Riding the Rap (14 page)

“You mean what I might've gotten from you.”

“Exactly, since I haven't told you anything.”

“But what about what I know,” Dawn said, “without anyone telling me? I'm not going to prison, Chip, for fifteen hundred dollars I don't even have.”

Chip said, “Jesus Christ.” He said, “Wait.” But she'd already hung up.

He sat listening now, staring at the empty patio. He wanted to smoke another joint and
wanted something sweet, hungry again, and wanted to go to the bathroom. He thought of going through the house, the living room, the library, to look outside, all around, but didn't want to leave the study and be in rooms with windows. He didn't know how long he could sit here. Or what to do when he heard the sound coming from the sunroom—a rapping sound, four times on a pane of glass—and felt his neck become rigid.

 

Raylan had taken another walk around the house. He pressed close to the French doors now, hands at his face to block out his reflection looking in at the white-covered furniture and the door across the sunroom that was closed, but showed a line of light beneath it. He reached up and rapped his knuckles against glass, hard, watching the door inside the room, wanting to see it open. He waited a minute before stepping back, and now thought of taking off his hat, putting his fist inside and punching it through a pane of glass. Reach in then and open the French doors, walk over to the door with the light showing underneath and yank it open.

He thought of doing it knowing he wouldn't. He could cut official corners to call a man out, give him twenty-four hours to leave the county, but couldn't a walk in a man's house unless invited, or else with a warrant and bust down the door.

It was the way he was raised, to have good manners. Though a situation one time in particular
had set it in his mind as something more than etiquette, back when they were living in a coal camp and the miners struck Duke Power: Raylan walking a picket line most of the year, his dad in the house dying of black lung, and company gun thugs came looking for Raylan's uncle, his mom's younger brother, living with them at the time. They came across the street, five of them, a couple with pick handles, and up the walk to where his mother stood on the porch. He remembered she was having trouble with her teeth and they ached her that day. The gun thugs said they wanted to speak to her brother the agitator, set his thinking cap on straight for him. She told them he wasn't home. They said they intended to look in the house, and if she didn't move out of the way they would help her. Raylan came out the screen door to stand with his mother and remembered her eyes, the way she looked at him like she'd
given up hope. Though it was not in her voice when she told them, “You don't walk in a person's home ‘less you're invited. Even you people must believe that. You have homes, don't you? Wives and mothers keeping house? This is our home and I'm not inviting you in.” They shoved her aside and hit Raylan with the pick handles to put him down; they went through the house and out the back, empty-handed.

Her words hadn't stopped them. No, what they did was stick in Raylan's mind—her words, her quiet tone of voice—and stop
him
, more
than twenty years later, from breaking into this man's house.

Walking away he had a strange thought. What if he wrote Harry a letter and sent it to this address?

“
H
ow can this guy be a crook,” Louis said, “he does everything the same always.”

“They no different than other people,” Bobby said. “I learn that skip tracing. Get to know the guy's habits, he's yours.”

They sat in Bobby's black Cadillac on South County in Palm Beach, the golf course where Ben King played every afternoon on both sides of the road. They were waiting for the S&L crook to finish the first hole and cross the road in his golf cart to play number two, the guy always alone. “Thoughtful of him, huh?” Louis
said. Nobody wanting to play with him now, associate with a man up on charges to defraud, embezzle, and maybe a few other things, out on a half-million dollars' worth of bail put up by three different bondsmen.

They had parked by the clubhouse to watch him tee off. “Still having trouble with that slice,” Louis said. “But he's all right. First three holes, you any good at all, they no such thing as a bad lie.”

Bobby said, “You telling me you play this course?” his tone saying
bullshit
.

“I caddied here when I first come over, skinny little boy, the golf bags bigger than I was.”

They pulled around to South County to watch Mr. King approach the green and putt out the first hole.

“There he is,” Louis said now, “marking his card. I bet you the man cheats.”

They watched him get into a green golf cart and cross South County in front of them.

“Man's big,” Louis said. “You notice? Must go two hundred and I bet thirty pounds. What do you say?”

“About what?”

“How much he weighs.”

“I don't give a fuck what he weighs.”

“Man takes up the whole cart,” Louis said, “going with pink and white today. The cigar, the sun visor—wants you to know he's a big important motherfucker, why he smokes the cigar all the time. Chip say he stole money right out of his own company, put it in land deals, put
it in offshore banks in the Caymans. Sold mortgages he didn't even hold to different banks. How you expect to get away with shit like that? Stole money out of trust accounts, like old retired people had their money in? Wiped them out. Chip say, ‘I think of my poor mother, if it ever happened to her.' What he's thinking, there wouldn't be no money for her to leave him. It's why he wants this S&L man,” Louis said, his gaze following the green cart. “And off he goes.”

Once King was across South County, Bobby put the Cadillac in drive, crept up to the next intersection and turned left into a private road, this one narrow and shaded dark with tall pines lining both sides. “Hole's a three-hundred and fifty-six yard par four,” Louis said, looking at it right there on their left. “Go up about halfway. You see those bushes out there, with the red flowers?”

“Hibiscus,” Bobby said.

“They put them every hundred and fifty yards so the gentlemen know where they at, what club to use.”

“Here he comes,” Bobby said, looking at his outside mirror, the green cart approaching along a path close to them, on the other side of the pines.

“Sliced it again,” Louis said. “I been counting on his slice, keep him over on this side of the fairway. See, but he underclubbed it. The shot plays longer'n you think. The man oughta know better.”

“How far was his drive?”

“About one-eighty. He won't be on in two, and that's good, how we want it. Let's see where his second shot goes.” Louis turned to look back through an opening in the trees. “He's lining it up. Slice the motherfucker, will you, please, so we don't have to go out on the fairway?” Louis waited, still turned in the seat to watch. And smiled. “Man is stuck with that vicious slice. You see it?”

“It's right up there,” Bobby said, “in the trees. I didn't see it go through.”

Louis had turned to look ahead, not smiling now, but pleased and anxious. He said, “Thank you, Jesus, for delivering this big-ass millionaire to us. Where is he . . . he coming?”

“Pretty soon,” Bobby said. “He's in his cart.”

“I love it,” Louis said. “You ready? Soon as he gets up to the ball.”

Bobby had his hand on the door handle. He said, “Anytime.”

And Louis frowned at him. “You not ready. Wait.” Louis hunched over to open the glove box. He brought out two Browning .380 autos and handed one to Bobby, who racked the slide while Louis went back into the glove box for the ski masks Chip had bought out of a catalog. The pistols Louis had bought off jackboys in Riviera Beach, cheap, the jackboys dealing in arms they stole and had plenty. The idea originally, one for Louis and one for Chip, but now Bobby had the man's while the man smoked weed and watched TV. Now Louis was ready.

“Man, put your ski mask on.”

Bobby said, “Fuck the ski mask, it's too hot. I'm gonna hit the guy before he has time to see us.” He opened the door and got out.

Louis sat there making up his mind—wear the ski mask or don't wear it—watching Bobby outside now in the trees, Bobby anxious, huh? So anxious he almost got out of the car without a piece. Louis opened his door. Okay, no ski masks—shoved them back into the glove box and felt the roll of silver tape. Man, so anxious himself he almost forgot it. Once out of the car he told himself to be cool. Understand? You a pro, man. You know what you doing.

He saw Mr. Ben King two trees away in deep shade, a big pink-and-white shape bent over his lie. Changing his mind then, using the clubhead to tap the ball away from the tree. Tapping it again to improve his lie. Louis moved up behind Bobby in the tree shade, about twenty feet from the pink-and-white man, watching him taking a practice swing now. The clubhead brushed against pine needles on the backswing and the man looked over his shoulder. He saw them, or saw something to make him turn around and now he was facing them, the cigar in his mouth, standing straight up staring at them. So they moved toward him. Bobby, holding his piece against his leg, said, “How you doing?” as friendly as Louis had ever heard him.

The man wasn't buying it. He said, “What do you want?” When they kept coming he said, “This is a private course. Get the hell off, right now.”

There was nothing left to do but go for him, Bobby ahead of Louis as Louis told the guy, “Turn around,” brought up his piece to put it on him and said, “You hear? Turn the fuck around.”

The man was turning, yeah, but getting ready to swing his golf club, but then hunched his shoulder as Bobby got to him and clubbed him over the head with his piece, the barrel part, chopped him, the man's sun visor coming down on his face, the cigar gone. But the man didn't drop like in the movies when getting hit over the head knocks the person out; Louis had never seen it happen in real life and he had seen people hit over the head with guns and heavy objects. The man was staggered, but still trying to swing his golf club at Bobby. Louis took the man around the neck as Bobby was about to chop him again and twisted, bringing the man over his hip and they both went down, the man's thick body struggling against him, Louis trying to tussle him still while holding his piece and the fucking tape in his hands, Bobby saying, “Let me hit him good,” Louis saying to hold the motherfucker, will you? and Bobby stepped on the man's wrist, reached down to take the golf club from him and shoved
the grip end against his mouth, twisting so it would go inside. Louis sat on him now, laid his piece on the man's chest so he'd have two hands to tear off some tape, then had to pull the man's sun visor up off his face. So now they were looking at each other eye to eye, Louis feeling the man memorizing his face, every fucking line of it, before he stuck the tape over the man's eyes. Bobby pulled out the golf club and Louis stuck a piece over the man's mouth.

Bobby said, “Some golf carts . . .”

Louis looked up. Three hundred yards away a foursome was teeing off. Time to leave. He said to the blindfolded man, “You coming with us. Hear? So don't give us no trouble. Stand up.”

Bobby put his piece in the man's face and cocked it. He said, “You give me any more shit, you dead.”

They brought him through the trees to the car, taped his hands behind him quick, put him in the trunk and got out of there.

Up to Royal Poinciana and across the bridge to West Palm.

Louis said, “We should've wore the ski masks.”

Bobby said it again, “Fuck the ski mask.” Like saying he didn't care the man had seen them.

Louis had to ask himself what he thought about that. What it meant.

 

The last time the door opened, about a half hour ago, someone came in, didn't make a sound, didn't touch him, was in the room no more than ten seconds and out again, Harry thinking whoever it was had maybe left another snack; it wasn't time for a meal. He took off the bathing cap and looked at the floor, looked at the trash on the other cot. . . . His peanut brittle was gone. These fucking guys, these creeps, one of them gives you a treat and another one steals it.

This time he knew right away it wasn't just one guy. Harry had his bathing cap down over
his eyes as soon as he heard them at the door. He sat on the side of the cot hunched over, arms resting on his thighs. He heard one of them making kind of a grunting sound, maybe in pain. He heard something hit the wall opposite him and a groan and a voice say, “Goddamn it, take it easy.” A deep, kind of loud voice. Harry raised his head and almost asked if he had a cellmate, feeling surprised and a lift along with it, wanting to say something, and was glad he didn't. One of them put a hand on his head and pushed him back; he had to grab the edge of the cot to keep from hitting the wall. He heard the chains then, rattling, and heard the same deep voice say, “The hell you doing, chaining me up? What is this? Will you tell me, for Christ sake, have I been kidnapped? If that's what this is, guys, you have to get in line. There're between four and five hundred people say I owe them money.”
There was a silence then, except for the sound of the chains. Harry waited, listening inside the hot rubber bathing cap. Now he heard the voice again. “What're you doing? . . . Jesus Christ, you're tearing my skin off.” It was quiet then. Harry imagined the voice belonged to a guy who was maybe his age, maybe a little younger, but a big guy, robust, heavyset. He imagined them ripping tape from the guy's eyes and blindfolding him with something else. How about another bathing cap? Harry could see himself and the guy sitting here like a couple of aquacaders waiting to go on. He heard the guy's voice again say, “Which one are you,” quieter this time, “the
colored guy or the spic?” Harry shut his eyes inside the bathing cap and right away heard the smacking sound, the guy getting punched in the face, and another voice, with an accent, saying, “I'm the spic.” Harry heard him get smacked again and the Latino voice say, “You
want to fuck with me, man? You gonna have a hard time here.” Harry heard a low voice, a murmur, not the words, and then the Latino voice saying, “What's the difference? They gonna talk to each other.” Then a silence, Harry thinking: Two of them, the black guy, the one who'd spoken to him and gave him the bathing cap, and the Latino. Then another voice saying, “If that's how you want it, I don't give a shit what you do.” The thin, middle-aged guy with the hair, he'd caught a glimpse of before, Harry sure that's who it was. A few seconds later the door slammed closed. Harry waited. Now he heard the black guy say, “You want me to tell him?” The Latino voice said, “Go ahead,” and the black guy said, “Mr. King, we want you to think on how you gonna get us some money, the bottom line being three million. If we like the idea, then all you have to do is get it. We don't like the idea, you get shot in the head. Dig?”
The deep voice said, “I don't have three million, I don't have a dime, I'm bankrupt. You know how to read? I've been all over the papers, the past month.” The black guy said, “You broke, then you get shot in the head. You want to think on it some more? Maybe you have money you forgot about.” The deep voice said, “If you put it that way, I might. . . .”
The black guy said, “We gonna let you think on it.” Harry waited. He heard the door open and the black guy again, saying, “Don't touch the blindfold. Understand? Take it off, you get shot in the head.”

Harry waited again, hearing only the guy's chains rattling, and pulled off his bathing cap.

King sat across his cot in the trash—wrappers and empty containers—head and shoulders against the wall, chin down on his chest. The towel covering his head—silver tape around it—showed traces of blood and there was blood on his shirt. He had on black-and-white golf shoes.

Harry cleared his throat and saw King's head raise.

“I'm Harry Arno. Your name's King?”

The guy didn't answer, surprised or maybe thinking it was some kind of stunt, take him off-guard. But then he said, “Who are you?”

“I just told you, Harry Arno. I been here . . . What day is it?”

“Thursday. You chained up?”

“Yeah, but I can take my blindfold off when they're not in the room.” He watched King sit up and begin picking at the tape. Harry said, “I wouldn't do that. They like to keep you in the dark for a while, I think to get you disoriented.”

“Where are we?”

“Someplace on the ocean.”

“That tells me a lot.”

“You know as much as I do,” Harry said. He didn't care for the guy's attitude. Still, if they were going to be together . . . “You were playing
golf, huh, when they picked you up?” The guy didn't answer, busy working on the tape, and Harry thought, No, he wears the golf shoes for tap dancing. Ask a stupid question . . . He watched the guy pull the towel and the tape from his head and Harry recognized him right away, Ben King, his picture in the paper lately, the S&L crook, dried blood in his hair, looking this way now.

“Who're those guys?”