twenty and the next time I look it is seven fifteen sand the sky is bright. I wake Diaz up to say good-bye but he says he will come with me, as I knew he would, to wait by the highway for the bus

Outside the sunlight is bright and hard, hurting my eyes and increasing the throbbing in my head. I fumble for my sunglasses. My legs are weak and walking is an effort, I am still a little drunk.

At the highway we sit under a tree to wait for the bus. There is not much to say, Diaz comments that it was a very good party and I ask him how long the band will be in Guadalajara. After that we wait in silence.

The bus is ten minutes late but finally we see it, a small moving spec on the highway coming out of the hills to the east. We stand together at the side of the road and when the bus shudders to a stop, all dust and heat and noise, we smile and shake hands.

"Take care of yourself."

"Always, and you too."

"Always."

Chapter 1

The donut shop was a replica of a thousand others; shiny, easy to clean plastic made to resemble wood, uncomfortable chairs, brightness and efficiency to discourage loitering, and mass produced food. The decorative theme in this donut shop was red and white checks; in plastic on the table tops, in cloth on the waitress's aprons and perky caps, and in paper, bordering the menus and signs.

I went to this particular donut shop almost every morning after breakfast; it was a short walk from the apartment and I liked to read the paper there, usually at a table by the window. I had even developed a kind of friendship with one of the waitresses who liked to come to my table and talk to me. Her name was Susan, it was printed on the red and white name tag pinned just above her left breast.

Most days she would join me on her break, always asking first if it was okay, she would sit down with her coffee and begin by politely asking me questions, never anything personal, usually about items in the news; political corruption, slaughter in foreign lands, natural disasters. I would answer carefully, in my thoughtful manner, fill in some background and offer an opinion. It was all meaningless but she would listen closely with slight attentive nods saying, "I see, I see." as if trying to store it all in her memory.

I didn't mind the waitress and I didn't mind the questions. She was nice to look at and there was a charm to her,naive, maybe a little childlike; sometimes she reminded me of a wide eyed kid at a big league ball game. Bit by bit she had told me about her personal life--not that there was much to tell—but it was more interesting than the news. She lived with a semi-invalid mother, took night courses at the university, and was determined to better herself. I'm sure she had a dream about a soon to be meteoric rise through the world of business. She knew, she just knew, if she worked hard and made the right decisions all things would work out. That was how she moved through the world.

It is something I do well, saying the right thing in the right way, drawing people out, gaining their confidence. It is a practiced skill. It is part of the business. Most people will do anything for an audience; pay you, fuck you, tolerate you. How else can they know they exist?

Chapter 2

There was a message on the answering machine when I returned from my morning coffee; the demanding little red light blinked steadily. The apartment was stuffy with the faint smell of toast in the still air. I smoked a cigarette and looked through the paper again, started to do the puzzle then stopped, folded the paper and put it in the garbage.

I longed for a balcony to sit on, just to sit in the sun with my eyes closed and a cold drink in my hand. For a while, on the coast, I had rented a large, eight room house with a fenced in yard where I would sit with my gin and tonic on sunny afternoons. There had been flowers and shrubs, there had been a pool.

Of course I could have gone to a close by park to sit in the sun but that was never the same. I felt uncomfortable even when I had a paper or a book to read. I could never stay there long, the benches were too hard, there was too much open space, and I didn't like the image; lonely man on a park bench, child molester, pigeon strangler. I thought of driving out to the beach in the afternoon.

I played the message.

"Hello Danny, its Christina... yes a long time. I've been trying everywhere to find you. I have to talk to you, its important. Please, Danny, phone me as soon s you can, its very important, very." Then a number.

I played the message again, listening with my eyes closed. The "long" was stretched out and there was a pause after "Danny". I didn't know if I had recognized her voice before she said her name or not.

In the bathroom I filled the basin with cold water and splashed my face then held the cold face cloth against my eyes. I looked in the mirror, at my image, older, deeper lines. I smiled, tried to make my eyes come alive. Tried again, turned to three quarters profile, squared the shoulders, danced up and down on the balls of my feet. Of course it was familiar, my image, of course that was how I looked, yet sometimes it surprised me. Never here in the bathroom, but sometimes, say in a bar where I would catch sight of myself in a mirror and would realize this was what others saw, in restaurants, in bars, on the street. Sometimes it seemed I knew the faces of others better than I knew my own.

"Hello Chris, its Danny." I tried to picture on the end of the line, what she looked like, but I couldn't, it was only a voice on the phone.

"Oh, Danny, Christ its good to hear you. I've been trying to find you for two days. I thought you were still out on the coast or out of the country. Finally I got your number from Leon."

I listened carefully, intently, the receiver pressed tightly against my ear, listening to the sound of every word. Then I could see her; eyes, hair, mouth, and could feel her presence. We arranged to meet for dinner that night at a restaurant in the west end.

Chapter 3

The apartment felt constrictive, I needed to go out, expend some energy, be somewhere else. I dressed carefully—I like to feel and look right in what I wear. I dress well, I know how and of course it goes with the business, but I enjoy clothes; buying them, wearing them. It is an indulgence.

It had been six years but I would know how to handle her, how to make it work; she had her perceptions of me, she had her background, together we had our past. Six years but I knew Chris would not have changed.

The tan jacket and the dark blue shirt. She would give me the energy, the push I had lost. Perhaps we would get a house again, down by the beach, we would pick out the furniture together, or perhaps, perhaps, we would go to Mexico. The energy I needed would come from her, from my being with her. Without trying, without even knowing it, she had done that before. I always had to run to keep up with her.

I took a taxi downtown and found a bar with strippers. I sat there for two hours, nursing three drinks and watching the strippers, trying to think of them as real women, trying to imagine myself in bed with them, kissing them, touching their bodies.

It was a country and western bar and not even a third full. Except for he stripper's music it was filled with the hollow quiet of afternoon bars. Three or four, sometimes five strippers sat at a ringside table close to me. They would come and go, going on stage to do their numbers then returning to sit down. There was no feeling of eroticism, from the stage or from the patrons, it was almost like the quiet observance of a ceremony.

After a while I stopped watching the stage and watched the strippers at their table, in their thin robes, chain smoking, talking and laughing, bright red fingernails and crossed legs, more animated there than on the stage.

Chris had done that, worked as a stripper, before I met her. I had changed her life completely she once told me. It was hard to imagine anyone changing Chris's life completely but that what she said.

Because of the music I couldn't hear the conversation at the strippers' table, I would have liked to sit with them, buy them drinks and listen to them. Perry and I had done that on the coast. He loved strippers, "Let's go catch some shakers." he would say and we spent a lot of afternoon doing that. My friend Perry loved action, any kind, the track, strippers poker, hookers, parties—he just loved to keep going.

He was a burglar and went to jail where he lost an eye when a con jammed a pencil into it over some mickey mouse card game. And that was that. I visited him just before I left the coast; he had a big bandage over one eye and was still on medication. He said it never stopped aching.

One of the strippers I found attractive; she was tall and slim with long black hair and oriental eyes, her mouth was large and she laughed loudly. Before I left I sent a round of drinks to their table.

Chapter 4

The restaurant was small and old fashioned looking with dim lighting from heavy Tiffany lamps, and high backed booths in dark wood and maroon leather. She was facing the door and I saw her as soon as I entered. Her blonde hair was longer and styled differently; their was a glass of wine in her hand just being raised to her mouth. She saw me at almost the same instant and put the glass down without drinking. Then the slow, familiar smile she was so good at.

I sat down. Her sunglasses and cigarettes were on the table, the same brand of cigarettes and they could be the same sunglasses. I remembered her in the back yard of the house on the coast, sitting on the deck, sunglasses and straw hat, her bare feet up on the railing.

"You look very good." I said.

"Thank you, and so do you." She sipped her wine, looking at me over the glass.

I glanced around the restaurant and wanted to laugh; I think we both wanted to laugh. We knew each other so well. It was not that there was nothing to say, there was nothing that needed o be said. There was no doubt now. For a few seconds we just looked and smiled then she reached over and put her hand on mine.

"Oh, Christ." she laughed, "let's eat. I hope you're hungry."

A waiter appeared with menus and asked if I wished something from the bar. I ordered then told Chris I liked her new hair style.

She didn't reply, just gave a little nod while her hand kept moving the wine glass in endless circles on the table cloth. Underneath the smile she was nervous, either about me or the thing she wanted to talk to me about. That was unusual for her but it would make things easier I thought.

We ordered our meals quickly and without deliberation. The six years were fading as if they had never been. Whatever the important thing was, she would tell me when she was ready. She had changed a little of course, she was thirty-five now; but the eyes, the smile, the gestures, were still the same. I wondered if she still exercised the way she had, if she still took hour long baths. I wondered about being in bed with her again.

She asked how I had been. I lit a cigarette for her and shrugged. "Not bad, I guess, and how about you?"

"That's quite a story, I'll tell you about it after."

The food came but she barely touched it, just sipped her wine. "I phoned everyone I could think of on the coast, couldn't find anybody, finally I thought of Leon." She pushed the food on her plate into neat little patterns then said "I saw the Prince about a month ago, he's in town. Did you know?" The Prince was Hugh Prince, an acquaintance we had both known. He had a few good years where he'd made a lot of money, most from rich, older ladies. "He looked terrible, wasted, as if he'd been beaten up. I couldn't believe it was him. He borrowed fifty dollars from me and said he wanted to keep in touch but I told him I was just passing through. It was sad. Remember how he used to be? Real class."

"Yeah, well, there will always be some lady around to look after him." But the ladies would be older and not rich and his stays would be shorter, until finally he would wind up in some roach palace with a junkie hooker and he'd o.d. or get killed over a drug deal and that would be that.

"Remember the sketch he did of us? I still have it."

"Sure, I remember."

She glanced from her plate to me, still making neat little patterns of food then abruptly pushed the plate away with a smile and sat back in her chair. I knew she was enjoying all this; her big surprise, the thing she had to tell me, the suspense she was creating.

I could wait, whatever it was it could be handled. Of course she could be with someone, that was to be considered, perhaps even likely, but that too could be handled. The food was fine and my appetite was good. We finished the meal without much conversation, just general gossip, we were both waiting.

Then we were done.

"Can we go for a drive. I'll tell you all about it. Do you have time?"

"Of course." I said. "Lots of time."

Chapter 5

The car was a red Jaguar convertible. "Don't be impressed," she said, "its leased. I won't have it much longer."

We drove through the darkening city, down side streets and then into the curving crescents and quiet streets of the suburbs. I watched her as she drove, she still had that look of concentration behind the wheel; the slight frown, the pursed lips; she could never be relaxed and drive, it was as though she was still learning.

She reached over and squeezed my arm. "God, its good to see, its just so good."

"And you still have great legs."

She was at ease now, the nervousness had been replaced by her old lets-get-on-with-it confidence and her voice carried an air of excitement in it. She parked the car on a deserted street and lit a cigarette. "Have you ever heard of Jack Foreman?"

"No." But the name tugged at my memory.

"Well, I've been with him for the last three years." She ground her half- smoked cigarette into the ashtray. "He was killed two days ago, in a car accident, coming back from the airport." Staring straight ahead, face and voice expressionless, forefinger tapping the steering wheel. Maybe that was why the name was familiar, I might have read it in the paper.

"He was in real estate mostly, buying and selling, and other things." A slight frown tightened her eyes. "He had some city hall connections and he worked on that, partying them, you know. He was...pretty smart."

There was a pause then she turned to face me and I smiled. "Now comes the good part, right?"

"Right, now comes the good part. Two months ago he went out of the country and when he came back he showed me a handful of diamonds." She cupped her hands as if showing them to me and I knew she could still see them. "All those beautiful, perfect, diamonds. He said they would make him a millionaire. He was coming back from the third trip when he was killed."

I leaned across and kissed lightly on the mouth. "And you think the diamonds are still floating around somewhere."

"I know it." Her voice was hard. "This is the big one, I know it."

"Okay, so he had to move them through customs, they could be hidden in his luggage."

"No, they sent the luggage to the house, I tore it all apart. But his briefcase is missing, a black alligator briefcase. I know he had it with him."

"Maybe the first cop at the accident found himself a bonus."

"No, no, I can't see that, anyway there's still the rest of the diamonds somewhere. I looked everywhere through the house."

"They could be long gone, or in a safety deposit box, they could be anywhere." she stared at me, waiting. "All right, let's start at the beginning. I want you to tell me everything about Jack; the things he did, things he said, the names of his friends, especially the names of his friends. Just talk, everything you can think of."

She lit a cigarette and turned away, looking out the side window. "Are you with anyone?"

"No, I''m not with anyone." I kissed her. "On the diamonds," I said. "fifty-fifty."

She put out her hand and I shook it. Then she began to talk and even as I listened, even as I asked questions and tried to pull something together from what she was saying, I wanted to laugh at myself. What was there about her? I had walked away before and I know there are some things, no matter how good they are, you have to walk away from. Michael Potter used to say you can be a smart guy a million times, all your life, but be dumb once, just one time, and everything falls apart. The whole thing about the diamonds was a long shot but that didn't matter, we could spend a couple of weeks looking for them. The important thing was that she was here and things would be just the way they were on the coast.

She talked for nearly half an hour. She couldn't tell me much about Jack's friends, only the names of a few city hall people who came to his parties and the big one, the big name for whom Jack threw the private parties; our very popular attorney general.

When she finished I hadn't learned that much about Jack's business but I thought I did know something about how his mind worked, the sort of man he was. He thought big and he planned carefully. It was an outside chance the diamonds were still around but at the same time it was too big not to check out.

I felt cramped from sitting so long. "You know there could be other people know about the diamonds, partners, connections, you know. Anyhow why don't we take a walk, get some night air, then we'll go to your place, have a few drinks, and talk about something else."

We walked along a quiet, winding crescent, most of the houses were dark and there was only the occasional car moving on the streets. Once a police car, cruising slowly, drove by, the two stolid black shadows in the car checking us out as they passed.

A fog was moving in, you could feel the mist on your face. At the end of the street we came to a ravine with a wooden walkway along the side. At the bottom there was some sort of community club; a large, flat, building and a baseball diamond, swings and a wading pool. We stood leaning on the railing looking down into the ravine where the fog was settling, blurring the buildings and the trees, making the harsh lights misty, softening everything, blurring the edges. Somewhere in the sky there was the sound of a jet plane.

She said. "You know, when we split up first I blamed you, then I blamed myself. I thought about you a lot, I tried..."

"Christina." I cut her off. "The thing is you don't have to say anything and I don't have to say anything. We don't have to say a thing." I don't like it, that rehashing the past, it always winds up as bullshit. Down below the baseball diamond had almost disappeared in the fog and everything was quiet.

We drove to her house in silence with my hand resting lightly on her shoulder. I wondered if it had not been for the diamonds would she have tried to find me. Maybe, at some point. I had tried to find her but she had disappeared, and nobody disappears so completely as hustlers and whores.

"Its just the next block."

"You know, when you unload diamonds you get at best twenty, twenty-five percent of their value."

"I know, I know, but there's plenty, and I was thinking, I have this idea, this thing Jack was working on with the A.G. that could...Oh, Jesus, Jesus, something's wrong."She had slowed the car almost to a stop and was staring at one of the houses.

"What? What is it?"

"The lights, somethings wrong, there should be three on and there's only two, something's wrong."

"Okay then, just keep on driving, take it easy, don't speed, make a left at the next corner." I kept looking behind, out of the rear window—nothing so far. "Okay, speed it up a bit, turn right, that's it, we need a main street with lots of traffic." A red God-damned Jaguar convertible, not too hard to spot, but still nothing behind us and now we were on a busy street. "We'll go to my place. I'm in the east end, fourteenth and Albermarle. You know where that is?" She nodded. "You sure about the lights?"

"Damn it, of course I'm sure, there are always three lights on; the hall the kitchen, the den, always, damn it."

"Take it easy, maybe the light bulb burned out."

"No, there are two lights in the kitchen."

"Okay then, go downtown and find a cabstand and park the car, this thing is like a neon sign. We'll rent a car and deal with everything tomorrow."

Chapter 6

In the apartment Chris paced up and down, lit a cigarette and cursed under her breath. "Bastards." she said. "Bastards."

"Why don't you sit down, I'll make you a drink. I've got gin and scotch."

"Scotch and water. Damn."

I made the drinks and handed one to her, she took it and sat down. I asked. "What's this thing about the lights? I don't understand."

"The lights are on an automatic timer, they come on automatically every night, we always left them on, its one of those burglar devices, makes it look like there's someone home. It was in the house when we rented it and Jack liked the idea."

"Yeah, well, we might have overreacted, still if you don't know the situation a little caution is not a bad thing. And you actually saw the diamonds?"

"I told you that. I held them in my hands." She strode quickly into the kitchen, drank a glass of water and made herself another drink.

"So he has to make three trips for these diamonds? Has to put his ass on the line three times? Why?"

"I don't know why." She sighed and leaned back in the chair. "All I know is he was going crazy trying to turn everything into cash; selling, mortgaging, borrowing. I think as he got money together he made another buy."

"And this is diamonds, not drugs." But there are some deals done with diamonds, easy to move, cashable anywhere. I remembered a South American cop who had come to town with a suitcase full of diamonds, bought a big house and a Mercedes than a month later he and the Mercedes both blew up.

She leaned forward, her voice excited again. "I know this; he didn't have a chance to sell them. I told you he was going to sell them in L.A. I was going to go with him, it would be a holiday. So they still have to be here somewhere." Her voice became angry again. "And now someone else is looking for them."

"Okay so someone else is looking for them." I was careful not to say "if". "He had to be dealing with someone, maybe he even had partners. I'm surprised it took them this long. Anyway, so they searched the house, you've already searched it. And you couldn't find the beach house?"

"That damned place, I spent a whole day looking for it. It was just for Jack's private parties. I'd only been there once and I slept most of the way. You know what the peninsula is like, a million cottages, all those side roads look the same." She paused. "Are we going to keep going over this?"

"This is business, Chris." And suddenly it was business, if there really was someone else looking for the diamonds that changed everything.

She asked. "So what now?"

"Nothing right now. Its important to know who else is looking and what the situation is because there are some people you just don't fuck with. Tomorrow I'll talk to Michael, if everything is all right we'll rent a car and check out the house again, then we'll try to find the beach house. Would you like something to eat?"

There was not much in the way of food in the apartment so I made some scrambled egg sandwiches, she made the coffee, both of us in my tiny kitchen. She bustled about, looking in the fridge and in the cupboards.

:I guess you don't exactly throw a lot of dinner parties, right?"

"When do you become Suzy Homemaker?"

"At least I did better than this, I did cook a few things, remember. Do you have a gun?"

"No, only a scrambled egg sandwich."

In bed with her, making love, it was familiar, physically remembered, the touch, the taste, everything, but at the same time there was a difference. I think we were both a little nervous, wanting it to be the way it was before and feeling responsible for making it so, and then, too, there were the diamonds spinning around in her head, but there was something else, some other thing that was different about the two of us, something I couldn't put my finger on.

Afterwords, holding her, looking into her face pressed against my shoulder I realized this was one of the memories, this exact picture, that I had carried with me for six years..

I think most women like to talk in bed afterwords; there is the shared intimacy, real or imagined, and the safe darkness. I suppose they think this is the one time when men will be honest with them.

I kissed her on the lips and on the cheek, holding her to me. "Tell me more about Jack."

Her eyes opened wide. "Tomorrow is the funeral." She turned away looking down into the pillow, her face almost touching it while her thumbnail made little nervous creases on the striped fabric, the words came slowly, each one set out clearly even though her voice was soft. "He was a nice man, I liked him and he was good to me. The parties were only business, he was quiet and he liked to read a lot. He said I made him laugh and he was happy with me. He was happy with me. It was all right, it wasn't great but it was all right."

"And when he died?"

"I felt badly, I was sad and a little bit scared. He was a nice man and he died. Everybody dies."

And that was that. She fell asleep in my arms.

She had always been an uneasy sleeper; she would twitch and murmur, sometimes saying a word or two. Her arm stayed around my waist, she brought her knees up and pressed her head down into my chest as if she were trying to burrow inside me. The year I spent in Mexico was the year I thought of her the most, every day it seemed; not pining or despairing thoughts, she would just pass through my mind, something would remind me of her. Mexico had been a new world to me, a different life, and something happened to me there. I wanted her to be with me there, it was not her style, not her kind of place, but she was the one I wanted with me.

She frowned and tossed her head back, then gave a groan and pressed her face into the pillow. She often had bad dreams; sometimes she would wake up terrified; old devils, specters from her childhood that would never be put to rest.

I was wide awake so I eased out of bed, made myself a drink then sat on a chair in the bedroom. The breeze from the open window was soft and cool. I sipped my gin and tonic, the glass moist in my hand, and I listened to her gentle breathing. She had said about Jack. "He was a nice man and he died. Everybody dies." If I died tomorrow she would say the same about me, that was how she moved through the world and I liked that about her. I liked what she knew, that everything is immediate, everything goes forward.

I sat there for a long time, the empty glass in my hand with the cool breeze, thinking about Jack and the diamonds. Everything looks better at night, the edges are blurred, things merge, dark shadows blend into darker ones.

Then I became aware that she was awake, on her side, facing me. Her voice was heavy with sleep. "You're still awake?"

"You remember, I never sleep much."

She opened the covers to me. "Come to bed."

Come in she said I'll give you—shelter from the storm, but not my storm, hers, her stormy nights, her need for shelter. I put down my glass and took the covers off the bed; I wanted the cool night air on our bodies when we made love. She held my face in her hands and I thought she was going to say something but she didn't, she just held my face then smiled and winked.

Love making is always better the second time, always better than the first. Afterwords we lay a little apart, just our legs touching, she was on her stomach, propped up on one elbow, smoking a cigarette. "The diamonds are very important to me. I don't know if you can understand but I want something of my own. All my life its been other people, they gave me things, they looked after me. I want something that's mine, I don't want to worry about what will happen to me or what I'll have to do or who I'll have to be nice to I want something of my own. I wanted so much to find those diamonds myself then go to you and say, "Hey Danny, unload these for me." She shook her head and gave a little smile. "I want something out of all this shit."

"Chris," I said. "don't get too built up on this."

"But do you understand. I don't want to have to be nice to anyone." She turned to face me. "I don't want to be nice to you because I have to, because I need to." she gave a little self-mocking smile and rolled over onto her back. "Oh Lord but its tough being a whore."

"Hey lover, we're all whores, every one of us."

Chapter 7

I awakened before her although I had slept later than usual. The warmth of her body in my bed was comforting, I moved closer to he pulling the cover gently over her bare shoulder. There she was—just another person, that's all, just another person. She was sleeping quietly, her body slightly curled, arms against her chest. Shoulders rising and falling almost imperceptibly with her breathing.

A breeze stirred the venetian blinds on the window and there was the sound of a car starting up, voices, laughter, then the car leaving, the sound fading until it was gone. I could smell the pleasant warm odor of her body mingled with traces of perfume and the smell of sex and the smell of dampness, like wet grass, from the outside.

I had dreamed of my mother. We were seated across from each other at a card table upon which my mother was playing a strange and complicated game of solitaire, all the while she ranted on about sin and Jesus and the Lord and damnation and so on. She was playing it all wrong; missing plays and making incorrect plays and I couldn't speak to correct her. That, or something made me very sad. She had a large bandage over one eye and never looked at me, just played the cards.

I woke Christina gently, whispering in her ear and stroking her back. She opened her eyes then closed them again. "Let me have just five more minutes."

We showered together—it had been her idea—just like the old days. The water plastered her hair against her head, ran into her eyes, off the tip of her nose and into her mouth. I held her tightly to me, my arms around her waist, her breast soft against me, then kissed her neck and her lips. We stood, water pouring down on us, as if dancing, her head tucked into my shoulder, her arms around me. Then I reached down and slowly began to turn the water colder, holding her so she couldn't escape. At first she tried to squirm away then stopped and pressed herself tightly to me, gritting her teeth and making little squealing noises until I turned the water off.

She stood behind me while I shaved, her face against the back of my shoulder so that I could feel her breath when she spoke. "I haven't been this happy in a long time."

I had the feeling she was trying a little too hard, all she could see was those handfuls of diamonds and good old Danny coming through to write the happy ending. That was all right, I could understand that. I said. "We'll go out, get some breakfast then see if we can do some business."

Seated on the bed watching her dry her hair, rubbing it briskly with the towel, running her fingers through it, I was aware of how I liked to watch her doing things like that; drying her hair, putting on make-up, getting dressed.

She frowned into the mirror then said absently. "I like your furniture." then seriously, with an exasperated sigh, "God, my hair's a mess."

"Its fine. We're only going out for breakfast. Its the wet look, very big this year."

She began to put on her lipstick. "Thanks. At least I don't have to decide what to wear."

Chapter 8

The morning was bright and cool with a few light, wispy clouds in the sky and a soft breeze carrying some of the moisture of the night rain in it. We had been walking only a minute when she said suddenly. "My father died. Finally." She walked a little more quickly and her arm tightened around mine. "The bastard. I didn't even feel glad. I didn't feel anything." She gave a little shake of her head.

"How did you find out?"

"My brother, we keep in touch off and on. He phoned me, collect of course, wanted me to phone my mother. Some chance. I'll bet she even cried at his funeral, cried for him. Jesus."

A moment later her mood changed, the intensity was gone. Her steps slowed and she gave my arm a little pat. Her moods came upon her so quickly, out of nowhere sometimes, anger flaring up and taking control of her, then just as quickly disappearing, not gone, just put away, replaced by something else. She was impatient and often unpredictable, that had caused quarrels between us, but when she was good she was very, very, good. Jack had said she made him laugh and I understood what he meant. It was not that she was especially funny or witty but when she laughed, when she was happy, you wanted to laugh with her.

We ate breakfast at a small outdoor cafe with white chairs and blue and white striped umbrellas. The waitress was plump with a pleasant smile and a cheery comment on the weather. The regular breakfast trade was over and we had the outdoor section to ourselves. As soon as the waitress took our orders and was gone Chris asked. "What if someone else is looking for them? What then?"

"First things first. Its a process." I wanted to lay down a few ground rules for her, make sure she understood, sometimes she could be a little too crazy. One thing I had learned from Michael Potter was caution, when you steal for a living caution is important, desperate acts lead to jail or getting yourself killed. "Listen Chris, the first thing we have to know is if Jack was playing with any very important people, because there are some toes you just can't step on. Was he working for them or in partnership with them in any way? That's what I want to find out, because if he was then it is all off, we walk away, all bets are off. You understand?" She nodded but she didn't like it. "I'll try to find out this morning."

"What if someone is looking for them and we're sitting here eating breakfast." She turned away with an expression of impatience. I stared at her until she turned back to me. "Okay, okay, you're the pro." She gave a little shake of hr head. "I'm just...let's have breakfast then."

"As soon as I talk to Michael we'll check out the house and you can get some of your things, then we'll try to find the beach house. Forget about the Jag, we'll rent a car." I didn't really think anyone was looking for the diamonds. I didn't even think the diamonds were still around but we would check it out. It was too big not to.

Breakfast seemed to relax us both, all morning I had felt a little irritated, irritated with her obsession with the diamonds and her impatience, but sitting there with her, eating breakfast in the sunshine, watching her, the irritation disappeared. There was not much in the way catching up for us, we had simply come back together again and we would get on with it. As we were finishing the meal she asked if I had been out of the country at all.

"I was in England twice, on business, these L.A. people have this con where they bring a mark to buy some would-be computer technology to sell to some would-be Syrians. Its a little complicated but it works. And the mark goes down quietly, naturally he doesn't want to admit he was trying to do some illegal business with the Syrians, and then our Syrian players put the fear of God into him. Nobody wants to dance with those people. Anyway it was very good, very professional people, good money, but it was all business so I didn't get to see much of the country. You know how it is, you take the score then hurry home."

"And you still see Michael?"

"Sure, of course, that's who lined me up with the L.A. people. Something happened to one of their players when they were just about to roll and they needed a last minute replacement. Then they used me twice again. Michael was the contact, he made a nice commission, I made good money, everybody was happy."

"Did you have to learn about computers?"

"Some. I took a crash course. One of the players was a computer whiz so he was the technician. That's the way it is. When I started out we used to hustle a guy with a deck of cards, now its stock information, or computers, or phoney arms sales. But its still all the same, only the spiel changes. Its all greed, that's what makes the wheels turn. When you see those little lights of greed in a sucker's eyes, then you know he's yours. Its all the same; a two dollar pool game hustle or a fifty thousand dollar arms sale, its all the same. But I did go out of the country, to Mexico, for a holiday. I was there a long, long time." I remembered a phrase she had used. "It changed my life completely." she didn't say anything, just leaned forward a little, curious. "I'll tell you about it later." And I would tell he about it although I knew I would never be able to really explain it.

She pushed her chair back. "Can we go?"

"Yes, back to business. I'll take you back to the apartment. I want you to stay there. Don't go anywhere, don't answer the door or the phone, leave the answering machine on. Remember if someone is looking for the diamonds they could be looking for you. Okay?"

She wasn't frightened, just resigned. "Okay."

I kissed her cheek. "It'll be all right. We just have to be careful."

Chapter 9

I first met Michael Potter when I was nineteen and scuffling about hustling pool. He was about thirty then and already a big time con man; he was very good, one of the best around and I could appreciate what an important connection he was for me. He took a liking to me. We went to baseball games together and played gin rummy for small stakes; his only recreation as far as I know. I was a good gin player in those days but he was better, with a mind like a computer. He taught me the big con and opened some doors for me.

I think it was only at the ball game that he ever relaxed. Those were the only times I ever felt at all close to him, the only time that the relationship was equal; just two guys at a ball game. He cheered for the Yankees and loved the game; the speed and precision of a good double play, the powerful grace of a home run swing, the long, slow drama of a pitcher's duel. At the ball park his whole body relaxed, the computer rested, he joked and swore and let the event wash over him.

Of course I thought he was a very wise man, I used to think he had the answers to everything. When I was ready he put me in touch with the right people and I learned the business. I owed him for that, but at the same time had I not been good I never would have lasted. What I mean is that even without Michael sooner or later I would have made it.

Some of the hustlers liked to joke about him because he was so cautious in his work and so conservative in his lifestyle. But he made a lot of money and never did any time, not one day, and I suppose that is what really counts. I used to think I was Michael's only friend, or as close to a friend as he could have, but that may not be true for there is much about Michael that I do not know. He rarely, if ever, parties, doesn't drink, nor does there ever seem to have been any women in his life. I do know he once paid to have someone killed.

He has always been an enigma to all of us, a secretive man who was impossible to read because he gave nothing of himself away. But no one knew better how to survive, how to plan a score, how to stay out of jail, than did Michael. I always gave him that.

I kept in touch with him, by phone on the coast, and in person whenever I was in town, it was good business but something else as well. I sometimes asked his advice, not that I needed or wanted it, it was something else, a sort of gesture. Perhaps it was my way of paying my dues, of keeping the relationship the same.. For despite everything that had happened over the years when we were together I was still the novice and he was the big time con guy with the good suit and the connections.

In an odd way I had come to resent that situation and even to resent Michael; that clever, cautious man whom I felt had somehow conned me. His caution and cleverness kept him aloof, even from me, and that I realized was the weakness, the failure, his own caution and cleverness.

About twelve years ago he quit, quit the con and bought a small bar downtown. Every day he is at the bar, in his booth by the window, chain smoking and drinking coffee. People come to see him, they check in with him. Not just anybody of course, only people that are very good at what they do; dependable professionals. Michael is a kind of agent. He puts people in touch with people. If you need a safe cracker, or a driver, or a good muscle guy, or a particular kind of con man Michael is who you see, and Michael is who you pay. He knows who is good and who is no longer good, where to buy and where to sell. He also has a very special ace-in-the-hole. He has a pipeline to Mr. Nicholas Gregory and associates; the people whose toes you do not want to step on. So everybody pays Michael and he sits in his booth every day with his coffee and cigarettes doing business. I suppose he is a rich man, he made a lot of money when he was on the hustle and he never was a big spender.

His bar is just a small neighborhood bar; five booths and ten bar stools, framed pictures of baseball teams on the walls, no music, a t.v., usually with the sound off. Just a nice, comfortable bar. . It never became a hangout for hustlers—you did your business then you left.

"Danny, Danny, its good to see you. Its been a while." He waved me to the seat opposite. "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine." the bartender was at the booth almost as soon as I sat down. I ordered a gin and tonic, Michael got a coffee refill. I once saw the reproduction of a portrait of some seventeenth century Italian prince that reminded me of Michael; there was the same long nose, the same high narrow brow, the same expression in the eyes, the casual arrogance that comes from a contempt for those less strong or less clever. He seemed to have aged a good deal since the last time I'd seen him; his skin was gray and hung loosely on his narrow face as if his bones had shrunk. His eyes, behind the horn-rimmed glasses, were sunken and unhealthy looking.

We exchanged a little gossip, a few names from the past. He coughed and his voice sounded raspier than usual. "You remember Steve Laquette, Little Steve, he died a couple of weeks ago, down in Texas. The man was a hell of a hustler, a beaver for work, but you know, you worked with him."

"Sure I did. I liked him. That's too bad, he was quite a guy; he just took whatever he wanted and worried about it later. I remember once we took off a score and his end was seventeen thousand—nice money in those days—he went to the track and blew the whole thing, every cent, never cashed a ticket. It never bothered him, there would always be another score tomorrow."

"The gambling, I know, I know, the gambling, he could never beat it."

"He didn't want to beat it. He liked it, that's the point. Its sad to see him go but he had a good run at it, better than most, better than square johns."

Michael took off his glasses and rubbed eyes as though weary then looked out the window. A group of four young women were walking hurriedly by; they looked young, and crisp, and bright. He coughed, a deep rasping cough, murmured "cigarettes" then put his glasses back on and turned to face me. "Our friends from L.A. might have something in a month or so, they're checking out a couple of prospects that look good. They want to know if you'll be around."

"I'll be around, its nice work."

"You're not going to drop out of sight again?"

My year in Mexico, the year no one knew about, not even Michael. It pleased me that there was something about me he didn't know, something he had not been able to find out. So I spun a story. "I thought you knew about that, my world tour. Well, not quite the world but a good piece of Europe anyhow; France, Spain, Portugal, Greece." I paused. He was watching me intently as he lit another cigarette. "There was a woman involved."

He nodded—oh yes, oh yes—and gave a little half-smile; there would be a woman involved, Little Steve the gambler, Danny the womanizer. He would never understand. "I see. I see."

I wanted another drink but ordered a glass of water instead. It was the first time I had ever spun a story on Michael. I liked Spain, Spain was very good." I didn't bother trying to read him to see if he knew I was lying. He was too good for that.

"Some people thought you were doing a little time, you disappeared so completely."

"If I'd been doing time, Michael, you would know about it. I don't tell a lot of people about my business, you taught me that. In the meantime..."

He leaned back, his right hand moving the gold Dunhill lighter back and forth across the cigarette package. He had owned that lighter a long time. I had once bought one just like it. "Yes, yes. In the meantime."

"In the meantime I need something. Do you know anything about a guy named Jack Foreman, just bought it in a car accident?"

"The real estate guy? Not much, had a few city hall connections, but not much. What do you need to know?"

"Okay, here's the story. My ex-old lady, Christina had been living with this guy for the last few years, and it seems Jack was a bit of a player. He was running something with diamonds, I don't know what exactly, anyway there is a chance there could still be a few diamonds floating around."

"Sounds a little vague, matter of fact it sounds like a con."

"It is a little vague but what the hell I thought I'd check it out. But the thing is I don't know if this Jack guy was connected with anybody. I don't want to stick my nose in where it might offend some local people."

He gave a little cough. "That's prudent, very prudent. I can check that out for you, just a phone call. Give me a shout about four. So if you do find these diamonds what do you do with them?"

"A few years ago, on the coast, I helped a friend move some. He dealt with a guy in Atlanta, you probably know of him."

"No need to do that. We can handle them right here for you. Save yourself the plane fare, provided there is enough to make it worthwhile."

Of course, that was to be expected, but Michael's friends would pay considerably less than Atlanta and then Michael would take his commission and by the time the score was cut I might get enough for a cheese sandwich. But if you want the blessing you pay the price. I nodded. "That's fine."

"So you and Christina?" in a slightly amused, tolerant father voice. I knew how much he disliked Chris.

"For the present, we're partners in this diamond thing."

"You haven't been working much in the last while, right, just this L.A. thing?"

"Yeah, its what I want. Everything is changing, maybe its me, kind of easing out of the business I guess. I've had a good run. I have some money sitting in Spain, a little investment, after a year or two I pack it in and retire there, sit on my Spanish beach for the rest of my life." I enjoyed lying to him, which surprised me and made me feel a little childish. They say, "never con a con" but I would take my chances.

"About those diamonds..." He gave a little shrug. "you do what you do very well."

"I know, a guy should stick to his own racket, but I'll be careful. I've done time once, I won't do it again."

"There are worse things than doing time."

"I know. I'll be careful."

"Be sure. Just take it easy." He reached over and in an awkward movement patted my shoulder. The gesture, so uncharacteristic of him, embarrassed us both for a few seconds.

"So what's wrong with the Yanks this year?" I asked.

"What's wrong? They don't play as a team, that's what's wrong. I saw them on the tube last night, they blow a five run lead. Can you believe that? Prima donnas."

"Hey well, next year."

"Next year is for losers."

We talked a little more then said our good-byes. Outside as I walked past his window I gave him the old hustler's sign; the right hand on the heart. It means everything is okay, the score is good. He returned the sign with a little smile; a weary old man in a good suit who sat in a bar every day drinking coffee and all he ever really knew was how to steal. Just another man in a box.

Chapter 10

The street was filled with bright colors and beautiful women, or so it seemed, and I was filled with energy and lust. I enjoyed my walk, ahead of me two kids on skateboards swerved in and out between pedestrians. They wore brightly colored shorts and identical black tee shirts with the word "Yes" on the back.

There was a little more business to take care of; a trip to the library to check the newspaper accounts of the accident, and the car rental agency to pick up some wheels.

Outside the library a young man who looked more like a lifeguard than a musician was playing the sax, he was playing a slow, bluesy ballad that I didn't recognize. When the song was done I dropped a couple of dollars into his hat, a sporty straw job that sat at his feet, and requested "Round midnight." there was a lot of familiar phrases and runs and an odd mixture of styles as though he hadn't quite decided yet who he wanted to be, but he played with excitement and feeling, happy in his work.

I don't like libraries much, for some reason they remind me of prison, so I did my business quickly. According to the newspaper account the accident seemed legitimate enough. The other car, with a young couple in it, swerved across into the wrong lane—head on-- all three dead. And that was that. There was a picture of Jack's car, a badly crumbled Porsche with the last two digits of the license plate visible, 46.

I wanted to think things out and the library was not the place to do it, not for me anyhow. I found it stifling, the atmosphere heavy and dull; the robot-like clerks checking the books out, the bored, gum-chewing students sprawled about studying, the bored men playing chess, they all looked like they were doing time.

Outside the sax player had gone back to slow ballads and had collected a small crowd. I began to look for a quiet bar or a coffee shop then I realized, with sudden clarity—I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk—there was nothing to think about. All that was needed was for things to be put in motion; Mexico, Chris, the diamonds, motion, movement, that was everything. How do you know Mexico will be the same? How do you know Chris will go with you? I know because I know, Michael. I know because I know.

Motion, movement. I phoned Leon. I had some holdings on the coast that Leon looked after for me; a piece of a laundromat, a piece of an income house, and a few stocks and things. I wanted everything converted to cash. Leon is a lawyer and I knew he would cheat a little with his legal hocus-pocus but not too much. He has a few clients like me, thieves of some sort, and he takes more from us than he does from his straight clients. However he knows with absolute certainty that if tries to really rip me off, scam me, I will pay to have someone break his legs. It is that kind of trust between us.

I waited nearly five minutes for Leon to come on the line, while I waited I watched a young couple seated at a sidewalk cafe. They were seated very close together drinking beer and his right hand, the hand nearest the girl, was under the table. I could imagine his hand moving gently on her thigh.

I told Leon what I needed and listened to his spiel. "Bad time." etc., etc. He was used to that kind of request from clients like me and it always meant a nice profit for him.

"Leon, I need the money. I need it here and I need it fucking fast. Don't let me down. I don't want to fly out there. Can I do it all from here?"

"Sure, sure, you can sign everything there, just get a few things notarized that's all. I'll get on it right away."

"I know you'll do your best. We go back a long way."

The couple had finished their beer and were talking animatedly, the man had both his hands on the table now. The girl was pretty in a spoiled, petulant sort of way.

When I returned to the motel Chris was watching television, smoking a cigarette and sipping a scotch and water. Her voice had a cranky edge to it. "God, I thought you'd never get back. I don't know how people watch daytime television, its like doing time." Her face was a question; the diamonds, yes or no?

"We'll know by four o'clock, and this is not like doing time, believe me. I made myself a drink, turned off the set, pulled over a chair and sat opposite her. I took a long drink. "Mexico." I said.

"Mexico?"

"I said I'd tell you about Mexico, well this is it. I went there for two weeks, I was bored, depressed, whatever. I didn't tell anybody, just went, Puerto Vallarta, very touristy, big hotel. After a few days I got bored again. I couldn't decide whether to pack it in and go home or try a different place. Then I ran into these people, on the beach, three kids, two guys and a girl, all early twenties, all from Boston. Anyway they had been backpacking all over the country, for four months, just drifting, find a spot you like you stay for a while then move on. So now they were all broke and going home.

I bought them supper and a lot of wine and listened to their stories. Sometime during all that I decided that was what I would do, don't ask me why, it sounds crazy, maybe I was just bored, anyway I decided I would try it. I got them to write out a list of places they'd liked and places to stay away from. They even gave me their maps. I'm sure they didn't think I'd do it, this old guy in the expensive hotel, it was all just the wine. Nice kids; Jeanette. Roger, and Isaac. I took down their names and addresses. Jeanette was wearing a tee shirt with that Satchel Paige quote, you know, "Don't look back, they might be gaining on you." So every town I stopped at I sent each of them a postcard with some reference to the quote, you know, "Still haven't looked back." or whatever."

She was watching me intently, with a slight frown, the smoke from her cigarette curling up just by the side of her face. I got up to make new drinks but hers was untouched. "Sounds a little sappy, right, from me?"

"And that is what you did, you drifted from town to town?"

I put the ice cubes, gin, and tonic into my glass. "That is what I did." there was no way I could really explain. "I'd go to a place, mostly little out of the way villages. The pace is different, everything is different, I felt different. I felt free I guess." But free wasn't the right word, it was something else, something more. It wasn't working, it seemed in the telling I was losing it, losing the feeling I had held onto for so long. "After a month I went back across the border, had some money transferred, then started out again. I knew there was something out there for me. I would check into these little run down hotels and all I had was my backpack. There was something about it, I could go in whatever direction I wanted whenever I wanted, and everything was new. I felt... I felt easy, relaxed from everything; no hustle, no always looking for the next score, no wondering if it will be your last one. After a while I found this town, Compestella, and I stayed there, stayed six months and got to know some good people. I think I was the only Nortamericano there but I wasn't a novelty, not after the first month. Mostly the people, the Mexican people, are very polite, courteous, it takes some getting used to. They respect your privacy, I like that."

She stood up and took my empty glass, hers was empty now too, and made fresh drinks. She didn't say a word, just sat down again, her knees pulled up under her chin, her expression calm and waiting.

I suppose I should have spun out some tale that made more sense and not tried to explain something I hardly understood myself. "Its the place I want to be, I don't know what else to say, something about the nights, the language, the music, the friends, just the way everything is.

About an hour way is this other little village, a small fishing village with a beautiful beach and a waterfall. I stayed there too."

I couldn't stay seated, I began to pace. "You are the only person I've tried to explain this to, no one else even knows I went there. I wanted it that way, even gave people a phoney story about where I'd been. I thought about you a lot while I was there, I wanted you to be with me. Anyway I'm going there, to Compestella, and I want you to come with me. Everything is different there, you're not always looking for the next score, trying to make something happen, you just let everything unfold around you. I can't be like that here. Even without the diamonds there is enough money. I made some big scores on the coast, we could live for ten years at least on that. I phoned Leon this morning to turn everything into cash."

"I'll go to Mexico with you." She said it softly, still staring at me, her chin on her knees, her expression gentle, almost wistful.

I believed her but I felt unsatisfied. I knew she didn't understand, it had been my experience not hers, I believed her but there was something that made me just a little uneasy. I wanted to go outside.

"Its only two o'clock.' I said. "Why don't we go for a walk."

We walked in silence to a small neighborhood park a few blocks away. The day had turned hot and I was sweating by the time we reached the park. There was a bench under a tree but she said. "Let's sit on the grass, its cooler."

The heat had slowed everything down, even the children playing on the playground structure in the corner of the park moved more slowly than usual, their voices seemed distant and subdued as if the heat was some invisible blanket, muffling sound and slowing movement.

After a while she looked at her watch and I knew she was thinking about the diamonds. She smiled. "Your Mexico, my diamonds."

We walked slowly back to the apartment, not touching, with our own thoughts and perhaps our own agendas. She was right, the diamonds were to her what Mexico was to me and I had to remember that. So then I would give it my best shot, I am a hustler, a player, and it is my business to know how to do these things. Jack had been a serious player so this could be a serious score, it could buy us a lot of years in Mexico, but there was something about it that made me hesitate. Maybe I was just tired.

"Tell me about the private parties Jack threw for the Attorney General."

"I never went to any, they were always at the beach house, I had dinner with and Jack a couple of times. Phillip Dowdall, the smiling Irishman, that's what Jack called him."

"Do you think he could have been involved with the diamonds?"

"Jack had a lot of real estate deals and he was trying to set up a trust company, he was just trying to move with the right people. The diamonds were a separate deal."

"I hope so, I sure as hell don't want to get involved with our A.G., smiling Irishman or not."

It was a little after three when we got back to the apartment. I wanted to ask more about Jack, not about the diamonds but about him and how they had been together, what they had done, places they had gone to, but I didn't. It could wait.

About three-thirty the phone rang. It was Michael's raspy voice. "Okay buddy, everything solid, all okay. No problem here. I guess you got a green light. Just take it easy."

"Don't worry I will, thanks. I'll be in to see you soon." As I hung up the phone, my back to her, I knew I could say it was no go with the diamonds and that would be that and the thought flashed through my mind, but it would leave things uncompleted, and I wanted the diamonds, for both of us. I t would be worth a little risk.

"Okay partner." I said. "Let's check out the house first and lets hope those diamonds are still around because this will be our last score for a long time.

Chapter 11

Driving the car I had a feeling of excitement, of anticipation, a kind of rush, it was, after all a score, and no matter how many times you've done it there was always that feeling with a score That's partly why we do it. If the diamonds were still around it should be a good score, Jack was not the type to play for peanuts. I wondered if someone really had been in the house, Chris seemed sure but the thing about the lights didn't sound too certain to me. Still I've learned that when in doubt exercise caution. If someone had been in the house searching it they might decide to wait for Chris if they couldn't find what they were looking for, but I didn't think they would wait this long.

I parked the car about half a block from the house but from where I could see it and the parked cars on the street. Nothing looked out of the ordinary but I didn't know what I expected to see.

"Just to be safe I'll go in alone. If everything is all right I'll come to that window and wave. If you don't see me after a minute or so drive to the corner, to the pay phone, phone the cops, give them the address, scream a lot tell them someone is trying to break in, trying to kill you. Do whatever you have to get a cop car here fast. Okay give me the key. Watch for my signal."

As I walked to the house I kept looking at the windows, searching for any movement; the slight ripple of a curtain, the disappearance of a shadow—but I saw nothing. It was a pleasant upper-class neighborhood; the lots were large, the lawns well cared for, the houses expensive. In the yard beside jack's a lawn sprinkler made the grass glisten in the sunlight and created a black wet half circle on the sidewalk. I stepped around it, out of the range of the sweeping arc of water. The only people I could see were two white haired ladies talking together on the sidewalk three or four houses down. A car drove past, an older woman driving. In my pocket my hand held the key.

The front door was closed but not locked. I walked swiftly through the house making sure no one else was there then signaled Chris. The place had been searched and searched by someone other than Chris, that was certain. Anything that could be moved had been moved, the floor was strewn with papers, cushions, and clothing. The sofas and chairs had been slashed open and there was stuffing all over the floor, the fireplace had not been overlooked, there was soot on the floor and black smudges on the pale blue walls. Even the stereo speakers had been smashed open. It looked more like vandalism than a search, you could see there had been enjoyment in the destruction. It was that way through the whole house.

Chris came in. "Jesus H. Christ."

"Well, now we know."

She moved quickly about the room, angry, muttering curses, picking things up, putting them down, kicking a cushion out of he way. "Damn, do you think they found them?"

"I don't think they were here to find."

But she wasn't listening, she muttered, "bastards, sons-of-bitches." the words spit out between pressed lips. She wasn't angry at the destruction only that they, whoever they were, might have found the diamonds. She picked up a nearly empty bottle of Vodka from the coffee table and screwed the cap back on. "Bastards even drank our liquor. Bastards. I knew we waited too long."

Her anger was irritating. "Chris, sit down and shut up for a minute. You want to do a score then try to act like a professional not like a fucking high school girl. Think things out. Two glasses with the Vodka, they sat here and drank almost a full bottle of Vodka. If they found the diamonds they wouldn't sit around drinking, they didn't find the diamond so they figured you had them or knew where they were. They were waiting for you. You slashed the luggage open, right? They'd see that and figure you might have found them. Anyway I don't think they would be here."

She was suddenly still and quiet, staring at me with her arms folded against her chest, her voice was cautious, mildly curious. "Then why did we come here?"

"I thought I might find something that would tell us something about the diamonds and the location of the beach house. Anyway we're not going to stick around. I don't like this. You go a suitcase, a small one, just what you absolutely need, you can always buy clothes. I'll take some things with us. Where did Jack keep his papers and where's the stuff he had on him when he died?"

"That was in an envelope on the suitcase." She nodded to a small room off the living room. "He kept some papers in there, in the desk."

The large manila envelope had been dumped out; a wallet, an address book, airline ticket copies, passport, and some typed material. I took that and everything in his desk that looked interesting.

She was down in a few minutes, standing quietly, a small suitcase in her hand. "I'm ready."

I probably should have gone through the place more thoroughly but I didn't. I looked out the side window. A quiet, almost deserted suburban street, the lawn sprinkler from next door was still going, a red convertible with a girl in a white tee shirt driving by, all seemed as it should be. I opened the door and we walked out into the quiet sunlight.

Down the street the two white haired ladies had been joined by a man with a cane. Nothing else, the sound of distant traffic, the faint hum of an air conditioner, and the sweet odor something like clover that I hadn't noticed before. Before we got into the car I looked in the back. There was no one and I felt a little silly and overly dramatic—too many movies where the shadowy figure with the gun rises from the back seat of the car.

I drove around for a few minutes to make sure we didn't have a tail. Chris stared out the window and smoked a cigarette. She was unnaturally calm, unnaturally quiet, her face expressionless. I wondered if she was frightened, there was an implied violence in the way the place had been ransacked. I said. "They might tie us together so I think we'll check into a hotel for a while. We'll go to an out of the way one, one of those out by the airport." There was no response. I asked "Are you worried?"

She didn't answer for a while and I thought she hadn't heard me but then she said. "A little." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "What now?"

"We find a hotel then look for the beach house tomorrow."

She sat up quickly. "Why not now?"

"It would be dark before we got there and we'd never find anything on those roads at night."

"Well, Jesus, its worth try."

"You couldn't find it in the daylight, we'll look through the papers, there must be something, a rent receipt or something. Chances are whoever else is looking doesn't know about the beach house and if they they'll have already looked. So we check it out tomorrow."

She sighed and went back to looking out the window.

On the way to the airport it occurred to me that we would be driving past the spot where Jack was killed. I wondered if she thought about that..

Chapter 12

The hotel room was large and pleasant, done in blues and grays, there was a large reproduction of a Monet on the wall; boats in a harbor, reflections on the water, mottled sky. I sat in a comfortable easy chair and looked through Jack's papers. There was no address for the beach house, nothing of any interest at all; property evaluations, financial statements, business letters, nothing that helped. What had I hoped to find? A treasure map—X marks the spot, twenty paces from the old oak tree? Even the wallet was almost bare; driver's license, medical insurance card, realtor's association card, no money, no pictures, no credit cards. I studied Jack's photo on the driver's license; large brown eyes, brown curly hair, thinning and touched with gray, and a mustache.

Although the room was comfortably cool Chris had changed into sorts and tee shirt her mood had changed as well, she was jaunty, in good humor. We had picked up some liquor on the way over and she made us drinks than lay down on the bed, her head propped against the pillows. She stretched out her legs and took a long drink. "Its god to lie down."

I gestured toward the papers. "Nothing there, a big blank, no keys, there's no money in his wallet."

"I took that, there was four hundred dollars."

"you were the common law wife for three years you should get at least a piece of the estate."

"Afraid not, sweetie, there's a will, lawyer phoned me day after the accident. I'm not even mentioned. He had a daughter some place in Kentucky, she gets it all whatever all is, the houses are rented, the cars are rented, the apartment blocks sold or mortgaged. I told you there is nothing left to get, its all in the diamonds. Two thousand in a safety deposit box."

What safety deposit box?" She sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, she sounded as if she didn't care one way or the other. He left a letter with his lawyer, you know, if he died open the box. There was a will and two thousand dollars. Three years with him and I wasn't even mentioned."

"It was probably an old will, before he met you. What do you say we order up some food and eat in the room."

"Sounds god, I want a nice big steak with mushrooms, and some chocolate ice cream.. You know, I'm really glad we're back together, it feels so right."

At that moment I wanted to tell her to forget about the diamonds, something about this score made me feel uneasy, we could just take off and go, that everything would work out, but I said nothing. I knew what the diamonds meant to her and I suppose a part of me wanted to be her knight in shining armor, the professional, the guy who could get the diamonds for her, certainly as good a hustler as Jack had been, and of course there was greed, the diamonds might just possibly be a nice fat score.

The fact was I had been spinning my wheels a little, holding back, maybe it had to do with Chris, something a little different about her. I wondered if she had the money from the diamonds would she still be interested in Mexico. But what the hell, I knew the only thing to do was to give it my best shot. If I was in then I was in then I was in and I had to act like it.

I kissed her lightly on the lips. "I'm glad, too. Why don't you phone room service, order some wine as well."

After we ordered the food she lay down on the bed again propped up with the pillows and lazily smoking a cigarette. "You know, the more I think about the better Mexico sounds." For a moment I wondered if she'd had enough of the diamonds, had the slashed furniture and the idea of someone waiting for her frightened her enough but then she said. "Jack was a clever man and he'd hide the diamonds in a clever place. You don't think they were in the house?"

"No, and there is a good chance they won't be in the beach house either but we'll check it out. The thing is when you are dealing with something illegal you don't want it on your premises or on your person, it establishes a connection, an ownership, and there is always the chance of someone knocking on your door with a search warrant. He might have buried them somewhere, they might be in another safety deposit box, its easier to hide a key than a bunch of diamonds. Two things bother me. Who are these other people looking for the diamonds and what is the connection to the Attorney General? What was going on there?"

She stared at the ceiling, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Jack had been cultivating Phil Dowdall for almost a year, it was just the last two or three months they

d been having these private parties at the beach house. They were private, not like the other parties." She closed her eyes and was quiet.

"Come on Chris, I want to know. What happened at these parties; boys, drugs, hookers, what?"

She gave a shrug and a sigh, for some reason she didn't like to talk about it. "I don't know, women I guess, some drugs. Jack and I did a little coke now and then and one time he cracked that was what kept the smiling Irishman smiling."

"And you don't have any idea who else is involved with the diamonds but you're sure it aint the A.G." She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. "Okay, okay, let's forget about it for now, we'll eat drink and be merry, we'll make love and watch television, the American dream."

And that was what we did. Later, lying with her in the darkened room I watched her as she watched the television movie of the week until, aware that my eyes were on her she turned and kissed me lightly. "Watch the movie, its very exciting."

From time to time I would turn to look at her, studying her face carefully. The six years had been good to her, I thought, they had softened her features and made her voice a little huskier but they had not softened the hard, quick anger, formed from some mixture of fear and hatred that was always present, always just beneath the surface. Whatever the strange complexities that made her what she was, she was what I wanted.

I supposed we had both changed a little, there was something just a little off, not quite fitting but what it was; a tone of voice, an expression, I could not say. But as I lay there with her in that darkened room watching the television movie of the week I knew that more than anything, more than any score, any diamonds, more even than Mexico, I wanted to be with her. I had told myself that I wanted her because she was my spark plug, she made me go, but it was not that, it was simply her, simply that I wanted her to be with me and I wanted to make her happy.

She turned to look at me and put her hand on my cheek, she gave me a quizzical smile and asked "What is it, Danny?"

All I could think to say was. "I'm glad we're together."

Chapter 13

I awoke with a start, wide awake as if jarred out of sleep by a loud noise, but there was nothing, everything was still, the gentle breathing of Chris beside me, the faint hum of some machine in the building, a far off automobile, nothing else. I looked at my watch, 4:25. I closed my eyes and tried to drift back to sleep again but I was wide awake, my mind racing with jumbled insomniac memories; scores, guys I had worked with, suckers I had taken, women, my mother making me kneel on the kitchen floor, pray, repent, how many times, then falling down drunk, Mexico, sunshine and sad songs, getting beaten up in the pool room of that jerk off prairie town, women, Pat, Elaine, Denise, Beth, all the thieves, Rick, Benny, Golfball, Marty, Michael Potter, who did I know who wasn't a thieve, the good times and the narrow escapes, and worst of all the jail time. Everything was going around, out of control, memory after memory. I wanted to turn off my mind but of course I couldn't. It was something that happened to me fairly often, it was like my mind racing out of control. It had been very bad in jail, worse than nightmares.

I got out of bed and made a drink. Reading would have helped but there was nothing to read, only already read newspapers. I drank my drink and looked out the window; at the moths circling the parking lot light, the dark gently moving trees, at a cat that walked slowly across the parking lot from dark to light to shadow. I had made the drink too strong, it had a raw edge to it. No stars in the sky, a cloudy night. Finally things slowed down.

Beth, Elizabeth, sometimes I called her one sometimes the other. She had been right after Chris and she had been my excursion into, my invasion of, the other side of the tracks. She was rich, her family was rich, her old school friends were rich. She was bright and kind and loving and she moved through life easily and gracefully. She always had. Her parents were kind decent rich people that loved her, childhood had been summers at the lake, crushes on older boys, tennis, a year in Europe after college. She had been able to move through everything, and everyone, without a mark, gliding smoothly and properly through it all, or so it seemed to me.

There were times her life style had angered me, filled me with resentment. I wanted to shake her, to slap her face, to scream at her. "You don't know anything. You don't know a fucking thing." there was always a part of me that wanted to hurt her. Not her fault I know, just the fucking world.

The last afternoon we were together, the last time I saw her, with her sobs of disbelief, like a child that has lost a toy, I knew the hurt was temporary, it would pass and never leave a scar'

I tried reading the newspaper again and even wondered if there was a Gideon Bible in the room, reading always calmed me. In jail I read every day, often until my eyes ached and the words swam. The diamonds; there might be a key somewhere, to a safety deposit box or to a locker; a locker, the hustler's favorite, available seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, one of the type you can rent by the week, somewhere a key. Or they could be buried, or gone, but if gone where was the cash? Swiss bank account? Not according to Chris. Found at the car wreck? That wouldn't be all of them. Who else was looking? I should have gone through the house, nervous, something about the slashed furniture maybe. I had to find out who else was looking, what precautions needed to be taken. The private parties and the trips for the diamonds started about the same time, maybe co-incidence. Jack was setting up something, something more than political clout, some kind of shakedown or heavy score. That I believed.

I made myself another drink—maybe I could drink myself to sleep--then lit a cigarette and sat in the one comfortable chair. I could see Chris's face in the soft light from the window. She was sleeping quietly. Her purse was on the coffee table and I wondered if she still carried the Exacto knife in it. She had always carried one for as long as I had known her. She had a fear of being attacked, it was her personal nightmare.

She had used it once I know, on the coast. She had left a bar near closing time with the Prince, he had gone to get the car while she waited on the sidewalk. Some drunk grabbed her, pushed her against the wall and she slashed his face, not once but five or six times. The bouncer, who knew he saw it happen. The Prince gave him three hundred dollars. Her coat and blouse were bloody where the drunk had fallen against her. I took her to a friend's place, threw away the bloody clothes and the Exacto knife then sat up all night with her. She was sick, vomiting, and wouldn't let me touch her for a long time, she just sat on the bed sobbing. The next day she bought a new Exacto knife.

The second drink was gone and finally I began to feel drowsy. I was tired of everything, I wanted it all done with, I wanted out. I wanted Mexico, Mexico and Chris. I had always slept well in Mexico.

Chapter 14

Finding the beach house turned out to be the first problem. We knew the general area, the town it was near, and not much else. The town wasn't much of a town; a motel with a restaurant, a gas station, an ice cream stand, a grocery store, a few houses and some boarded up buildings. I inquired at the gas station on the off chance they might know Jack by name or remember him because of the Porsche, but no one there or at the restaurant, could help us.

Chris was sure it was a mile or two past the town along the highway, then, she thought a right turn then a left. The one definite thing she remembered was a pyramid of rocks with a flagpole that marked the turn-off to Jack's road. It was a short, dead end road, and his was the only house on it.

So we drove, trying side road after side road, getting lost, going back to town, starting again. Chris was agitated and apologetic but I told her to take it easy, we would find it. The searching didn't bother me, it would just take a little time.

It was real cottage country with tall pine trees, hills, and twisting dirt roads. Most of the cottages were small, little retreats often with the family name painted on a board hanging from the gatepost. Then there was one section, a long, winding strip along the lake filled with the summer homes of the more affluent. Most of these homes were old and spacious looking with large screened-in verandas and well cared for grounds, a few had tennis courts and most had flag poles, the flags on this day hanging rather limply. Anglo-Saxon traditional; it made me think of Beth and her "summers at the lake" the best part of her childhood, she said, where she had learned to sail and to play tennis.

Chris said. "It was more remote, further west, I think."

"We'll go further west then."

Finally we found it. I drove right by the pyramid of rocks with the flagpole. "That's it. I know that's it." When I backed up I saw something down the road, a white car pulled halfway into a driveway.

"Shit." I drove forward then took the first turn to the right, then another, circling Jack's road. I was swearing steadily, angry at being beaten once more. I had been spinning my wheels, halfway in, well no more, if I was in then I was in.

I stopped the car and lit a cigarette. "I've had enough of this bullshit. I'm going to find out who the hell that is, I need to get a look at the license number."

I drove until I came to the road again then drove by it and took the next side road about a hundred yards. I stopped the car. "Okay, I'm going to crawl through the bush and see if I can get the license number of the car, then we can find out who owns it. This whole thing is starting to piss me off. You get in the driver's side and keep your eyes open, maybe even leave the motor running."

"Danny..."

I didn't want to discuss anything. "Don't worry, I'll be careful. Keep your eyes open and for Christ's sake wait for me."

I had only a vague idea of the distance and direction I would have to go. The bush was thick, it would provide good cover if it ran all the way down to the other road. I moved cautiously, going slowly, listening, half crouched, half crawling at times. I wasn't silent and with each noise I made I would stop and listen. There is always noise in the bush; squirrels, chipmunks, leaves rustle, twigs snap.

I knew how easy it was to get turned around, to lose your direction, so I would stop and check my landmarks to make sure I was still going the right way. It was a feeling I remembered from when I was a kid, alone in that other world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles, then it had been a safe, comforting place, now there was a feeling of danger. That feeling intensified everything; sight, smell, hearing, the anticipation of your body. My knees and hands were muddy from the damp ground and I had scratched the back of my neck but I felt good, a little pleased by the excitement.

It was slow going because the bush was thick and I didn't want to hurry. I went even more slowly as I felt I be almost to the road. Then I saw the car, a white Caddy about five or six years old and a bit banged up, angled halfway into the driveway. I had come out well past the front end, I would have to double back to see the license plate. There was a large rock I could use as a marker.

I waited and watched for a minute or two trying to see if there was a lookout man anywhere, any sign of life. I couldn't see anyone. I doubled back and came out to where I figured I could see the back end of the car. This time I was right on—4326 GLF. It wouldn't be a wasted day after all. The return trip was much easier and quicker.

I got in behind the wheel. "4326 GLP"

"You okay?"

"Just a few mosquito bites. I can find out who the car is registered to, maybe find out who we're dealing with, probably local talent, if talent is the right word. Now we'll go back to town, have something to eat and watch the highway. When we see 4326 GLP, old white Caddy, head back to the city then we check out the beach house. Too bad these guys beat us to it. Why do you call it a beach house, I didn't see any beach?"

"There is at the back, not really a beach, there's a kind of lagoon, an arm of the lake, but its no good for swimming, all rocks and reeds. We just called the beach house."

At the coffee shop we took a booth by the window where we had a good view of the highway, it was a two lane highway with little traffic. The gas station was directly opposite us, on the other side of the highway. As I watched a pick up truck drove in and a young man in jeans and work shirt got out and talked to gas attendant. They talked for a minute or two then the young man drove off without buying any gas.

We ordered sandwiches and coffee then ate in silence. I thought Chris looked sad, her mind somewhere else. "Do you miss him?"

She looked away then answered slowly as if thinking about it for the first time. "No, I don't miss him exactly, everything happened so fast. I think about him sometimes." She paused. "I guess what's sad is he was setting up this one big score and then he could quit, just take life easy."

"Maybe, hard to say. Jack was a player and some players just can't quit. The hustlers dream, the one big score, but then you take that score and there is another big one, so you take that. Some guys just have to be in action, some guys, most hustlers, just can't quit." All the time I watched the highway.

"But you can quit?"

"Yeah, I can quit. I just want to do something else. But I couldn't before. Even when I was doing time I never thought of quitting, and I do bad time. I was in this jerk off prison farm with nothing but punks; car thieves and wife beaters, kids that break into a liquor store and think they're Willie Sutton. I hated every day of it but I knew as soon as I hit the street I'd be looking for a score. I can still do it if I have to though, don't worry, if everything falls apart and we go broke I can still hustle with the best of them. I do it well. I just want a change."

"God, I'd love to retire, leave all this bullshit behind. Mexico sounds better all the time."

About fifteen minutes later I saw the car. "There it is." The caddy pulled in for gas right across the highway from us. "How about that." I couldn't see much of the figures in the car then the far door opened and the passenger got out. He was tall and slim and looked like a cowboy, he had the boots and the leather vest over the plaid shirt. Everything about him was skinny, even his face looked narrow and pointed, he had curly red hair with long sideburns and a droopy mustache. I had never seen him before.

The cowboy walked to the soft drink machine at the side of the station. He walked slowly with a bit of a swagger, his head turning constantly as if looking all about him but it didn't seem as if he was actually looking, it seemed more like a nervous habit. He leaned against the machine sipping his drink and looking all about him. The car driver paid for the gas then stuck his head out the window to yell something at the cowboy. The cowboy looked over but continued sipping his drink, still leaning against the drink machine. I couldn't get a good look at the driver, blond and beefy, that was about all I could tell. The cowboy finished his drink, crushed the can in his hand then drop kicked it toward the car. It was something a kid might do. Then he walked slowly back to the car in the same head swiveling manner.

They left with a squealing of tires, cutting dangerously in front of another car.

"You ever see them before?"

She shook her head. "Who do you think they are?"

"Cheap muscle, probably working for somebody, not what you would expect on a big score. The way they searched the house was unprofessional, not methodical at all. They don't seem like the kind of people Jack would be working with, or doing business with."

She smiled. "You didn't know Jack."

"I know him that well. Anyway let's go see what they did to the beach house."

Chapter 15

Once again a shambles, not as bad as the city house but only because there was less furniture to mutilate, fewer drawers to dump out, fewer pillows to slash open.

We did a half hearted search of the house, hoping there might be something they had missed. Chris did the upstairs, I did the downstairs then the front yard and the back area all the way down to the water. Nothing, no diamonds, no key, nothing but a stiff back and the beginning of a headache.

There was coffee so I made a pot and we sat in the huge front room of the house, it took up nearly the whole ground floor, and sipped our coffee and smoked our cigarettes, neither of us with much to say. The house was as impersonal as a hotel room, no style to it, no personal touches, just a place, a place of business. This was where Jack held his special parties, and might have stashed some diamonds. This scheme, that scheme, completed or half completed. Jack was the mystery man, the phantom, the man with the diamonds, with the key. No, no mystery man, no phantom, just another guy trying to do something trying to make a score, and then he died. If that other car had not swerved out of control he would still be doing it; putting things together, lining things up, trying to make something happen, Chris would still be with him and I'd be looking for the next score and thinking about Mexico. Now he was gone, his presence gone, leaving behind a few possessions, a kid, a woman, and some half completed schemes, all of which would be absorbed with just a small shuffle, and an adjustment or two. He was out, a small disappearing ripple, and we were sitting in his living room drinking his coffee.

Chris yawned. "God, I'm hungry. Where do you want to eat?"

"The hotel, I want to shower first. I need to make a couple of phone calls on the way in." I gave her a reassuring hug. "Hey, we're getting there, partner."

"Don't you ever get discouraged?"

"Not too often, this aint a lottery, its a business, so its a process. If you are ninety per cent thorough and maybe fifty per cent smart then maybe eventually you get lucky."

"Who am I to argue with the expert? You know what you're doing and I trust you." Then with her old self mocking laugh. "Now don't you just know I'm nothing but putty in your hands, have your way with me if you want." She was trying hard but it didn't quite work, it sounded as if she was trying, it sounded strained.

"Yeah, right, we'll talk about that later."

She was tired and edgy, the quick half smiles, the eyes that never settled anywhere, she didn't like this at all, always too impatient. Chris who had been around hustlers most of her life still didn't know what it was all about, she thought it was like in the movies where everything always works like clockwork. Well, its not like that, a con is a like a business deal and lots of business deals don't work out. Anything can go wrong; somebody sleeps in, a car won't start, for no reason at all a sucker gets cold feet and backs out, anything. I remember once this con mob had a mark ready to go when the guy up and dies of a heart attack, right in the car with them. Nick, the inside man on the score, told me about it. "Very weird, Danny, very weird, there we all were in the car together laughing and kibutzing one minute and the next minute the guy is dead. It makes you think, you know that, it makes you think." Nick never said what it made him think about, probably that if the guy had lasted just two or three more hours they would have had the perfect score. No witness.

That is why being a hustler is different than being say a safe cracker. If you are a safe cracker you go in and do your business and if you are away you are away. When you hustle you leave your face with everyone you steal from. That is why when you start hustling for serious money, when you are in the big con as they say, you do all your work out of town. I wonder how many guys there are out there that remember my face. That fact becomes a part of who you are. Always looking, always, always looking, checking faces, not that it is a strain or anything, just a habit you live with, part of being in the business.

I stood up. "Well?"

"Yes." She stood up and put her arms around me, I kissed her lightly on the forehead and then on the lips. She held me tightly for a few seconds then gave a long melodramatic sigh and too my arm. As we left she looked briefly around the room. "I really don't like this place at all."

I stopped at a pay phone on the road and made two calls; one to a guy who could get me the name of the owner of the white Caddy, I told him I'd phone him back, the second to Eddy Joyce, my long time friend.

After only a minute Chris's mood changed abruptly, she was like an actor jumping into another role, the sense of humor returned and with it the easy smile and the lively, knowing eyes. It made the ride back pleasant, we slid comfortably into our grooves.

I would look at her from time to time. She was an attractive woman, a good looking woman with a good figure, but that wasn't it, she made me laugh, made me feel easy, she challenged me and she never, never ever, bored me. Maybe it was as simple as that. I suppose, too, it was everything that she was, whatever she was formed by, her mother and father, dear old dad still in her dreams the exact knife still in her purse, all the devils, the nightmares pushed into your face when you're too young to defend yourself, the questions that are never answered, the devils never exorcised.

We had fought often, especially at the last, bad, stupid, fights. I have always been bad in relationships, I play to win and With Chris there could be no winning, only a truce at best. I ran to Beth with her ease and her grace, her charm and her money, but underneath, inside Beth there was nothing; no dark and twisting alleys, no hidden fearful places, nothing. It was not her fault, she had just never been anywhere.

"Do you like Mexican women?" Chris, sunglasses and cigarette, nodding her head gently to the music from the car radio; not being cute or coy.

"Yeah, I do, not just the young, pretty ones, the old ones too, most of them, the way they walk, something about them, they get old but they don't stop being women, and I tell you they don't take crap, yeah, they look good."

I remembered my last day in Mexico, in Puerto Vallarta, killing time. I watched one of the big luxury cruise ships dock and unload the passengers for a stopover. The passengers had been mostly women; rich, older, North American women it seemed, with their white white outfits and expensively colored scarfs. There were only a few men. I supposed most of the husbands were back in New York or Houston getting coronaries or bedded down with their twenty-five year old mistresses, or dead.

The women looked frail and afraid, afraid of anything new, afraid of anything not sterilized. I could see it in the way they moved, in the tenseness of their overly made up faces, and I knew it was in their eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses. This was how The Prince had made his living, these women were his scores, listening to them, flattering them, making love to them. That takes a special kind of person.

"It isn't because of the women that I like Mexico. I don't know what it is, maybe its just someplace else."

She didn't say anything just slouched down in her seat with her eyes closed and sang along half to herself, to a song on the radio, an old song, Marvin Gaye and Tami Terrell.

Chapter 16

The hotel room was cool and smelled of some kind of scented spray. The neatness of it; the precisely made bed, the folded towels and the sparkling clean ashtrays, was appealing, pleasant to come back to. Chris undressed while I phoned the man about the Caddy.

"Frederick Gutterson, thirty-three years old."

"Okay thanks, its in the mail."

I would mail the money tomorrow, I didn't want to use a hotel envelope. Chris called to come on in the water was fine and so I did. Fooling around in the shower I half fell and banged my elbow. It hurt like hell. So like I always say, being a gonif, a thief, is a dangerous business.

Chapter 17

Eddy Joyce lived in a large, modern apartment building in the north end, far from his place of business. There was a doorman seated at a desk in the vestibule, a black guy who slid the magazine he was reading under some papers on his desk when I entered. His gold-buttoned navy blazer and his white shirt both looked too small for him, the double breasted jacket stretched tightly across his portly frame and the stiff white shirt collar seemed imbedded in the soft folds of flesh that was his neck. His hands lay palms down on the desk, unmoving, only his head moved, tilting slightly upward to meet my eyes. The face was round and shiny, the eyes soft and gently inquisitive. "Yes?" he asked. His voice was soft too, somewhere between a whisper and a sigh, it made you want to whisper in return. Maybe it was a game he played.

"Mr. Joyce," I said. "Tell him its Danny." My voice came out louder and more brusque than I intended.

He rang upstairs while I gazed at the four security camera screens on the table by his desk; gray and black pictures of hallways and underground parking. Not much happening there either.

He put down the phone and pressed a button on his desk, there was a buzzing sound. "Twenty-seven fourteen.'

"Yes, I know, thank you."

"Yes."

Eddy opened the door almost as soon as I rang, he had on a white bathrobe and his hair was wet. "Come in, I got held up downtown, just got out of the shower. Grab a drink, I'll be right with you."

I poured myself a drink and toured the room. Eddy changed his furniture about once a year and his women about twice a year. It was a joke between us. "like the oil in my car." he said. I liked his taste in furniture' modern, clean lines, no clutter, solid colors. Despite the changing furniture the place always looked more or less the same, always the same style.

Eddy entered the room, dressed and with a notebook in his hand. "Just let me get rid of this call here, okay."

There was a new painting on the wall and I studied that while Eddy made his call. The painting was a kind of family portrait; a man, a woman, and three children, all spaced evenly across the canvas, seated, at least in a seated position for there were no chairs, they just floated in space. The background was jungle-like with rusted out automobiles and household appliances overrun with grass and bushes. Snakes, crocodiles, tigers, and the like were there too, it was all very detailed.

Eddy was off the phone, it had been some kind of real estate deal. "You like it?" he asked.

"Yeah, I like the expression on the faces. Is it worth anything?"

"Not much now, maybe later if I'm lucky."

Eddy is what we call solid people. I've known him a long time, since when I first came to this town and we were both teen age pool hustlers. We have been close friends eve since and I guess he is the only guy that I completely trust. Like we say, I would go to the wall for him and he for me. He started making book a few years back and has done very well at it. For the past five or six years he has been putting money into real estate seems to be doing not so bad at that as well.

Eddy makes book in Number Four Ward, the Irish ward, where Eddy was born and raised. Number Four Ward is one part of the city where Nicholas Gregory and associates have little or no influence. Number Four is run by an old Irish mobster, Tommy (Tough Tommy) Mcdermott and his family. Eddy is like an adopted son which gives him a great deal of clout, not just in the ward but throughout the city.

I sat down on his comfortable new white leather sofa and sipped my drink. "How's your love life these days?"

"Jeanette left, a week, ten days ago." He gave a little what-can-you-do shrug.

"Golly gee whiz, I thought you two kids were just made for each other."

"Screw off. She was all right, a nice girl."

"I remember, I met her that once, she seemed nice. Quiet, she didn't have much to say, that can be a blessing. Pretty young."

"Yeah, pretty young, twenty-three, but that was no problem. Nice girl, very affectionate, kind of an old fashioned girl. Really she is, she liked being a housewife, cleaning up the place, cooking, all that."

He got up and went to the little bar in the kitchen and brought in the liquor, the mix, and the ice and set them down on the coffee table. "Let's save a little energy here." He poured fresh drinks. "So anyhow I'm a very neat guy and I have maid service so what is she going to do. And I don't like eating at home, I'm used to eating out, but she liked to cook these big elaborate meals." He paused. "And they were very good, she is a good cook."

"I know, she cooked the night I was here."

"Right. But you know how it is, its hard for me to get home at a specific time. I tried to explain to her, I'm in business, things happen, I don't work in a hat factory, but I don't think she understood. She thinks like a square john, she didn't understand the business, she didn't understand my friends, I don't think she understands the world, which is okay I guess. Anyway I tried, but well, same old shit, everything starts closing in, you start getting edgy and that makes her edgy and well... same old story. What do you say we move out onto the balcony?"

We moved out onto the balcony. I don't like heights and sitting out on his balcony I always feel a bit nervous for the first five or ten minutes, but that time, in the half dark, with the cool air and the city lights below, with the liquor, I felt fine.

"A beautiful night, just a beautiful night.." He leaned back almost disappearing in the shadows. I acknowledged the beauty of the night and he tapped his glass gently against his teeth, then finished his drink and poured another. "You know, I miss her, I really do. Maybe I should have done things differently but shit... usually when I split up there's just a feeling of relief but not this time. I don't know, it just gets difficult. Maybe I'm just not meant to live with someone."

"Maybe you have just stayed together on weekends."

"That would have been the sensible thing but who ever does the sensible thing. I'd still like to see her, take her out, maybe work something out."

"Can you do that?"

"It never works. Still maybe I'll try, what the hell. So what's happening with you?"

"This and that, one thing and another, still making a living, I guess the news is I'm back with Chris."

He was lighting a cigarette and he paused, then lit it and inhaled deeply. "That's excellent, good for you, that is news. How did you find her?"

"I didn't, she found me, and a story goes with it. That's what I wanted to pick your brain about. Maybe you can give me some information."

"I'll try. Go."

"Jack Forman."

The guy that just bought it? Didn't know him, knew of him. A friend of mine knew him slightly. He was a hustler, not like you, but a hustler, always trying to set up the big score. He was in real estate, that's how my friend knew him, nice guy, he said."

"Yeah, Chris lived with him up to the time he bought it. He was doing some dealing with diamonds, at least I think he was, and I've been looking for them."

"The case of the missing diamonds, sounds like Sam Spade. Its possible, there's always deal around, and not hot goods, its a pretty good way of moving money around, usually from abroad. A couple of years ago some of the local drug people were investing in them but I haven't heard of anything in particular lately. Anyway what's the problem?"

"The problem is two other guys are looking for them as well, a couple of punks, one is named Fred Gutterson." He frowned and shook his head. "Both late twenties, early thirties, one guy is tall and thin, curly red hair, mustache, looks like a cowboy, the other guy is blond, crew cut, beefy. They drive a white Caddy, an old one."

"That's easy. That's Tommy Malkin and I guess Fred is the Cowboy , that's all I've ever heard him called, the Cowboy. They hang around the Alhambra, Mickey Shea's place. Its on my beat, I'm in there two or three times a week." He leaned back in his chair, his face disappearing into the shadows, the orange glow of his cigarette moved down to the arm of the chair. There was the sound of a siren coming closer and I could see the flashing red light of an ambulance a couple of blocks over, then it was gone and there was just the sound of traffic from below, softened and distant.

Eddy moved one of the chairs so that he could put his feet up on it, then slouched further down. "Ahh, that's better. Okay, Tommy and the Cowboy, Butch and Sundance, bad people, Danny, both looney tunes, wired all the time, bad people you know what I mean. You don't deal with those people, you pay to have someone shoot them which is what is going to happen to them sooner or later anyhow. They used to do a little free lance muscle work, for drug guys and shylocks but nobody uses them any more, too crazy, not dependable, they get carried away, they go overboard." He emphasized the last as a kind of warning, took a drink and went on. "They have a couple of girls on the street and they deal a little. I guess they make enough to stick whatever up their noses or into their arms. They've got some kind of assault beef pending now. Mickey went bail for them, I hear he's got them off the hook a few times. I'm sure by now he wishes Tommy would go away or die.."

"So why does he do it?"

"Family, man, family, the weight lifter's mother is Mickey's sister, father died when he was a kid, one of those things."

I poured another drink. There was something, something I'd once heard, it tugged at my memory and then suddenly I had it, a long ago scrap of conversation, something about the A.G.' s hunting buddy owning a sleaze bar on the street.

:Listen, aren't Mickey Shea and Dowdall, the A.G. buddies, don't they go hunting together or something?"

"Good friends, real tight, they grew up together, in number four, just three blocks from me, they were in the same gang. I didn't know them too well, they were a little older, I was in a different gang, but yeah, they've been friends for a long time, hunt together, get drunk together, you know."

"Well, Jack Forman knew Dowdall, they had private parties together. Maybe they weren't parties, maybe they were doing business, maybe all three of them were connected with the diamonds. I know Jack was trying to get next to Dowdall, maybe set him up, he had something going." I told him what Chris had told me.

"That's a surprise because nobody gets next to Dowdall, its been tried. The guy is a straight arrow, matter of fact he's a fucking fanatic about it, nobody buys him. That much I do know. As for Mickey, I don't see him being involved in any diamond deal. Besides the Alhambra the guy owns two hotels and a lot of real estate, he's a millionaire a few times over." He raised his hand to stop me but I had no intention of interrupting . "I know, I know, you've hustled millionaires, greed is greed is greed, but I tell you what I know. I don't see either being involved in a diamond deal, not at all." He saved the best for last. "Mickey is out of the country, has been for a month, on a world cruise with his old lady. Also he's a dying man, got maybe a year with luck. He weighs about ninety pounds and looks like he's two hundred years old. It has to be something else."

"I think you're right, it has to be something else. But these guys are looking for something and there is a connection, if these guys are close to Mickey Shea then Dowdall probably knows them too, the Cowboy and the Irishman. Jack Forman had something going with Dowdall, at the very least a little coke, he was setting the man up, I know it, so maybe there's pictures or something, but where do the diamonds fit in? The smiling Irishman, fucking Irish they're worse than the Wops. Tell me what do Irish nutcass do to get their kicks; rape nuns, diddle altar boys, whip Englishmen?"

"You should know, you're Irish, they jack off. The Irish are all sexually repressed. Listen, if you are going to be dealing with those two loose cannons you should think about hiring a couple of really good professional muscle guys. I can put you in touch."

"I don't intend to deal with them or even to see them. I give this one more day or two, one more step. No diamonds, we walk away. Then I...we...Chris and me, we're going away for a while. Just do nothing, no scores, no hustle, just do nothing, for a long time. I need the change, I guess the truth is it aint quite like it used to be, I can still do it but something's changed and I could get careless. So I'll do something else for a while, a different life.."

"I guess I've seen it coming, you've been doing it for a lot of years and now maybe its just that time."

"Maybe it is." And maybe it was. Getting old, getting old, I suppose I suppose.

He stood up. "Anyhow the offer is always open, you and me, it wouldn't take much money. Its a good time for real estate and you'd be good at it. I'm involved with some people on things right now but this would be just you and me. Think about it. So what do you want to do; catch the end of the game on the tube, go somewhere, party, get laid, what?"

We moved back into the living room. I yawned. "Right, all this bullshit is giving me a headache. Let's watch the last of the game, okay? I have to work tomorrow and I can't do that if I party all night."

"Getting old, its a bitch aint it?"

"It just might be that I'll like it. I'll let you know."

We watched the last four innings of the game and made side bets, we talked and sent out for Chinese food, we talked and got drunk together.

When I was leaving Eddy said, "Think about the real estate thing, it could be good, it would be a good time too."

"Eddy I know it would be good, it would be excellent, and you're the man, its just not the right time now. I don't want to hang you up, man, I could be gone a long time, a very long time. Who knows..."

"The offer is open, whatever time, whatever circumstances, we have a lot of years." His words were slightly slurred

"A lot of years partner, a lot of years, take it easy."

"But take it. You too."

Chapter 18

I opened my eyes. The room was bright with sunshine and Chris was sitting by the window, an open magazine on her lap. I closed my eyes again, the brightness of the room was jarring. There was a steady throbbing behind my eyes and through my temples, my stomach gave signs of uneasiness. I suffer when I drink. I always have, even in the old days when I partied a great deal. Some lessons are never learned. But there was nothing to do but do it. I looked at my watch; ten thirty, the day was well under way. I struggled out a soft, "Good morning."

She turned to look at me. "How do you feel?"

"Not great." I sat up. "Can you get me some orange juice and aspirin?" I sat on the edge of the bed while she phoned down to room service.

She came over and sat beside me on the bed. "You were pretty funny last night.'" She began to gently massage the back of my neck but that didn't help a bit. "Do you want to lie down and rest for a while?"

"No, its better this way, I'll be okay in a bit."

"I wish you wouldn't drive when you've been drinking, it scares me to think about it."

Even half awake that startled me, it was an odd statement coming from her, not at all something she would say. It might have something to do with Jack, two lovers in two totaled cars in a week, or it might have something to do with the diamonds. I had no reply so I just sighed, pecked her on the cheek and went to take my shower.

When I came out room service had been, I did as many push ups as I could, took my juice and aspirin, showered again, then shaved and brushed my teeth.

"Feel better now?"

I did feel better, not top form, but better. "Did you have breakfast yet?" She shook her head. "We have to find the car, that's the first step. Today is Sunday so we might not have much luck. Anyway let's go downstairs and have some breakfast. You must be hungry. How long have you been up?"

"Since about eight."

I had the usual hangover feeling, hungry but not wanting to eat, still I did my best. I did very well with the ice water and the coffee. Midway through the meal Chris, who had been mostly silent, leaned forward and asked. "How do you do it?"

"How do I do what?" I thought she meant the drinking.

"This. You. Guys like you, hustlers. How do you do it, score after score, year after year. God, you've been doing this almost all your life."

I suppose it was not such a dumb question, not really, not the way I had been feeling the last couple of years, I just dislike those kind of questions. "That's a square john question coming from you. Its what I do. Its what I'm good at and what I'm suited for, I don't know, I fell into it I guess. But sure there's an edge, that counts, and a part of me likes fucking people over I guess. Who knows?"

I must have sounded irritated because she looked quickly away. "I didn't mean it to sound so... its just one of those questions I don't know how to answer. Look, you've hung around with gonifs for years, you've done a few things, how do you do what you do? How does anybody. We're all just looking to score, looking to get even, to make something happen, all of us. In this world, sweetie, everyone is either a pimp or a whore, that's all.

I ate some more, determined to get some food into my body. "Anyway this thing, this diamond thing is not a con. This is not what I do. A con is all planned out, its like a script, orchestrated. This is something else, this is something you stumble on and you try to make something happen, but you know what they say, you should always stick to your own racket, but anyhow the point is we don't push it, if the car thing doesn't pan out we walk away. You never gamble with desperate money, well, you try to never do anything out of desperation."

She leaned back and lit a cigarette as the busboy cleared away the dishes. The coffee shop was almost deserted with just two other couples lingering over coffee. Outside, in the pool there were only three people, all teenagers. A swim would be nice today, I thought. Then she said, her voice hard and flat. "I say we go and search the house, really search it, I know they're there. Soon the rental people will take over or someone else finds them while all the while we sit here with our fingers up our ass."

I walked over and looked out the window and managed to hold in my temper. "You know? You don't know anything, you're just obsessed. I know you've head this lecture before but this is how I work and this is what we do. Eddy knows our two friends in the Caddy and he tells me they are very bad people, junkers and very loony, so we're very careful."

"So we're very careful."

I could feel her impatience, her anger. I shook my head. :So now we go upstairs and try to find the car."

We didn't have any luck with the car, the head office was closed and the outlets couldn't tell us anything. Next we went through the yellow pages, phoning auto wreckers, four or five were open but none had a Porsche. I lay on the bed looking at the ceiling while Chris did the phoning. I was sick of the whole business, I wanted it finished and done with, it was all too much of a long shot and I had a bad feeling about it. The hangover didn't help. They could be anywhere; buried somewhere, in a safety deposit box, maybe in a locker, anywhere. Then there were these guys looking too, maybe not for the diamonds but involved, and I didn't like that. But I would see it through, take the steps, another day or two and then we walk away. We might walk away richer but I doubted it.

She came and sat on the bed beside me. "And now?"

"There's nothing else we can do today. We'll try to find the car tomorrow, if its in a junk yard then we'll check it out and see what happens." I didn't look at her, just stared at the ceiling. "For now we'll rest up, take it easy, maybe go for a swim. There's nothing else we can do today."

"I say we search the house."

I could hear the hostility, the challenge, knew the expression her eyes would have. "Your two friends already looked, they didn't find anything so they tried the beach house, if they didn't find anything there there's just one thing left for them. You. They have to know you were hooked up with Jack so maybe you know where things are hidden, maybe that's why you disappeared. They waited for you once. Your clothes and everything are there so maybe you'll come back. They'd like to talk to you, ask you a few questions. Guess how they'll ask."

She was moving restlessly about the room, stopping to light a cigarette, pour a drink then moving again. "We'd look for their car."

"No way. No way, period."

"So what's your plan, do nothing? God damn it I'm not going to sit around here while the diamonds are out there."

"And I said no way. Tomorrow we look for the Porsche. We do this like we agreed to do it."

She did not reply, just stood by the window, looking out, her body tense. Now I was the one standing between her and her diamonds, that was all she could see. I lay back and closed my eyes and tried to control the anger rising in my stomach. I did not need this but it was useless to try to reason with her and fighting would only make things worse.

I stood up. "How about a swim, then we'll talk."

"Talk." Flat and to the point, still staring out the window, and then in the same tone. "I don't have a suit."

"They sell them in the lobby, that's where I'm going now, to buy one." I left.

When I came back she was still by the window, sitting now, smoking, and there was a drink sitting on the window ledge. She didn't look up or say anything so I changed into my swim trunks, took a towel and went down to the pool. It was an outdoor pool, the water surprisingly cold, cold enough to be a shock on the first dive. I swam a bit, I am not a very good swimmer but I enjoy it. I would come out, let the sun dry me, then go in again. Finally I had enough, I found a poolside chair and sat down. Someone had left a magazine and I thumbed through it regretting that I had forgotten my sunglasses.

Damn Chris, damn her moods, damn her being able to get under my skin the way she could. You always run the score, you never let the score run you. It wasn't even a score, just a chance, a long shot. We were not desperate, I had money. If you don't like something you walk away. Chris could never see it that way. Whatever the diamonds were to her had to do with who she was and what she had to have. I didn't think we would find any diamonds and I had to know how to deal with her when that happened. The diamonds meant some kind of independence to her, they had become a kind of obsession, her own score, not needing a man to pay the bills. Chris as whore, well who the hell aint?

A young boy and his mother had been in the chairs beside me and now were in the pool splashing about. The boy, to show his mother what he could do, swam four widths for her, not great form, flailing a bit at the end, but he did them.

They returned to their chairs, the mother toweled herself off, put on her sunglasses and stretched out in her chair. The boy didn't sit but stood on the grass halfway between his mother and me. He was about nine or ten, I guessed, intelligent looking with long hair that he shook to dry. He looked alertly about, ready for some new sight or experience. There was an open book on the grass beside him but he wasn't interested in reading. He looked at me and I knew he wanted some conversation, just two guys talking around the pool, but he couldn't be the one to initiate it.

"Hi." I said.

"Hi."

"Water's pretty cold today." Mother's ears pricked up.

"Pretty cold," he nodded. His face brightened. "Last month we went to Lake Terrappho, do you know where that is?" I shook my head. "The water there was freezing, really freezing, wasn't it mom?" She sat up and smiled at him. "I went in, I went in both days, but mother" he dragged the word out, teasing, "wouldn't go in past her knees."

"One thing about cold water, you sure feel good when you come out." I offered him my hand. "Danny."

We shook hands. "My name is Noah."

His mother gave a little nod. "Grace." I t was cautious and she gave me a fast appraising look.

We stared out at the pool, just two guys passing the time. I said. "I saw you out there swimming, you were doing pretty good."

"I took lessons at the Y last year. Its a lot bigger pool than this and I could swim a width underwater."

"Do you swim underwater with your eyes open? It irritates mine when I do."

"Yeah, but it goes away. I got some goggles but they don't work very good, they always fog up. Have you ever been snorkeling?"

"No, I'm not even a very good swimmer. I have some friends that snorkel though, they say its great."

"That's what I want to do." He sat down on the grass. The mother looked over, glancing at each of us, she didn't say anything, just watched and listened, half smiling. "Where do they go?"

"My friends, Bermuda mostly."

"Yeah that's supposed to be terrific there. But there must be some place around here where you could do it."

"Sure, I don't see why not, just find a nice clear lake, sure, why not."

We sat in silence for a while then I saw Chris come down to the pool. She was on the far side and went directly to the pool's edge, set down some things and looked across to me. She didn't wave but there might have been a slight nod. She began to swim, up and down, length after length, smooth and effortlessly. Chris the marathoner, Chris the pit bull.

"That lady is a good swimmer."

"She sure is and she can do it for hours, mile after mile." He looked up at me, curious. "She's a friend of mine. She even saved my life once, swimming. Out on the coast, in the ocean. We went in and I was sort of following her and I went out way too far. I don't know why. When I tried to come in I couldn't get anywhere, then my arms gave out, I couldn't move. So I just tried to float and yelled like mad. She heard me and came back and dragged me in. Lucky for me but not before I swallowed a lot of salt water."

"Boy, that's neat. She saved your life, that's really cool." He looked at her with even more respect. She continued to swim, up and down, up and down. I hoped it would help.

Finally she got out, at the far side of the pool where she had dived in and I wondered if she would go right back to the hotel room. But she didn't, only picked up the things she had left at the pool's edge towel, sunglasses, magazines, and a new, large straw hat, then came over. The new suit was black and plain, as usual, a swimmer's suit.

"Christina, this is Noah, and this is Grace, Christina. Noah was just saying what a good swimmer you are"

"Oh, thanks." She smiled at Noah, a little flustered and unsure. "I started when I was even younger than you, I swam almost every day. I have some magazines," she said to Grace. "would you like something to read?"

"No thanks, we're going shortly."

"How far can you swim?" Noah asked.

"I don't know it all depends. Ten miles anyway." She gave a quick little smile then retreated behind her sunglasses and magazine.

I saw Noah give a look, from Chris to me, and I knew he could feel the tension between us. He looked away, out toward the pool.

"Noah," his mother said. "if you want to go in again you should go now, we have to leave in a few minutes."

He stood up and walked to the pool's edge, aware he had an audience, hitched up his trunks then dived, knees bent, elbows bent, but dived, swam his four widths, came up with a wave and returned.

Grace began to gather up their things and Noah ran a towel over his hair. He had a charm around his neck, a piece of flat stone-like material on a black leather thong, there was a symbol on the stone.

I pointed to it. "What's that?"

He held it out from his chest. "Its for good luck. Its Irish, this is the alphabet they had a thousand years ago. This sign is for my birthday." He looked at his mother then looked away. He closed his eyes and mumbled. "My father gave it to me."

They were ready to go. He held out his hand, flat, palm up. I slapped it. "Right, take it easy, man, good snorkeling."

"Right, it was nice to meet you."

He said. "Bye." to Chris and his mother gave us a friendly smile and a "Have a nice afternoon." Chris waved.

I watched them walk to the hotel door, mother and son, when they reached the door Noah turned and waved, and his mother did as well.

Chapter 19

After they left I sat in my chair and waited for her to say something, waited for her to provide the opening, but behind the dark glasses her eyes were closed, and there was nothing. The moments passed, the sun grew hotter on my face and the sounds from the hotel, the pool, and from the highway just beyond, became separate and distinctive; the splash of water, music from a radio, laughter, a truck passing. I could feel the tenseness from her and the resolve, like a wall between us.

My mind formed sentences that I didn't speak, the words would not come. Nor could I get up and leave. It was like standing on the high diving board and being unable to jump; no matter what the mind says the body won't obey. I could try to coax her or I could leave, but either way was giving in to her, either way was losing.

I looked over at her, the closed eyes behind the sunglasses, the hands clasped tightly together just below the breasts, sitting in her little sealed room with tiny lines of tightness around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

It was all stupidly familiar, her temper tantrums, the game we both played. I couldn't just sit and wait, I had to force something. "Nice kid." I said. I knew it sounded slightly mocking, challenging. "I hope he gets to go snorkeling."

No reply, no opening of the eyes, no movement at all, not even a grunt of acknowledgment. Again I forced it, I pushed on, making it sound like an order, each word clear and sharp. "I am hungry. Why don't we go inside, we'll have a drink and we'll eat some lunch. And then we'll talk. We will talk this out like adults."

She took a deliberately long time to answer and when she did her lips scarcely moved, there was just a flat, quiet, "I'm not hungry."

Then the anger that had been building took control and I stood up, quickly and awkwardly. I could feel the rage explode through my body; stomach, arms, throat, and for a second I could see myself smashing her head into the ground. I tried to keep my voice low and calm. "Fuck you then bitch. You do whatever you want to do. I don't need this bullshit."

I walked quickly into the hotel, through the blur of the lobby and up the three flights of stairs to the room. I changed my clothing then stopped. I was holding a drink that I didn't remember pouring and my hand was trembling. I set the drink down on the night table. My head was pounding and I was out of breath. Someday I thought I will kill that bitch.

I lay down on the bed; one inhale, two exhale, three inhale, deep breaths, all the way to forty, trying to slow things down. I cursed myself for losing control and wondered for the thousandth time how it was she could do that to me, how it was she could bring me to such a blind rage. In business, the con, things go wrong, luck is bad, people foul up or they double-cross you, they screw you over, and there is anger but nothing like the anger she could cause in me, the kind of blind rage I hadn't known since childhood. Once I asked a very smart con guy called The Mope about it. "Been there. She has your number, man, she has her little hook deep, deep, inside and every now and then she gives it a little twist. Nothing you can do, walk away or kill her."

It was a pattern, her sudden anger, then the turning away, turning away from me as if I was nothing, and her satisfaction in provoking me, in making me lose control, for that was the point, the point of the game, to make me lose control. Once I hit her, only once, with my open hand but quite hard and she had said nothing, only looked at me, not with anger or hurt but with a touch of smugness as if proven right again. Then she sat down and began to read a magazine. It was her game not mine, and in her game, I was not a person, Daniel O'Connell, but an object.

I never liked the game, it could neither be won, changed, nor abandoned, and my only choice had been to leave her; but that hadn't worked. She stayed with me as something unsettled, unfinished business, but the fact was I still wanted her, whatever it was, whatever it is, about her, she has my number. She brings with her an edge, an excitement, she walks in the room and I feel it, I don't know, what the hell, I guess she does have her little hooks very deep. I thought this time I would be more careful, more clever, this time I would control things because I would not play the game, but she had her cleverness that came from some crazy, irrational part of her.

I drank my drink and tried to watch television; Wheel of Fortune, people spun a wheel and shouted , "Big money, big money." I had no plan, only to wait, to get through the day, to follow the script we both knew, a script filled with long silences, a few innocuous unanswered remarks then bed, separate not touching, and finally sleep. There was never any apologies, never either of us trying to make things right, neither of us could do that. We would simply get on with it. The difference was that her anger would be gone in the morning while mine would not.

I watched a little more television, half watched a sitcom involving a middle class black family; noisy, hyper, cute, predictable and insulting. I tried all the channels but there was nothing so I decided to go downstairs and eat.

She was still there, still sitting by the deserted pool, hands still clasped together.

The waitress had a tired but friendly smile, I ordered a club sandwich and a beer. As a kid, new to the city, scuffling around pool rooms with holes in my shoes, club sandwiches had been my favorite meal. Hustling pool, selling phoney watches, even rolling the odd drunk, some nights we had to sleep in cars washing up in the bus depot, scuffling, scuffling , scuffing. Always looking to score.

I remembered a particular pool game, why that one out of a thousand who knows; the guy was a salesman who never stopped talking and I took him for sixty-five dollars on the third game. He was overweight, flabby, his white shirt wet under the arms from perspiration. All through the game he kept up a kind of poolroom chatter. "Just like it had eyes." he'd say when he made a ball, and, "Too fast, too fast." but it never quite sounded right, he didn't quite know how to do it. After he paid me off he said. "You're a helluva pool player, kid." knowing he'd been hustled. He winked and half tripped as he hurried away as if embarrassed. Well a day in his life, a day in mine, wherever he was now, dead or in some nursing home.

I bought a couple of books and went back to the room but I couldn't concentrate on reading so once again I tried television. Drama, murder, serial killer, frightened single mom and daughter, cynical cop, terror as the killer stalks until the cynical cop puts him away with two to the chest.

I wondered how long she would sit down there doing whatever the hell it was she was doing; planning, fantasizing, arguing with herself, or just nothing. I was just going to go downstairs to the bar when she entered the room.

She stepped inside the door, dropped her bag and magazines on the floor then took off her bathing suit and dropped it on top of the bag. Naked, without looking at me or acknowledging my presence she went to the dresser and poured herself a drink. She slouched against the wall and stared at the floor, her drink held in both hands. There was nothing sexy or inviting about her nakedness.

I stared at a page in my book while she finished her drink then went into the bathroom, a moment later I heard the shower. I didn't want to go to the bar then, somehow that would be a victory for her, so I turned on the television set and waited. After a while she came out of the bathroom, climbed into bed with her back to me and that was that. When my program was over I went downstairs.

In the lounge the tables were nearly all filled but the bar had only one other occupant, a bored looking man in a business suit who gave me a quick glance as I ordered then went back to staring into his drink.

It was an older, quiet, Sunday crowd, mostly married looking couples, casually well dressed. Not the place to come to if you were looking for action. At the table nearest my seat at the bar there were two women, one of whom checked me out as I sat down. The entertainment was the typical singer/pianist whom I was sure played mostly requests, everyone's favorite song. Two couples moved slowly on the dance floor, the song was "The Rose", from the movie.

I told myself I should call it off, just walk away, it was all stupid, a stupid waste of time and energy, she was crazy and her games were crazy, if I stayed with her I would wind up buying into those games. I remembered once, the first or second time we quarreled, in the middle of her fury her anger suddenly dropped away, disappeared in a second and she very calmly looked at me and said, almost sweetly. "You don't own me you know, You can fuck off and leave anytime you want to." Said without any emotion, just matter of fact. That was another picture of Chris that I carried with me.

At times I thought it was all and act and I accused her of that. I accused her of everything I could think of when we fought. I didn't know what else to do, I didn't know how to fight her.

I hoped that we would find the car and one way or another put an end to the diamond business. I knew that if we found nothing she would not want to quit but I was determined that we would and we would just have to fight that battle when we came to it. Things could still work out I thought.

I ordered another drink while the piano player announced there would be a quiz, he would play a tune and the table that identified the composer would get a free round of drinks. He began to play, "Misty."

The woman at the table looked at me and shrugged. I leaned over and whispered, "Errol Garner."

"Who?' She asked.

"Errol Garner." I whispered again.

"Errol Gardner." she called out.

"Close enough." The piano player said and there was a small smattering of applause. When the drinks came the woman ordered one for me, I thanked her with a gesture and a smile then turned quickly away. I didn't need conversation and she had that needy look about her, a not so quiet desperation, someone to watch over me, someone to leech onto really.

In my business, like most, if you don't know what you are doing you are in trouble, and in my case that can mean some time in the big concrete warehouse and the fact was I was playing around in some stupid caper that probably involved the Attorney General, and certainly involved two loose-wire muscle guys and that my partner was a crazy woman with the instincts of a hooker and the temperament of a junkie. I had to get my feet back on the ground.

The problem was me, I was running out of gas. Eddy saw that and Chris did as well. Some guys can hustle forever, until the day they die, but others can't, others lose it, and if they don't know it or can't accept it things go wrong. I had seen it happen, with guys I had worked with, good hustlers, they would lose their confidence or get scared, or else they would get bored and careless. Working the con is seven parts attitude and three parts cleverness.

Chris was trying to run me, that was her way, pushing all the buttons, making me compete with a dead man, making me compete with myself of six years ago. She was jerking me around a little; a few lies, a few things she wasn't telling, Mexico might be a lie.

I would give it the one last try, we would check out the car and if that didn't satisfy her then too bad. I remembered what Michael used to tell me. "You can be a smart guy all your life but do just one dumb thing and the world can come crashing down on you."

As I left the woman at the table said. "Good-night, Errol."

Chapter 20

I had put in seven o'clock call for the morning and when the call woke me I saw that Chris was already up, dressed and seated at the dresser, putting on her make up. I shaved and showered then we went downstairs for breakfast.

The previous day's anger had disappeared from her, she was smiling and subdued, and a little distant. I ate breakfast but she had only coffee while he smoked and stared absently into space. I felt tired and edgy, still angry, but business is business and this was a day to do business. "We'll phone the leasing company first." I said. "If they'll tell us where the car is it will save us a lot of time, otherwise we have to phone all the auto wreckers. Lets hope it is still not in the police compound."

"Let's hope." she said softly.

We finished our breakfast in silence. There was something about her attitude that bothered me, a subtle change that was difficult to identify. When you hustle you have a special kind of antennae, an instinct, you can feel when things are happening with the mark, when he is getting suspicious or cold feet. You can tell something has changed, it is a feeling, something hangs in the air. I didn't know what the change in Chris meant, whether it was good or bad.

"Listen," I said. "If there is nothing in the car then we are done, that's our agreement, right, its over, there are no diamonds and we walk away, we go to Mexico. Can you handle that?"

She turned on her smile and put her hand on my arm. "Mexico is going to be great."

It was all done too quickly, almost absent mindedly, as if she was humoring a child while her thoughts were somewhere else. Poorly done, Chris, I thought, careless, you should have hesitated, talked about it, let me talk you into it a little. I knew then that if the car didn't lead us to the diamonds she wouldn't quit, she would keep on looking and try to use me to help her. I was a means to an end, I would help her find the diamonds and m,ore importantly I could turn them into cash, always a risky business. Amateurs usually get burned and often get killed.

It was hard to look at her, hard to smile, because none of this stopped me from wanting her. "We may as well go now, the agency should be open soon."

She didn't reply, just nodded, her eyes were cautious, studying me. Then on the way to the room she stopped me and took my hand in hers. "I really mean that," she said, "you know, about Mexico."

I stroked her cheek and kissed her. "I know." I said. I kissed her forehead. "This is going to be our lucky day. I can feel it." then I squeezed her waist.

In the room I lay on the bed while we waited for the agency to open. When The Prince became an addict, a real addict, I dumped him. We all did. You have to because everything changes; junkies either fuck you over, drag you down, or get you into serious trouble. That was how I was beginning to feel about Chris, unless, of course we actually found the diamonds, that might change everything. What the hell, I told myself, the diamonds are real and they have to be someplace. There is always a chance, always a chance for a happy ending, and after all I was in for fifty per cent.

Chris made the phone call and they gave her the information right away, the car was in an auto wreckers on the outskirts of the city; Kane Auto Parts, 3726 Dugald road. I had a general idea where Dugald Road was but to be sure we bought a city map in the hotel lobby.

While I drove Chris read the map and repeated directions that I did not need, she hummed a tune, played the radio, and tapped a finger on her knee. Aside from the directions she had nothing to say. I stopped at a hardware store and bought a multi head screwdriver and a pair of pliers.

Kane Auto Parts was not yet open and the sign told us we would have at least a fifteen minute wait, so we sat in the car, neither of us even trying to make conversation, and we waited. I usually don't mind waiting, if you have to wait you have to wait, but Chris, of course did not like it at all, she fidgeted looked at her watch constantly, and kept impatiently switching the radio from one station to another. I remembered trying to teach her to shoot pool and later to play gin rummy properly. She couldn't learn anything, she had no patience.

Finally Kane Auto was open for business. "When I check the car out," I said. "I don't want anyone looking over my shoulder." She looked at me but didn't reply, just looked away again. "I mean I don't want the proprietor to accompany me."

"I know what you mean."

It was a good sized yard, surprisingly neat and clean looking with tidy rows of automobile carcasses, a small office building, a work shed, and a large tow truck, all enclosed by a barb wire topped chain link fence. Along one side of the office there was a pen for two nervous looking watch dogs.

The proprietor sat on a stool behind the counter reading the paper and having his breakfast; take out coffee and donuts. He looked tired, his eyes were heavy lidded and bloodshot, there was a recent cut, still swollen, over his left eye. Probably about thirty, thirty-five, I thought, not big but lean and well muscled, he looked like a scrapper, the kind that takes on bigger guys in bar fights.

His voice was soft, with a southern accent "What can I do for you?" He glanced at me, looked a little longer at Chris, then returned to me. I could smell his after shave mixed with smell of coffee.

"You have any Porsches around?"

"What model?"

"I don't think the model matters, its for my son, he's kind of building a car you might say, almost from scratch. He asked me to look around see if there were some seas he could pick up, he specified Porsche."

He sipped his coffee then spoke slowly. "I've got one, just came in, only one, we don't get too many Porsches. This one is almost brand new, totaled, but the seats are good."

"I'd like to take a look at it."

He started to come around the counter but Chris, leaning across the counter so he could look down her blouse, asked. "Do you have a Coke machine here, I've got a terrible thirst."

"No Coke machine but I've got some cold drinks in the fridge. You want a Coke?"

"That would be great. God, it feels hot already."

He brought the Coke and sat it on the counter while he looked down her blouse again. She straightened up and took a sip of her drink. "Thank you." she said with a little smile, then turned to me. "You go ahead, honey, I'll wait here. Cars bore me."

"Say," I said to the scrapper, "why don't you finish your coffee, just tell me where the car is, I'll take a fast look and if the seats look okay the kid can come in and talk business."

Chris sat down in the lone chair and crossed her legs.

"Okay." the scrapper said, "Go take a look, if there's anything you want other than the seats let me know and I'll take it out. Okay. Third row, very end."

"Sure." I opened the door.

"Hey," he said, he came around to the other side of the counter and leaned across it. "There's an Alpha in the row behind, its a little beat up but the seats are good, you might want to take a look."

I walked along the row of dead automobile bodies; some that had died violent deaths, smashed and twisted, and others that had just quietly given up the ghost, all quiet now, sitting in the warm smell of dust and oil.

The front end of the Porsche was badly crumbled and the door on the driver's side had been removed. I searched the front of the car as best I could, if it was a key I was looking for and it had been under the dash or under the seat the impact could have thrown it anywhere. If there was a key it would be too valuable to just toss under the seat and Jack was a careful and meticulous man. The carpeting on the floor behind the seats was held down by a curved piece of chrome molding fastened by three screws. I removed the screws and the molding and lifted up the carpet. A key was lying there, a brass key with a red plastic knob on it, the key to a locker. I dropped the key into my pocket and replaced the molding. It had been so easy and so fast that it all seemed automatic. I had not been out there more than five minutes.

I was about to leave when I thought, one key, maybe two. I had the time. I removed the molding from the passenger side and checked under the carpet but no more keys.

When I entered the office the scrapper looked at me with a half smile and asked. "Well?"

"Well you're right, they look in good shape. How much you asking?"

"Four hundred."

"I'll have the kid come down and take a look. How late you open?"

"Eight o'clock." He was staring at me, his face expressionless, his eyes flicked to Chris then back to me. I was sure he had done time, not just in and out for a shower like me but serious time. He had that air about him. They all have it, no matter how they look or how they act, a way of sliding into themselves and looking out as if sniffing the air.

"Thanks for your trouble." I said. Chris beamed a, "Thanks for the drink." He gave a slight nod and I felt him watch us as we left but he never moved from his position leaning against the counter.

As soon as we were out the door she asked. "Well?"

"A key, numbered, looks like a locker key, probably one of those two week jobs."

"Where do they have those?"

"Airport, bus depot, train station. Let's hope its not in fucking Hong Kong. Where do you want to try first?"

"The airport."

It was not a key to an airport locker. On our way to the bus depot she turned to me and smiled. "We're getting closer." She squeezed my thigh and left her hand there as I drove.

The bus depot was almost deserted, a dozen or so people on the benches, tired and bored, baseball hats and running shoes, duffel bags and cardboard boxes held together with twine.

The key opened the locker and inside was a black leather attache case.. I picked it up and we walked out of the bus depot.

The case was locked and as I drove she tried unsuccessfully to open it with a nail file from her purse so I handed her the screwdriver. She jammed and pried at the lock, once the screwdriver slipped and gouged the back of her hand drawing blood, but she didn't stop for a second.

I won't take them to Atlanta, I thought, I would deal the diamonds to Michael, it would be faster and easier. I had no idea what diamonds were worth, I would need an evaluation, maybe Eddy could help me there.

"Jesus." she said. The case was open. She pulled out a white towel and inside the towel was a dvd disc, nothing else. She stared at the disc as if she could not believe what she saw, her fists were so tightly clenched that her knuckles were white circles, there was a smudge of blood on her skirt from the cut on her hand.

This would be what our friends in the Caddy were looking for, I guessed it had some interesting footage of the Attorney General doing whatever it was he didn't want the world to know he did.

"Some fucking diamonds." I said. "This is what you never told me about, right. Is this what you were really looking for? So what's on it, you and the A.G. playing games?"

She wrapped the disc in the towel and put it back in the case. When she spoke her voice was low and husky as if her throat was dry. "This, this, this is another deal damn you, Jack's big deal. The diamonds are different, I saw them, I held them in my hands and they're still out there, in the house, I know they're in the house, not the diamonds then but a key, you were right, a key, I never looked for a key. But we have to go now, the rental people will be there tomorrow. We have to go now. If we don't go now its all nothing."

"We are going to the hotel. I think I want to watch this movie."

She started to say something but stopped herself and stared out the window the rest of the way.

At the hotel desk I asked them to send up a dvd player and some coffee and sandwiches. The room was warm and muggy so I switched on the air conditioner then washed my face and hands. I sat in a chair and drank coffee while the hotel man hooked up the player. Chris, still silent, had been standing looking out the window but when the man was gone she came and sat down on the bed. Neither of us had spoken.

I pushed the play button. It was the Attorney General all right, the smiling Irishman, with a girl, a girl that looked to be about ten years old. It lasted about ten or fifteen minutes and toward the end it got pretty rough. I watched it all, from beginning to end.

"Jesus... sick son of a bitch." I didn't know what to say. "What a piece of work." I wondered how Jack had done it, how he had put this together, it was something I never could have done, it was out of my area. I wished I had never watched the tape. "I Thought maybe you might have him doing a little coke, or maybe with a hooker, but this... He can't be a stupid man, why would he...?"

Her voice was contemptuous. "Jesus, you think this just happened overnight, there was months of work and a lot of money, it had to be the best, just snorting coke wasn't enough and he wasn't interested in hookers. He has a wife and kids, he kept telling us how he never fooled around on his wife."

"Right, he has kids, a daughter too, I think. Man oh man. In the joint they call those guys skinners, they give them a very hard time. Who was the girl?"

"A twelve year old hooker all scrubbed up clean and dressed up. You know about the "Chicken market" on Elmore north, a lady specializes in little girls, its a lucrative market. And those little Asian girls, they look so young, so cute and sweet, they give any guy a hard on. We rented two for three weeks, they had to be coached. It didn't just happen overnight, the man wasn't stupid, it had to be done just right. Two girls, one for him, one for Jack, it looked better that way." She couldn't keep the pride out of her voice. "Perfect, it came off perfect, three hidden cameras, the son-of-a-bitch even wanted the lights on."

"Really, lucky you, nothing like good production values. So where was the other girl when this happened?"

"Her and Jack were in a bedroom upstairs."

"Really, did Jack get off, too?"

She gave a shrug. "Who cares? What is this, professional curiosity?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what it is, professional curiosity. How did you find out this was his thing, that he liked little girls?"

"I just knew it."

"What do you mean you just knew it? You knew he'd done this before?"

"I just knew. Me. After a few hours with him I knew, nothing he said, I don't even know if he'd ever done it before. I just knew he'd like to."

"You did all this on a hunch?"

"You don't get it do you? I could tell. I knew. Jack believed me and I was right." She paused. "Its not exactly unusual is it?"

I didn't look at her, just listened to the voice, I knew the contempt in it was directed to me as well as everything else in her life, compared to Jack I was nothing but a glorified pool hustler, but even Jack was just a thing to her, just another guy that thought with his cock, just a thing to be dealt with.

I didn't feel much of anything, not anger, not sorrow, I felt somehow removed from it all, distanced, as if I was no longer a participant but only an observer. For just a second I saw her, barefoot and laughing, feet up on the railing, straw hat and sunglasses, the picture I'd carried with me for so long, as if that picture was who she really was.

She lit a cigarette and began to pace. "We have this, this A.G. thing it has to be valuable. Jack said..."

"Jack is fucking dead and I'm not in the shakedown business. Mexico, remember? You want to try shaking down the Attorney General go do it. I've seen some of his friends, you'll wind up with a bullet in your head. That thing is too big."

She stood beside me, so close she was almost touching and it was as if I could feel these waves of energy, like heat, coming from her. She spoke so quickly that at times the words ran together. "Right, right, right, forget about the A.G. thing. We have to search the house, we have to go back there now, not the diamonds but a key, another key that's what it has to be, another key. We just have to find it, we can find it we never really looked before, I know it, we can't let the diamonds get away from us, we've come this far we have to keep going, we can't give up, but we have to do it today, now, the rental people will take over the house, they could be there today, we won't have another chance." She put her hand on my arm, kneeling beside me. "I know we'll find them, I know it. This is the last thing, I promise, the last thing you have to do, just this one last try and then whatever happens we go to Mexico, I promise, just this one last thing. Believe in me, this one last thing and then I'll do whatever you want."

"Fuck the diamonds, Chris, you'll be looking for them forever. Its done, its over."

"Danny, listen..." her lips moved but no words came out as if she was silently trying to form sentences, she paced quickly between the bed and the window, arms clasped tightly across her chest.

I said quietly. "Forget it, its over. I did what I said I would do and that's it, over, done."

Then the anger exploded, the words spitting out. "You did nothing you son-of-a-bitch, nothing, you never wanted me to have the diamonds. That's it isn't it? I never should have listened to you, you and your bullshit. I never should have listened. You're just another bullshit artist afraid to take a chance, all God damn talk. You never wanted me to get the diamonds from the beginning." Her hands gestured in jerky movements and her eyes had an odd look that was more than anger. I thought of the exacto knife in her purse. "Just talk, nothing else." She took little half steps, forward then backward. "Damn you, you're nothing, nothing, no balls, nothing. What happened to you? You're pathetic. Pathetic damn you! The last was a scream. "You think its over? Well its not, its not over at all." She snatched up her handbag and was gone.

I made myself a drink and sat on the edge of the bed, there was the faint sound of music and the hum of the air conditioner in the sudden silence of the room. She would go and search the house, I thought, and if she found the diamonds she would keep right on going, she would try to fence them herself. If she didn't find them she might start thinking about the A.G. disc, that it had to have some value and that might make her come back, that is if she ever started thinking again.

I finished my drink and put on a clean shirt. On the other hand, if our friends in the Caddy found Chris... if they had staked out the house...then Chris would have to bring them back here for the disc and we'd all have a party. I put the disc and a bottle of gin in the briefcase and I left. I felt numb, neither thinking nor feeling much at all, just moving automatically along.

I didn't check out of the hotel but drove to a motel and checked in there. I spent the rest of the day and the evening between my room and the bar, I tried to read or watch television but mostly I sat in the bar, sipping drink after drink without getting drunk.

I phoned Leon on the coast and he told me he had sent all the documents to a local lawyer and as soon as I signed them he'd have the money in my account in three days I phoned the hotel every hour but she had not come back and there were no messages. I don't know what I would say if she was there. It would be easier if she didn't come back, if she just kept going. I kept seeing her, kept replaying that final scene in the hotel room, hearing her voice, remembering how she looked. Everything had changed, it was all done with, all over, but there was that part of me that didn't want to give up, that kept saying maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. At two in the morning she still hadn't returned and there were no messages.

Chapter 21

I awoke with a terrible headache and the after feeling of a bad dream, anxious and disoriented. I couldn't remember the content of the dream, either I was chasing someone or being chased. I picked up the phone to call the hotel then changed my mind and set the phone back down. If it is done then it is done and to hell with it. I had to get on with things. Satchel Paige was right; don't look back, motion, action, forward, forward. This too shall pass, I thought, it always does, and Chris, like a bad hangover, would eventually disappear.

I took a long shower then phoned the lawyer who said, as if granting me the most improbable favor, that he could squeeze me in at three o'clock that afternoon. Squeeze me in, so self sacrificing with his hand in my pocket. I knew it would be a rough day.

Breakfast was three cups of coffee, three aspirin, and a glass of water. I had to start thinking about business, about moving my money to Mexico. The drug enforcement people spend a lot of time trying to trace large amounts of cash going across the border and of course banks are supposed to report these kind of transactions. The drug enforcement people are a law unto themselves and I didn't want them on my case. I had two good sets of i.d. including passports I had never used and a safe bank in Texas to work out of but I didn't have anything on the other side of the border and that was my problem. I didn't want to think about it then, I didn't want to think about anything.

In my room I stretched out on the bed with a damp facecloth on my forehead. I wondered if she knew how to fence the diamonds if she found them. Maybe she had always known, maybe she never intended splitting them with me. Never con a con they say but she had done all right, up to a point. She never planned though, she only reacted to things. I didn't want to think about either. I was tired and sick and just wanted to get through the day.

Chapter 22

When I left the lawyer's office I felt somewhat better, at least something had been accomplished, wheels had been put into motion and Mexico was a little closer. On the sidewalk just outside the office building there was a payphone and I stopped, I stood staring at the phone while people hurried by. I wanted to phone the hotel, to talk to her one last time, but as I stood there undecided, a young woman carrying a large cardboard box bumped against me. She didn't say anything just gave me an exasperated look so I turned and walked away.

The day was pleasant, cloudy and cool, the headache was gone and I felt less tired. I decided to try some solid food so I picked up a paper and went into the nearest restaurant, a small, old fashioned looking place with a couple of elderly waitresses. One of the waitresses came and poured me some coffee while I ordered. I drank my glass of ice water and she promptly refilled my glass.

The story was on page three of the paper. Her body was found in a dumpster in the west end of the city. The story gave her name and age and that was about all, no cause of death, no suspects held, just the fact that the police were looking into her background. It wasn't much of a story, only four paragraphs long. I reread the four paragraphs half a dozen times as if I could find something there I hadn't seen before. There was a picture of her, a mug shot that looked to have taken a long time ago, she had once been arrested, that was something I had not known about her. I remember thinking how sad the picture looked. I put some money on the table and left the restaurant. A young panhandler asked me for spare change and there was a flyer advertising a massage parlor stuck under the windshield wiper of my car

As I drove back to the motel I kept telling myself that she was dead but that didn't make it real. Dead. Nothing. What was once her; clever, funny, charming, crazy, now nothing. About halfway back to the motel I stopped the car and sat for a long time smoking cigarettes and watching the people pass by. Death is an absolute, there is nothing to say about it, nothing to think about, it is just that the realization takes time to absorb.

At the motel I phoned and left a message for Eddy to call me then I stood in the open doorway and looked out at the gray asphalt parking lot, a hedge and some trees beyond, and beyond that a building, a fast food restaurant with a yellow and red neon sign. I felt drained, sapped of any kind of feeling or emotion. The overcast sky had become dark with low, heavy clouds. A sudden gusting wind swirled dirt and newspapers, the air was filled the fresh, charged smell that comes before a storm. As I watched the first large drops of rain began to fall, round, dark circles appeared on the asphalt and on the parked cars.

Eddy called and I could tell from his voice he had read the papers but I asked. "Did you read about it in the papers?"

"I didn't know for sure that was her. I'm sorry."

"I need a favor. I want to keep a low profile for a while. Can you put me up for a few days?"

"Of course, you know that. You want to go by my place I can meet you in an hour or do you want me to pick you up?"

"I'll take a cab, thanks Eddie."

Chapter 23

I told Eddy the whole story, right from day one. Out side there were flashes of lightning and deep rolls of thunder, the wind would suddenly pick up force driving the rain fiercely into the windows and glass doors of the balcony.

"....so she wanted to check out the house again and I wouldn't do it. I was finished with her. We fought, it was all very bad and very stupid, she went a little crazy, yeah really. Anyway she left and I let her go."

I picked up the cups and went to the kitchen for more coffee, there was only enough for half a cup each but I didn't make more, just returned and set the half filled cups on the table. "When she left I thought that if she does run into those guys she'll have to tell them where the dvd is, lead them back to me. I knew there was a chance they could have staked out the house. I told her that." I sipped some coffee, my throat had become dry. "So I left. Checked into a motel and sat in the bar all day. I kept phoning the hotel. She didn't come back and she didn't phone so I figured she was gone, taken off. Because of the fight. It was over anyway. I thought she might even have found the diamonds. I don't know. I never thought this could actually happen. That was the stupid part, me, the professional, I didn't even have a plan."

I couldn't stay seated, couldn't look at him anymore. I made myself a drink then stood at his balcony doors and watched the storm, my face an inch from the glass and the rain, the palm of my hand against the cool glass surface. "Do you understand, Eddy, I didn't even have a fucking plan. I knew the place could be staked out. I should have phoned you and got a couple of hard assed muscle guys and gone after her. I should have stopped her... something. Instead I just left."

"That would have taken time, Danny, you had none. That was it. Listen, sometimes things just happen, that's all, they just happen."

The rain continued, the drops on the glass running down in little streams. The only sound was the wind and the rain outside the quiet room. "She was my partner and I cut her adrift, that's what it comes down to. I've never done that before. I could have stopped her."

Eddy made himself a drink and returned to his chair, I could see his refection in the glass of the door. "They never came back to the hotel?"

"No, I guess things got out of hand, at the house... You know it was all stupid, right from the beginning. I was just going along mostly, humoring her. Because I wanted her back. Everything changed that last day, the last fight, that fucking dvd. I finally knew something then; she was so hungry for those diamonds it made her crazy, she was crazy. I see a lot of greed, that's my business, but this was more than that, this was some kind of obsession. She was using me, using me to get the diamonds, I mean I guess I always knew that was part of her, hell its part of everybody. But with her... with her it wasn't just a part of her, it was all she was, you know what I mean there was nothing else. Mexico, oh yeah, if I'd said Siberia she would have said swell. At the end she didn't even hide her contempt, just spit it right into my face. I think that was the worst of all. Maybe that's why I didn't do anything. Maybe that's why."

I sat down again, sank into his white leather sofa and closed my eyes. "I can tell you she was crazy, I can tell you she was going to fuck me over. I can tell you that and I think I believe it but the thing is I can never really be sure, can I? I mean she had done some crazy things before and she'd always come back, and she'd never fucked me over, never, not for a dime. People change, I don't know... just I can never really be sure."

Eddy waited a long time before he asked softly. "What can I do?"

"Yeah, well, let me stay here for a while, I don't know if they're looking for me or not. Can you find that out?"

"I don't have a line into homicide, that's its own little world, but my inside man has been on the force a long time, he has some rank. Cops talk shop, we'll find out."

"He could get curious."

"He's been on the payroll for twelve or thirteen years, he'll be on till he retires. He doesn't get paid to be curious."

"Okay, I want to know everything, everything you can find out, not just if they know about me. I want to know how she died, what they think happened, anything at all he can tell you."

He nodded and waited.

"And Tommy and The Cowboy, I want them dead, whatever it costs. Can you arrange that?"

After all she was my partner and that is what you do if someone kills your partner.

Chapter 24

I waited, Eddy went about his daily business and I waited, spinning out the hours, trying to fill them, trying to make them pass quickly by. Eddy didn't have much of a library, a dozen or so books and a few magazines. Not that it mattered for reading didn't help any more than television did. Most of my time was spent stretched out on the sofa, smoking and drinking coffee but there were also periods of intense restlessness when I would pace around the apartment wanting to go somewhere, to expend that kind of energy somehow. I wished that I had been able to talk to Chris one more time, one last time. I wanted to talk to someone, not about what happened, but about Chris, explain her, tell about the good times, because the good times had been very good.

When I was feeling restless I would look out the window at the streets below and want more than anything to go for a walk, walk out and get the paper, have some coffee, eat a meal. When you do time that is one of your first realizations; that you can't do any of that, simple enough, obvious, but a very big and difficult realization. I considered going downstairs to the pool for a swim but decided against, and of course I did not go for a walk outside. "Patience is a virtue." my mother used to say.

There was this guy I had known slightly a few years back, a bank robber, this bank robber had just killed a security guard and had every cop in the city looking for him. He had been holed up for four days when he decided to walk out and have some breakfast. He walked three blocks to a restaurant where he ran into an off duty cop and took a bullet in the head. Depending on who told the story he had either just finished his breakfast or he never got to eat it. It was such an odd thing for this guy to do, he was not a stupid man by any means.

Eddy came home carrying some Italian take-out food and two bags of groceries which he set about putting in his kitchen cupboards. "You must be hungry, I'm not much on stocking food. I'll warm this stuff up a bit and we'll eat. How was your day? Long, I guess."

"It was all right, but yeah it was long."

"I'll bet. It seems Tommy and The Cowboy aren't around any more, they took their girls with them and my guess is they left town. I put the word out to a few people, said they owed me money. One of the girls has a sister that works the street so I talked to her pimp."

"Let me know what this costs you."

"Money? Nah, only if the pimp comes up with something, otherwise its just favors. You get a favor, you owe a favor, its all favors, just like politics. You know how the street works." Eddy had worked the street most of his life and because information is one of the currencies of the street there wasn't much he didn't know or couldn't find out.

I asked. "You don't happen to know a good, safe bank in Mexico, do you?"

He shrugged. "I know the bank Paul Stoller uses."

"Paul Stoller, man oh man, you are a regular gold mine. How do you know that?"

"Tami Mottello does a lot of business with him and we go back a long way. It came up once, no big deal. You want me to ask around, see what the score is down there?"

"No, better not, I don't want anyone knowing where I've gone. I'll go with his bank, that's fine, matter of fact its a helluva endorsement."

After dinner eddy said. "They have a pool table in the basement. Why don't we shoot a little pool?" He grinned. "Who knows maybe we'll find a live one to hustle, play a little brothers."

We shot some pool, on a good table with good cues but we were bad, really bad, we couldn't have hustled a blind man. Still it was all right, it didn't make me feel nineteen but it was all right.

Chapter 25

I looked out the window at the drizzling rain and the quiet street below, or watched television, or read, and drank a lot of coffee. Sometimes the minutes would crawl slowly, plodding along, other times an hour or two would just slip by as if I had slept through it.

I kept trying to put the picture together, running it through my mind like a movie scene. It seemed important to know how it had happened, as if knowing would bring me some kind of satisfaction, would tie up the loose ends. Different scenarios ran through my mind without my even wanting them to, like someone had turned on a movie projector and I could only watch. There would be one of them, in my mind it was always The Cowboy, staking out the house. Tommy would be at the beach house. The Cowboy would get bored, waiting for something to happen was not his game so he'd wire himself up, stick something in his arm. She would walk into the house and he would be waiting and then.. and then something went wrong and that is where it ended.

Eddy had some news for me. "I talked to my cop and there's not much happening there. They're at a standstill, still trying to find out something about her background. She was identified right away because she was arrested a long time ago. But so far that is all they know. They think she might have been a hooker, that's one theory, so they've been up and down the street showing her picture. My cop is in vice so they talked to him about it. So far they have nothing, just another Jane Doe that fell down."

"She has mother in New Mexico and a brother somewhere, he used to live here but I don't know where he is now. She kept in touch with him, sent him money sometimes, he's a lush."

"They'll keep bird dogging and sooner or later they'll put most of it together, find out who she was, find out about Jack and you, someone will remember her, maybe one of Jack's friends, there will be a tip, something, once they get started..." He shrugged.

"Do they know how she died?"

He took a deep breath and sighed. "She was beaten to death, blows to the head, probably kicked," he paused. "and she was naked."

"Oh Christ, why was she naked? Was she raped?' I had a picture of her naked body being hauled out of the dumpster, I think that was the worst picture of them all.

Eddy shook his head. "No, there was no evidence of that. I don't know why. They might have thought she could be identified by the clothing, dry cleaning marks or something. I don't know. They're crazy people. Sometimes bodies in dumpsters never get found. It was just a fluke she got found right away. I don't know why she was naked."

"Maybe they thought it was funny."

Naked and so the first thought was sex but that wouldn't be it. I t would have happened quickly. She walked in and he grabbed her, but he didn't grab her fast enough. She slashed him with the exact knife and he lost it, lost control, beat her to death. Maybe some of his blood was on her clothes and he started thinking about blood types and dna and fiber samples, evidence if things went wrong. He had time to think about it, to clean things up, he wouldn't take the body out in daylight, he had to wait tell dark. He would have phoned his partner to help him.

I looked up and saw Eddy standing in front of me with a drink in each hand. "I just wondered how it happened." I said.

He handed a drink to me. "We'll find them."

Chapter 26

The next three days went by dully and mechanically, my moods alternated from restlessness to lethargy. According to Eddy's cop the investigation was going nowhere, neither the mother nor the brother had come to light, the cops were still at square one. I kept running the movie through my mind, her death, her naked body in the dumpster, but I supposed I would be doing that for a long time.

The money arrived at my bank and I withdrew everything, taking a chance and going out. I carried it back to the apartment in Eddy's red and white gym bag. Another time seeing all that money, even my own, would have given me a little tingle of pleasure, a little rush of excitement, but this time it was only paper to be stuffed into a bag and hand-carried via g

Greyhound bus to my safe bank in Texas.

Late that afternoon Eddy phoned. "We found our friends, in Seattle. Do you want me to talk to the people?"

"Yeah, please, right away, thanks."

And so it goes, if you set the wheels in motion, if you wait, things fall into place. Patience is a virtue. I made a lunch of cold meat sandwiches, cole slaw, and coffee. I ate well and heartily.

Eddy came home with more Italian take out, some gin, some scotch, some mix. "Believe it or not," he said. "the girl sent a postcard to her sister." He took the card from his pocket and placed it on the table. "The pimp got it first, she never saw it."

The postcard had a picture of a brown brick building with green awnings probably taken some years ago, colored in those odd tones cheap postcards sometimes have. "The Barlow Hotel, Seattle, Washington." The printed message on the back read, "Hy I am fine everything is ok this is a nice place I do not now when I will be back, I will fone u soon ps do not tell no one you got this. Didi.

"Not the swiftest girl in town."

"No, but brains is not how she makes a living. She must have mailed it the day they arrived. So, good, we go with it. Can you believe those guys? Same kind of hotel on the same kind of street.."

"They have to keep their girls working, they're fucking pimps, jerkoffs, what else do they know. Anyway they think they're immune, after all they were working for the A.G. they think they are immune. Well, not so." Tommy and The Cowboy laughing it up in some bar on the other side of the country with their girls on the street and needles in their arms, happy as larks, safe as houses. Well, not so.

Eddy picked up the postcard, looked at it again then tore it in half and burned it in the ashtray. "I talked to the people and gave them all the details. They shouldn't need anyone to point them out, these boys stand out in a crowd. This is an out-of-town organization, expensive but good. I connected a friend of mine to them once before.

"I owe you, Eddy, I really do. So what happens now?"

"That's pretty well it, they get half down, half when its done. I have to phone them tonight at nine to set up the meet."

"I'd like to do it. I should be the one to deliver the payment. Would that be okay?"

"I don't see why not. I'll check it out."

I wanted to physically hand over the money, it would be a nice definite act, like the signing of a death warrant.

Chapter 27

The meeting was for ten a.m. at the ferry docks, the money was to be in an envelope. Eddy had described me to them but I had no idea what he or they would look like. On the way to the docks I stopped at Michael's bar. He was seated in his usual booth talking to someone but I gave him the urgent signal went to the end of the bar to wait. After a minute or two Michael came and sat beside then lit a cigarette.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Michael, but I'm in a hurry and this is very important. I have a dvd, a movie, of Phillip Dowdall, or Attorney General, fucking an eleven year old girl. Its authentic and its very, very good, the lights are on and there is no mistaking him. Jack forman set it up." I paused but he didn't say anything, his expression didn't change, he waited for the rest of it. I want to deal the dvd. I want to deal with your people because we go back a long way and you people know how to do business, big money, c.o.d., none of this next week bullshit." He nodded, still waiting. "There are two things, two conditions; one is the money, two hundred and fifty thousand, the usual way, like I say c.o.d. the second condition is I want to deal with the old man in person. Mr. gregory."

He tapped his finger slowly on the bar. "It sounds very good but why this thing with the old man? He and I have an arrangement, you know that. It would be better for all concerned to let me handle this."

"I dealt with him before, about eight years ago, remember that bank thing, he'll remember me, they say he never forgets. You want Phillip Dowdall you can have him, but I don't want to wait. I have only two conditions."

He sighed and said. "I'll give him the message, right away, don't push it though." there was a touch of anger or perhaps disappointment in his voice

"Thank you, Michael, can I phone you here tonight, about six, seven?" He nodded and gave a little cough. "Good, thanks again. See you later."

Three different ferry boats used the docks, running between the city and the islands. There were forty or so people in the large waiting area, most of them sitting quietly and patiently on the brown wooden benches. I stood by one of the loading gates and looked out at the lake and the islands, hazy and far away in the bright sun. As I watched the largest of the ferry boats, circled by noisy gulls, pulled away with a blast of its whistle. Half a dozen people stood leaning on the rail of the upper deck, one of them waved, a small flutter of her hand, then they were motionless again.

After a few minutes I felt a presence beside me and I turned to see a man standing very close to me, he was wearing a baseball cap and a New York Giants jacket. "You're Eddy's friend?" he asked.

I nodded. "Eddy Joyce."

"Get on the boat that's loading now and go to the top deck."

He followed me onto the boat, both of us just getting on before the gate closed. For such a pleasant day the top deck was almost deserted; half a dozen people and a group of children on some kind of outing. The kids made a lot of noise but two harried looking women kept them more or less orderly. The baseball cap strolled around the deck than came and sat beside me. "Over there." He indicated the back of the boat.

A man in a tan suit leaned casually against the railing, half turned toward us. He watched me as I walked over and stood beside him. "You're Eddy's friend?" he asked. I nodded. He held out his hand and I gave him the envelope, he slid it quickly and easily into his inside pocket without looking at it. He looked to be in his early thirties, slender and small boned with sandy hair and ordinary features, only the eyes set him apart, they were an odd gray color, intelligent and steady.

"Is there anything else you need to know?" I asked.

He thought for a second or two, gazing out over the water, unhurried. "No, I don't think so."

I wanted something more, I wasn't sure just what, maybe just a more memorable meeting, something more than just delivering a package. "If the information is false you can contact Eddy, and you see him for the balance." He already knew that and I felt a little foolish.

He didn't reply just made a small acknowledging nod then asked. "Do you have any special requirements?"

I didn't know what he meant, I couldn't think of anything. "No." I said. "i just want it done. Any idea when?"

"You can look at three four days, barring any unforeseen circumstances." his voice had the slightest trace of an accent. "Is that all right?"

"Fine." then I added. "We have a deal."

He nodded and went back to staring at the water. I was just about to leave when he turned to me and came close to smiling. "I understand your concern but everything is fine, everything is under control." He paused. "I am sure you do what you do very well."

The topic was finished, to pursue it would be to insult him, to question his professionalism. He gestured toward two sail boats leaving the harbor. "Have you ever done that, ever sailed?"

"Twice, with a friend, I liked it."

"But you didn't keep it up?"

"I lost the friend and never bought a boat but I might take it up again."

"I have a cottage. I've been thinking about a boat, just a small one." There was something odd about his speech, precise with a slight accent. I thought he had probably learned it in a classroom. Neither of us spoke then and I knew the conversation was over and felt awkward, not sure whether to stay or go so I left it up to him. Let him be the one to leave. He stayed and so did I, for the next ten minutes or so neither of us spoke, we listened to the shouts and laughter of the children and we looked at the water, the boats, the gulls, and the city skyline. When the boar began to pull into the island dock he said. "We'll get off here. Enjoy the rest of your trip."

"Thank you." I said. "I hope you enjoy sailing." Another of his nods and they were gone; odd Mr. Grayeyes and sinister Mr. Baseballcap.

And that was that. Business is a wonderful thing, whenever there is a need an industry springs up. Things can be so easy if you have the money to pay the fee, because it is all for sale, whatever you want. It is all out there; if you want your house painted or your teeth pulled, if you want a twelve year old hooker or your wife snuffed, just ask around.

I went down below and bought a cup of undrinkable coffee and a magazine. Things were beginning to happen, loose ends were being tied up, tomorrow would be Mr. Nicholas Gregory, then would be Texas, then Mexico. The sooner I was gone the better, there was the chance that the law would connect me to Chris and if they did Eddy's would be the first place they would look. They worked the street too. But so far the investigation had bogged down, they were short handed, there were other more newsworthy cases, no media pressure, and we all know hookers have a high violent death rate anyhow, it goes with the territory, its their fault for choosing the trade.

Later I phoned Michael. "All right," he said. You have your meeting. Tomorrow morning at eleven, here." that was all.

Chapter 28

"Are you ready for your meeting with the old lion?"

"The old lion, is that what they call him now? Jesus, you'd think he was the grand old man of something. I always thought he was more like an old crocodile."

Eddy gave a little snort. "An old fuck is what he is, he should be dead, the bastard."

"I'll give him your regards."

"For sure." then at the door, just before leaving, he asked. "Just a thought, you want somebody, you know to keep an eye on things for you, a muscle guy?"

"It is just a business deal, a transaction, no problem."

"I'm starting to sound like your mother. You'd better go to fucking Mexico, next thing I'll be trying to adopt you."

I arrived at Michael's bar right on time, to the minute, as I entered Michael rose from his booth to meet me. "Upstairs." was all he said then led me behind the bar and up the stairs to his apartment. I had been there before, of course, we had played gin rummy and watched baseball games there. It was not much of an apartment, the furnishings ordinary and forgettable. I doubted that much had changed since my last visit, five or six years ago.

I sat down on the sofa, put the dvd on the coffee table and crossed my legs.

"You want anything?" Michael asked. "A drink or anything?"

I lit a cigarette. "Yeah, that would be nice, a G. and T. Thanks."

Michael buzzed the bar downstairs and a minute later the bartender brought my drink, setting it on the table beside the dvd, carefully putting it on a round paper napkin that said in green print. The Denver Ave. Sports Bar. With a drawing of a baseball player, a batter, swinging.

The apartment was overly warm with a stale, musty smell. I had wanted to wear a business suit for the occasion but I no longer had a wardrobe and Eddy's suits were a little short in the leg so I settled for one of his nice Hugo Boss jackets and a tee shirt, the casual look, like I had casually dropped in to ask for two hundred and fifty big ones.

After a few minutes I heard footsteps on the stairs and a young guy wearing one of those loose, expensive Italian suits came into the room. As he came in Michael left. The guy didn't say anything; no hello or good morning, just scowled and motioned for me to stand up. Then he frisked me. I don't know what he was looking for, a wire I suppose, or thought it was proper procedure, or he had seen the Godfather movies too many times.

He seemed a little keyed up, not tense exactly, just anxious to get on with business, not one for idle chit chat, but he sat down and didn't say anything so I took a sip of my drink and went back to staring at my shoe. When you buy them they you they are hand stitched but I didn't know if that was an advantage or not, maybe a machine would do a better job. I had a picture of some little white haired shoemaker working away in his cluttered shop.

"You're some kind of con man, is that right?" He leaned forward when he asked the question and his tone was mocking. I nodded. "I hope you're not looking to fuck anybody over, not here. That would be really stupid."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that. I guessed he was one of the second or even third generation of family, somebody's son in law, or cousin, or son, raised with money and good schools, the kind that adopts a movie tough guy stance to compensate. He was probably tough enough and ruthless enough to get by, but he had never run the streets, had never run with the gangs, so there would be some things he wouldn't understand. I knew he wasn't the Old Lion's son because the old man never had any children, not even with two wives. That was one of the jokes about him. "The only time he ever shoots blanks."

While we waited I studied my shoe and wondered if the waiting was some kind of silly head game they were playing. I told myself not to get too cocky, to always remember who these people were, to play everything carefully.

Finally there were more footsteps on the stairs and the old lion himself came in, a little paunchier since the last time I'd seen him, but all in all, for seventy-three year old guy he looked pretty good. H favored tinted glasses now and English tailored pin stripes complete with vest. I have always believed that pudgy guys should never wear vests

He nodded toward me. "Danny."

"Mr. Gregory."

He sniffed the air. "Louis, would you put on the air conditioner." the bartender had come right up behind him with a tray that carried an open bottle of wine and three glasses. He set down the try and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The old man sniffed the air again and I thought of an old lion sniffing the morning air on some African veldt. "Oh," he said. "you have a drink."

"Yes, but a little wine would be nice."

He poured the wine, handed us each a glass then settled himself in a chair, a little apart. He would sit on the sidelines while Louis and I did business. As I watched him get comfortable in his chair I thought that without his English suit he could be one of those old Wop geezers sitting in the park watching a game of bochi, a retired shoemaker maybe, maybe the one who had stitched my shoes. Except that Nicholas Gregory had killed a few people, not just ordered killed, but killed, personally, physically killed. That was how you worked your way to the top in the old days. You had to respect him for that, whatever it took to do those things he still had it and would always have it, back behind those crocodile eyes with their tinted glasses

Whatever they had decided I knew they would not leave without the dvd. They had their options; they could take the dvd and tell me to go away, they could take it and kill me, or they could take it and pay me. The first two options would save them a considerable sum of money, but word would get around that I had dealt with Michael and been fucked over and that would be bad for business. There were other more serious considerations as well.

Louis pulled his chair up to the table and started doing business, at least that is he thought he was doing. He nudged the dvd with his finger. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And copies. Who the fuck do you think you are dealing with here? You expect us to believe there's no copies anywhere, that you don't have a copy stashed somewhere? There could be forty fucking copies floating around. No, no, no, that's shit."

"All I can tell you is I never made a copy, maybe there is a copy floating around somewhere but I doubt it will ever show up and if it does I am sure you people will know how to handle that." I repeated the story. "The dvd was made by a guy named Jack Forman and its a great piece of work. Forman died in a car accident. My partner and I, she's dead now too, were looking for something else, we found this. That's the story.

Louis leaned back in his chair and smiled, more or less, as we stared at each other for a few seconds. This all such bullshit, I thought, why are we running through all this? It was all either a part of Louis' apprenticeship or the old man wanted to study me a bit.

Louis cleared his throat. "Well, let's just say we bought this thing and then tomorrow you go out and sell a copy to someone else and maybe the next day to someone else. We'd look pretty bad, wouldn't we?"

"And maybe I'm the stupidest guy in town."

"And maybe you've been jerking people around for so many years you think you're the smartest guy in the world."

There wasn't any point in replying to that so I took a sip of wine. In his chair, head cocked to one side, the old man fidgeted. I hoped he was getting bored so we could end the game. Then Louis finally asked the big question. "Why did you come to us with this?"

What he had really asked was why hadn't I gone to Tommy McDermott. They knew Eddy and I were tight, like brothers, and that Eddy was Tommy's fair haired boy, like family. That was the part they didn't like.

The old man and Tommy had their war about fifteen years ago when Nicholas Gregory thought he should own the whole city. As far as wars go it was short but vicious, about eight guys went missing. They made their peace but it was an uneasy one, with still a lot of hatred on both sides. No one knows vendettas better than Wops and Micks.

"I came here because I've dealt with Michael for years and we've always made money for each other. He has some work coming up for me and I still might have some diamonds for him." I paused. "Also the value of the thing depends on who uses it."

There was no disputing the value of the dvd, it would put the Attorney general right in the old man's hip pocket, and not just an Attorney General but an on-the-rise political star. Over the years it would be worth several millions of dollars.

Finally the old man spoke. "Louis, I think you should play the thing. This might all be a waste of time." That had been a worry because looking at the dvd first would be the natural thing to do, but I decided it was just the way the old man liked to work. He had his game and I had mine. Louis scowled and picked up the dvd. If it was up to him he would simply take it and have someone blow my head off, but it wasn't up to him. Louis watched the screen, neither myself nor the old man even glanced at it. I sipped my drink and lit a cigarette, he stifled a yawn.

All things considered it would be much better for them if I was dead, I knew that but I had an ace in the hole. My ace in the hole was Eddy. If the old man had me killed then Eddy would have to have someone killed, probably Michael, or maybe family. Eddy would have to do it and fuck the consequences because that was they way things worked' "you get one of ours we get one of yours." And then maybe another war, he didn't need that, It was still the street gangs, you fought for your streets, you fought for your pride, nobody walked over you, and you always avenged a buddy. Louis might not understand that but the old man did. We both knew it.

For a second I thought about what Louis had said, I might not be as smart as I thought I was, it might still all blow up in my face, there are always things you don't know about. I put the thought aside. In my business if you don't have confidence you should choose another profession.

The old man stared at me, old crocodile eyes behind the tinted glasses, giving a little sniff from time to time. He had to consider that I might have already sold a copy to Tommy but it was too late to do anything about that. If I dealt with both people I would have to take the money and run because it would be my death warrant. The old man had to decide what my game was.

I was no reckless kid but an old timer, a steady layer that made a good income, not the type that wanted to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. At least that was how I hoped he saw me.

He turned away and watched the screen for a few minutes, long enough to make a judgment, then looked impatiently at Louis, but Louis was still absorbed in watching. The old man sipped his wine and asked. "Why did you want to deal with me personally?"

"Well, with all respect, I had dealt with you before, I knew how important this was and I knew you'd be fair."

It wasn't much of a story but it wasn't supposed to be, I wanted him to think it was ego on my part, to have dealt with the Old Lion himself. That was not just part of the con it was also true, it was ego on my part to deal with the old man personally because it made it all more real, more substantial, like dealing with the man on the ferry boat. It made for a better memory.

We sat and watched other and I thought; yes Mr. Grand Old Man of organized crime, who sometimes get mentioned in the society columns and described as a land developer, which I suppose you are, among other things, who has his own pet charity for inner city kids, who once strangled a man to death his bare hands, yes, you see, Mr. King of the Mountain, I am fucking you over. As we sit here waiting for dim Louis to finally stop watching the dvd I am fucking you over. And I know what I knew when I hustled my first game of pool—there is nothing in the world quite like it.

Louis shut off the machine, he put the dvd on the table but didn't sit down, just looked over to the old man.

The old man sniffed again. "Is it what he says it is?" Louis nodded. "And its good?"

"Yeah its good, its perfect." His voice was quiet as if he finally realized what they had.

The old man stood up, he adjusted his vest and made a little signal with his hand. Louis picked up the dvd and put it in his pocket. "All right then." the old man said, "we can do business but you are asking too much, there could be copies, more expenses. I can give you one eighty, less ten per cent off the top for Michael of course."

"With all respect, sir, I could never go below two thirty."

He didn't look at me, just buttoned his jacket, adjusted his tie and smoothed his lapels. "I go to two twenty, final offer."

I counted to five, stood up and said. "Done."

He didn't shake hands or anything just said. "There a lot of loose ends here, but I am bending over backward because of Michael. Lets hope everything is as you say and no other copies suddenly show up." He meant I was a dead man if they did. "Wait here and I'll send the money over."

And that was that, I hoped.

The ice in my drink had melted but I sat there and finished it before going downstairs to join Michael in his booth.

"Well, well, well." he rasped

I signaled the bartender for a drink. "So, Michael, what's new?" I smiled at him and thought that depending on how things transpired we might be be dead shortly.

"Since the last time I saw you not much, your life has been pretty eventful though. Sorry about your old lady."

I nodded. She had a name, you asshole. "Want to play some gin while we wait?"

He shook his head and blinked, then pushed his glasses up and slowly rubbed his eyes, he looked very old and frail. "Tell me, why was it you wanted to deal with the old man himself? What was that about?"

"I give you two guesses (a) I could get more money, or (b) ego."

He gave an annoyed shrug. "I hope you're too smart for it to be ego."

"It was both, money and ego. Hey that's what makes the world go round."

During the next three hours it took for the money to arrive neither of us had much to say. It arrived in a black leather satchel and I wondered if the old man had deducted the price of the satchel. When I looked inside I thought about how many years in Mexico it represented. Then I closed the satchel and said good-bye.

And finally that was that.

Chapter 29

The next morning Eddy and I were up at six-thirty, we had our morning toast and coffee on the balcony in the cool morning air. All of my money was tightly packed into a sturdy backpack. Then we took a long meandering drive in the country, to enjoy the scenery and fresh air, and to ensure that no one was following us, then we doubled back and went to the airport. From an airport locker I took four copies of the dvd. Three were packaged, addressed, and stamped; one to the Attorney general's wife at her pet charity, one to his son at Yale, and the third to his daughter at UCLA. There was a postal box in the airport and the three packages made three satisfying, clunking noises as they dropped into the box.

I had done some thinking about the smiling Irishman and what his life would be like after Nicholas Gregory had the dvd. He would become an employee of the old man. He wouldn't like it at first but he would get used to it, people do, and as time went on it would become easier and more natural. The old man would toss him some money now and then, cut him into some profitable deals and be a big help in his political career.

All in all, it would seem, the smiling Irishman would have a rich and accomplished life with cards on Father's Day and family Christmas dinners. A good Catholic family man he would die in bed at age eighty-five fantasizing about twelve year old girls. His body would not be dragged naked out of a dumpster. He had been responsible for Chris' death and, I thought, that just aint the way things work. He was Irish he should understand that.

I gave Eddy the fourth copy. "This is for you. You can give it to Tommy, tell him the story, keep it yourself, whatever."

I didn't want to take the bus from the city so Eddy drove me a hundred and thirty miles south, to the town of Allison where the bus to Houston would stop. We didn't have much to say over that long drive but I remember how I felt. The cool air blew in the open windows, the wheels turned and the smooth gray road went on and on and on, farms and roadside stands appeared and then were gone. I felt alone, on my own, in motion. The wheels turned and the scenery passed by, gone forever.

We sat in the car outside the tiny Allison bus depot for a few minutes while I smoked a cigarette, there was no hurry, we were fifteen minutes early. A little boy in shorts and tee shirt sat on a bench by the front door of the depot, he watched a young man and woman on the sidewalk in front of him. The man talked in a very animated manner, he laughed frequently and made large, wide gestures with his hands. As they talked an elderly lady carrying a bright, red, white, and blue shopping bag walked slowly past them, as she passed them she cocked her head toward them and each acknowledged her with a small nod. The man left abruptly, with a final laugh and a wave, the woman said something to the little boy then she too went on her way.

"I guess its about that time." I said quickly. "I really appreciate what you did. I owe you, I mean it. Thanks. It really means something."

"What are you talking about? It was nothing. You were always there for me, always."

I tried to think of how I had always been there for him. When we were kids I supposed. I had been the better thief so I often carried him, and there had been a time when I had taken some chances to get money for him, to get him out of a jackpot. Years ago. But it was not favors given or favors owed; we were not accountants, it was something else, for whatever reason each of us would be there for the other, each of us would do whatever had to be done for the other, it was just the way things were. I suppose everybody needs something to hold fast to and maybe that was our something.

I remembered the first time I met him, in the Olympic pool room, both of us hanging around hoping for some action on a cold winter day. We went out for a sandwich together. I remembered the bitter wind as we walked down the street.

He half turned in his seat to face me, "Anything goes wrong, you need money or anything, let me know, okay."

I nodded and there were a few awkward seconds with nothing else to be said then I got out of the car.

"Take it easy"

"I will, you too."

Chapter 30

After Houston I stayed in Mexico City for three days, I did my business with the bank and little else, for the most part I stayed in my hotel room and went out only when necessary. There was too much smog, too many tourists, too great a chance of seeing someone from the home town. I remembered the three kids, the three backpackers I met in Puerto Vallarta, our chance meeting on the beach when we had talked about traveling in Mexico and they had advised me where to go and where not to go. I still had my address book with their names and addresses so I sent each a postcard with the message. "Remember Satchel Paige." Then burned my address book, tearing out the pages one by one and making a little bonfire in the ashtray.

About half a block along from my hotel was a large newsstand that carried American papers, each day I bought a hometown paper and took it back to the hotel to read. I looked for something on Chris, for a story on the investigation, but there was nothing. I wanted there to be something; a small follow up story or even a human interest article, just something. It was though I could never stop being curious about her.

On the third day there was a story on page one. "F. C. Dowdall dies." and underneath. "Attorney General takes own life." There was a posed-for portrait of him and a few paragraphs. The smiling Irishman had "eaten his gun," as the cops and the t.v. shows like to say. He wasn't smiling in the picture although there was a hint of a grin around the mouth and eyes. The picture showed an attractive but not handsome looking man with a pugnacious jaw and thick, unruly hair. On page three there was a picture that showed the A.G. being sworn into office, a small family portrait, and a brief biography. The biography mentioned his dedication to fighting organized crime.

The story did not surprise me, I had half expected it, nor did it bring me any feeling of elation. I suppose there was a sense of satisfaction that the final loose end had been tied up, that things had been completed.

I folded the newspaper and dropped it into the waste basket then stretched out on the bed. "Well, Mr. Dowdall." I said to the ceiling, "You know what they say, "Do just one stupid thing...."

I thought about the old man, he didn't make too many mistakes and wouldn't care much for being made a fool of so he would be looking for me, and he had people who knew how to look, but what the hell, from the first second you are born there is someone looking for you.

I had a picture of the old man as a cartoon character, a mangy old lion sniffing and roaring about while all the little animals scurried for cover and Louis hid behind a tree and laughed to himself, because dim Louis had been right; I was just another smart assed con man and they should have killed me when they had the chance. The old King of the Mountain was left with a two hundred thousand dollar porno flick and nothing in his pocket but holes. Which just goes to prove what they always say; that there just aint nobody in this world what can't be hustled.

All in all it was a good way to end my career as a thief.

Chapter 31

The second oldest Christian church in Mexico sits black and solid in the darkness of early evening, its outline nearly invisible against the dark sky. In the square the darkness brings out the soft yellow light of the tall lamp at the square's center and turns the trees that line the streets into a soft black wall. There is a hint of night time coolness in the air, beneath my feet the hard packed ground releases warmth stored from the heat of the day and carries with it the dust smell of dry earth. On the bench beside me Diaz lights a cigarette and flicks the spent match away.

The parade of the "little momas" is over and the young girls are leaving, they leave in pairs or in groups talking quietly. Three teen age boys pass by, strutting a little in the unknowing invincibility of their age. They know the parade is for them and believe this gives them a kind of power or importance. They nod, quickly but respectfully toward us.

It has been a while now, quite a while, each day slipping easily into the next so that it sometimes feels that I have been here all my life. I have put on a little weight, grown a nifty little beard, and learned much more of the language. Do I miss the old days; the hustle, the con? Yeah, I do, more than I thought I would. I was a hustler, a con man. It was what I was born to do and I miss the edge, that high you get putting some mark through, there's nothing like it. And its always there, just a bit, even when you're not actually working a score. It goes with the territory. I miss the guys, all the rounders, the hustlers and con guys; Kenny English, Rudy Puma, The Mope, Dummy Greenberg, and a few burglars and bank robbers, even a few scary guys; Frankie the Bat, Little John Chavez. Hoisting a few at the Brass Rail or the Zanzibar, all the stories, mostly funny, but a few scary, yeah, guys you were at home with, we had our own community, smart guys, wise guys, outsiders. I miss that.

And I think about Chris sometimes, memories come back, the good times on the coast, she could make me laugh, she made me happy. I always have to give her that. But with her there is always a feeling of unfinished business. In the beginning of a relationship there is always the mystery, then we begin to peel away the layers, get past the image, past all the guards that are set up until finally we glimpse something underneath it all and we have solved as much of the mystery as we can, or need. Then we stay or go. Chris was filled with twists and turns, circles and blind alleys, she was something to be experienced, like a thunderstorm, not understood. Even now, the unrealistic thought that maybe if we'd talked a bit more, if this, if that. The thing is if someone tells you who they are you should believe them. Chris was who she was, not who I wanted her to be., and that was the sum of it. Hope wins out over reason. Its what we do. "Maybe this time it will work, maybe this time she will be different, maybe this time he(she) will stay, maybe this time he (she) will love me, maybe, maybe, maybe daddy will come back, maybe mommy will stay sober", its what we do, maybe we will fill the inside straight, win the lottery, win the girl. Yeah, hope over reason and I don't know if that's so bad, it keeps us going, pushing the rock up the mountain, we keep on.

As we begin our walk to the Brown Cafe for our beer Diaz says, with a soft smile and a shrug. "Once again, there is trouble in the band."

I put my arm around his shoulder. "Amigo, in this world there is always, always, always, trouble in the band.

THE END

