What happened next was that he'd got shot for the first time in his life, and he never wanted to get shot ever again because not only was it embarrassing, it also hurt like hell. Rawles hadn't said much that night. He was a man of few words. He'd just shaken his head, and then walked over to the car to radio for a meat wagon. Matthew visualized him now as the phone rang at the Public Safety Building. A huge man, black as the Arctic night, wide shoulders and a barrel chest. Massive hands. Stood at least six feet four inches tall and weighed possibly two-forty. No one to mess with.
When he came onto the line, Matthew said, "Detective Rawles? This is Matthew Hope. I have some information for you."
Rawles listened silently as Matthew repeated everything Kelly O'Rourke had told him not five minutes earlier.
There was a long silence on the line.
"You've been busy," Rawles said, and for a moment Matthew thought he'd only imagined the reprimanding note in his voice. But then Rawles said, "Maybe you ought to make application for the Police Department, Mr. Hope."
Matthew said nothing.
"Understand you were out to see Mrs. Nettington before
we
got to her," Rawles said.
His meaning was unmistakable now.
"Mrs. Nettington was my client," Matthew said.
"Is that why you asked all kinds of questions about where her husband was Sunday night when Samalson was boxed?"
"What is this?" Matthew said.
"I think you know what this is, Mr. Hope," Rawles said. "I don't think you'd be acting this way if Morrie wasn't on vacation 'cause Morrie'd have called you as a friend and told you to bug off. What I want to know is why you think you can get away with conducting your own personal little investi-"
"No one's conducting a personal-"
"No? I hear from David Larkin that you went to see
him,
too. And that you had access to a file on a case Samalson was working for him. Now you weren't by chance representing Mr.
Larkin,
too, were you?"
"No, Detective Rawles, I was not representing David Larkin."
"Yeah, get huffy, go ahead," Rawles said. "You just go get-tin' huffy on me."
Matthew said nothing.
"Who else you been talking to?" Rawles asked.
Matthew did not answer him.
"Don't talk to anyone else, you hear?" Rawles said.
Matthew still said nothing.
"Thanks for the Toronado shit," Rawles said, and hung up.
***
What it was, they called him The Armadillo.
When she first heard this, she said Please, you're making my flesh crawl. That's like a snake, isn't it? An armadillo? Doesn't it have scales and everything? Like a snake?
He told her No, an armadillo was an animal ate ants.
She said Terrific. What kind of creep is this, he eats ants?
He explained that the guy's name was Luis Amaros, his real name, and he lived in this great house on Key Biscayne, looking out over the water, a gorgeous house must've cost him a million, a million-two. He had a sailboat parked behind the house
plus
a motor cruiser, and there was a Jag and a Rolls in the garage, the guy was what a person might consider well off, believe me. There was no question that he was a pro, she was right about that, he was very definitely moving cocaine, which accounted for the solid gold fixtures in the toilet and the safe with six, seven kilos he kept for entertaining his lady friends. But that was no reason to be afraid of him. Because what they were going to do was leave Miami the minute they had the coke. Amaros wouldn't bother coming after them, why would he? For a lousy two, three keys, whatever? Besides, how could he ever find them? This was a big state and an even bigger country.
He thought of himself as a ladies' man, Amaros, keen eye for the ladies, wouldn't have anything to do with hookers, which is why Jenny was perfect for the job. You don't look anything like a hooker, he told her, which she supposed he intended as a compliment though she couldn't see anything wrong with the way hookers looked. In L.A., the hookers she knew dressed like college girls whenever they went out to turn a trick. Out there, it was the
straight
girls who looked like hookers. Your movie stars looked like the biggest hookers of all. They went to the Academy Awards, you'd think they were giving out prizes for who was showing the most tits and ass.
It still bothered her that she'd never made it as an actress. Whenever she watched the Academy Awards on television, it made her sad that it wasn't her up there making an acceptance speech. Made her want to cry, watching the Academy Awards. Thank you, thank you, I'm so moved I could cry. Oh, thank you. I would also like to thank my marvelous director, and I would like to thank my wonderful co-stars and my kind and understanding producer, but most of all I would like to thank my mother, Annie Santoro. For giving me so much love and understanding. Mama?
And at this point she'd hold up the Oscar.
Mama, this is really yours.
Tears in her eyes.
Still bothered her.
And yet she was sort of pleased that he didn't think she looked like a hooker. She guessed that meant she looked
pure,
you know, the girl next door, the
virgin,
which was what she'd played to good effect in California when she was still Mary Jane Hopkins. Little pigeon-toed stance, hands twisting the hem of her skirt, Gee, Mister, I never had one of
those
in my mouth before. Long time ago, that was. Mary Jane Hopkins was dead and gone now. But she was flattered that he thought she still looked pure as the driven snow.
This customer of his who'd shared the coke with Amaros was a working girl just like Jenny, only Amaros hadn't known that. He'd known it, he wouldn't have had anything to do with her. What happened was he'd picked her up in the Kasbah Lounge out there in Bal Harbour at the Morocco Hotel, which was his favorite hangout on the beach. Very fancy hotel up there, combo playing like supposed to be mysterious African-style music in the lounge there, all beaded curtains and waiters in red fezzes, very dimly lit, hookers cruising, but Amaros wouldn't know a genuine hooker if she came complete with a scarlet letter on her chest. Didn't tip to the fact that Kim-which was the name this girl went by, her real name was Annabelle-was a hooker, began moving on her the way he would a straight girl, what kind of work you do, you been in Miami long, where you from originally, like that.
Kim was getting a big kick out of it, to tell the truth, this pudgy little guy with the Spanish accent and the big diamond ring on his pinky and the Bugs Bunny grin never suspecting for a minute that she got a hundred bucks an hour for her time. When he asked if she did cocaine, she began to get really interested. Because sometimes, you found a guy had great coke it was worth more than the C-note to spend some time with him. So she went along with it, all big-eyed and innocent, Oh gee, Mr. Amaros, I'm just a little girl from the state of Minnesota, I wouldn't know about cocaine and all those bad things, him holding her hand while the waiter in the fez brought lavender-colored drinks.
So finally Amaros convinced her to come take a look at his big house out on Key Biscayne, which really knocked Kim's eyes out, I mean this was
some
house. And he opens the safe, and takes out a big plastic bag looks like sugar and he puts it on the dresser and opens it, and she dips her finger in it and oh, yes, daddy, it is cocaine of the nicest sort. He does a trick with some chemical, it makes a sample turn blue, and he tells her the brighter the blue, the better the girl, but she's already snorting through a rolled-up twenty dollar bill, and she doesn't need
him
to tell her how good this stuff is.
In the safe, she spots six more bags.
He tells her he just keeps it around to entertain his friends.
She is very happy he is such a fine entertainer. She tells him he ought to go into the catering business.
He is having a jolly old time, Amaros, introducing this nice little girl from Minnesota to all the wicked, wicked ways of the big bad world. He shows her a movie starring Johnny Holmes, the porn star with the enormous cock, and asks Kim who's bigger, him or Johnny Holmes. She says Oh, you, my dear, without question, which isn't really a lie because he is in fact rather well hung for such a short guy.
So the idea is for Jenny to go to this same Kasbah Lounge and sit at the bar there drinking something purple or pink, waiting for her dream boy to walk in one night, after which she will catch his eye and play the innocent little girl from Dubuque, Iowa. He will whisk her away to his castle on Key Biscayne, and he will open the safe and take out a bag of coke and do his Brighter-the-Blue trick and show her his Johnny Holmes movie and his own humongous weapon and she will put a little bit of chloral hydrate in his drink and knock him out and run off with the rest of the stuff in the safe, how does that sound to Jenny?
Jenny thinks it sounds terrific.
Because to her this is still the way out.
This was now like the last week in March when they were planning this.
8
Matthew was still steaming.
Back some time ago, before they'd got to know each other better, he'd had the same kind of confrontation with Bloom. Twice, in fact. The first time was while Bloom was investigating the murder of Vicky Miller and the kidnapping of her daughter, Allison. Bloom had told him-on the phone, in much the same way Rawles had told him on the phone-to bug off. What he'd said, actually, was:
"Counselor" (and the word
counselor
rankled because it was more often than not used sarcastically even among contesting attorneys in a courtroom) "it would be nice to have your word that from this minute on you won't be running all over the city of Calusa questioning anybody you think might have some connection with this case, as I would hate to have the blood of a six-year-old girl on my hands if I were you, Counselor."
Matthew had said, "Stop talking to me as if I'm a fucking
Los
Angeles private eye."
That was the first time Bloom had felt it necessary to chastise Matthew. The second time was more recently. It had, in fact, been shortly before Matthew took the bullet in his shoulder. And yesterday morning was the third time, only it hadn't been Bloom, a
friend,
delivering the warning, it had been a detective Matthew knew only casually. And he was still annoyed. He had not, to his knowledge, done anything to jeopardize or compromise the police investigation into the death of Otto Samalson. He had not spirited away evidence, he had not forewarned witnesses or suspects, he had done nothing whatever to warrant Rawles's blunt reprimand. "You've been busy." It occurred to him that Bloom had once used those exact words. With much the same sarcastic lilt. "You've been busy." Maybe all cops said "You've been busy" when they meant "Fuck off." And the reprimand was even more annoying because Matthew had been calling to give the man
information,
the make and color of the automobile that had followed Otto out of the Seven-Eleven parking lot last Sunday night. Matthew hadn't
sought
this information, it had
come
to him. And he had immediately turned it over to the police. And had been told not to talk to anyone else. He was tempted to call Grown-ups Inc. and ask them to please get Rawles off his back.
Grown-ups Inc.
Another game he and Susan had invented. Long long ago. When they were still in love. On the way to her house that Friday afternoon, he thought about that game. And wondered if Susan remembered it.
His annoyance began to dissipate as he drove out toward Stone Crab Key. It was impossible to stay angry on a day like today. A day like today reminded him of a Chicago summer. The sky clear and piercingly blue, the sun shining, the temperature back to what it
should
have been in June, a pleasant eighty degrees at 5:35 p.m. (or so his car radio had just informed him), the humidity a comfortable forty-two percent. Driving westward across the Cortez Causeway, Calusa Bay billowing with sails on either side of the bridge, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time how wonderful it was to be living down here. And thought of the plans he'd made for himself and Joanna this weekend. And grinned from ear to ear.
He felt peculiar going up to the front door of the house he used to live in. Usually, he parked at the curb and tooted the horn and Joanna popped out a moment later. Today, he went up the walk, and rang the front doorbell, and looked over at the orange trees he himself had planted six years ago, and wondered if old Reggie Soames still lived next door, and rang the bell again, and Susan's voice came from the back of the house, where the master bedroom was, "Matthew? Is that you?" She sounded surprised. Had she forgotten she'd invited him for a drink?
"Yes!" he called back. "Am I early?"
A long silence. Then:
"The door's open, come in."
He twisted the doorknob, and the door sure enough wasn't locked, and he walked into a living room he remembered, different furniture in it now, she'd completely redecorated after she kicked him out, but familiar nonetheless. He'd been in this house only once since that night two years ago. He stood in the living room now, and looked out through the sliding glass doors to where he used to dock his sailboat.
The Windbag.
He had named it over Susan's protests. She hated sailing and had wanted to call it
The Wet Blanket.
The boat had cost seven thousand dollars used, which hadn't been bad for a twenty-five-footer that slept four comfortably. The boat and the Karmann Ghia he still drove were virtually the only two things he'd got out of the divorce. Susan had got everything else: the house, the Mercedes-Benz, his daughter, his clock collection, everything. Matthew had the Karmann Ghia repainted and sold the boat a month after the final decree. Oddly, he hadn't been sailing since.