He strolled over to a wedge-shaped yellow car, a Lotus, glanced at the sticker on the window. Eighty-nine thousand. Flivey had owned a Lotus once. He saved up two thousand dollars from the construction job one summer, bought the car, ten years old, from a guy in Fort Lauderdale. He drove it a week before it refused to start and spent another two thousand on the electrical system before he sold it in disgust for fifteen hundred.
Deal felt someone’s eyes on him and straightened up, surprised to see a middle-aged man in shirt sleeves staring at him from an open-air desk near a window. The guy had been running some figures on a calculator, it looked like. There was a ledger sheet spread out on the desk beside him. The guy got up, wiping his hands on his pants, coming after Deal as if he were a customer.
“I’m just waiting for Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said.
The guy cut a glance at Leon, who was inspecting a thread on one of his coat buttons.
“Sure,” the salesman said, uncertain. “Look around, you have any questions, I’ll be glad to help.”
Deal nodded.
“We have a lot of interesting cars here.”
Deal nodded again. The inveterate salesman, he thought. Once his button’s pushed, the whole tape’s got to cycle.
The guy pointed at a pair of black Ferraris angled nose to nose near the front. “The one on the right is a Ferrari Daytona, the real thing. The other one’s a copy. A McBirney kit over a 1969 Corvette chassis. That’s what Sonny Crockett drove when the ‘Vice’ series started.”
“Is that right?” Deal said. Not that it mattered to him, but he still couldn’t see the difference.
“We’re asking sixty for the McBirney. The Ferrari’s at two-fifteen. That’s a steal.”
Deal stared at him.
The guy shrugged. “Black’s not a mover. Lot of folks go into a Ferrari for the investment. You’d want red in that case, like the F-forty there.”
The guy pointed at a fiery red machine sitting on a pedestal in the center of the showroom. It had a vague resemblance to the black Ferrari, but, with a huge spoiler hulking over the rear deck, it looked more like a race car than anything you’d see on the street.
“Eight hundred thousand dollars’ worth of automobile,” the guy said. “A special edition. Top-end of two hundred two miles per hour. You need a special license to drive it.”
“A license to print money?” Deal said.
The guy hesitated, then laughed. “That’s good,” he said. “A license to print money. I like that.”
Leon glanced up from his grooming. “Give it a rest, Morton. The guy’s not in the market.”
Morton gave him a look, but his tape had clearly wound down. “Here’s my card,” he said to Deal. “Call me any time.”
Deal stared at him. Maybe the guy really did wind up with a key. The guy still had the card extended when a door opened in a distant corner of the big showroom and Alcazar strode out, flanked by two Latinos, one slender, the other stocky, with a designer’s haircut and a suit nearly as well draped as his boss’s.
Leon stepped away from the limo, toward Deal. Morton saw who was coming and pocketed his card. He was scurrying back to his desk when Leon called after him.
“It can wait till tomorrow, Morton. Go on home.”
Morton never broke stride. He made a smooth cut to the right, snatched up his suit coat from a chair and disappeared outside.
The trio advanced across the thick carpet. “Mr. Deal,” Alcazar said, extending his hand. “I am glad you could come.”
Deal stared at his outstretched hand, then at the man’s face, Alcazar’s gaze about even with his own. He hadn’t paid much attention that night aboard Penfield’s yacht but now he noticed a shading of gray at the temples, like himself. And a similar set of sun lines at the eyes, although not from working outside. Composed. Intelligent. More so than you’d like to give him credit for. He’d have a Latin jury eating out of his hand.
“My attorney…” he paused, flashing the briefest of smiles, “…Mr. Penfield told me you turned down our offer.”
A car rumbled away outside—Morton in a smoking Chevrolet, its vinyl roof poofed up in the wind. “That’s not what I’m interested in, Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said.
Alcazar went on as if he hadn’t heard. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Mr. Deal. Very sorry. Your wife was a lovely woman.” He paused, his tone shifting slightly. “It is a tragic matter and I wanted you to know that I respect your feelings. I wanted to say this to you personally.” Alcazar stopped and stared at him, as if he’d said something momentous. Deal looked around at the three oafs who wore practiced expressions of disinterest in their employer’s affairs.
Alcazar continued. “If a cash settlement offends you, perhaps there is something else I might do. I speculate in real estate, for instance. Possibly your current project is something I’d be interested in.”
His current project? What, had Penfield told him everything? Shown him the balance statements, come up with the right figures, the right buttons to push. Poor old Deal, he’s in a bad way, let’s get this over with, get him out of his misery…
Deal felt himself swelling with rage, but he contained himself. He shrugged. “Come see me when I’m finished.”
“The status is not important,” Alcazar said magnanimously. “I am merely trying to help.”
Deal stared at him, ready to explode. This scum bag, extending his charity to Deal?
“I appreciate the thoughts, Mr. Alcazar,” Deal said. “But can I tell you something?”
Leon glanced up, on the alert. Alcazar waved him off, then nodded at Deal. Deal glanced around the lobby, at all the shining cars. Porsches, Jaguars, the malevolent-looking Ferraris. Every paint job glowing as if with inner life.
Deal cleared his throat. Why did he feel intimidated by a bunch of cars? He shook off the feeling, reached down deep. He’d try to make his point, one last time.
“Used to be, Mr. Alcazar, every kid in school learned that old story about George Washington, he cuts down the cherry tree and then he comes and tells his dad, he did it, he’s sorry, but he has to own up for what he did.” Deal paused. “Maybe you never heard that story.”
“Something like it,” Alcazar shrugged. Leon stared at Deal with something between astonishment and disgust.
Deal continued. “I don’t have to tell you how things have changed these last few years, Mr. Alcazar. Not that anybody really did what George was supposed to have done, of course, at least not after you got old enough to understand that owning up got you a good ass-whipping. But we, all of us over here, we
pretended
to believe in the story, you know what I mean?”
A hint of a smile had come to Alcazar’s face. He was either amused, or was convinced Deal was mad as a hatter.
Deal nodded, took a few steps toward a Porsche Targa. Glossy black on the outside, buttery gray upholstery on the inside. Deal kicked one of the tires and Leon glowered. Deal turned back to Alcazar.
“But lately, I try to think about that old story, instead I see this little kid in a Richard Nixon mask, he chops the tree down and when his father comes out to see what’s going on, the kid plants the hatchet right in his old man’s forehead.”
Leon smirked. It was apparently something he could identify with.
There was a silence in the room so deep you could hear the rush of the fountains outside. Deal pondered the madness of it, standing in the middle of an autos-of-the-gods dealership, lecturing Raoul Alcazar about owning up. For a moment, he had the sensation that this was all some terrible dream, that he might wake up, back in his condo, Janice turning restlessly in her sleep, asking if Deal might rub her back.
Instead, it was Alcazar who spoke. “Every country has its myths,” he said. “I grew up hearing about the streets of America, how they were paved with gold.” He waved his hand about the showroom, gave Deal his thin smile. “And I have found it to be true.”
Deal glanced around, nodding, feeling Alcazar measuring him, hearing the man’s voice sliding into a patronizing, we’re-all-friends-here tone.
“I think you have been under a great deal of strain, Mr. Deal. Mr. Penfield tells me you are a decent man. I am a decent man—”
Deal turned back, interrupting. “You asked what I want, Alcazar. And I’ve just decided.” He glanced at Leon who barely concealed a sneer. “I’d like you to buy some time on television, take out a couple of pages in the
Herald
,” he said. “I want you to explain what happened and why your people were at fault. That if everyone had done what he was supposed to, my wife would still be alive.” He took a breath.
“Just admit you were wrong, Mr. Alcazar. Stand up. Maybe it’ll help turn the tide. But most important, it’s going to make me feel better. You can forget about George Washington—I just used that to make my point.”
A phone was ringing somewhere. The smile had disappeared from Alcazar’s face, his gaze stony now. He drew a breath that seemed to tax him. “Mr. Deal, am I to take you seriously?”
“What do you think this is about, Alcazar? Lawsuits? Money? Bringing my wife back?”
Deal paused. “What I’d really like to do is beat the living shit out of you.” Leon started forward, but this time Deal waved him off. “But now that I’ve spent fifteen minutes in your presence, I figure this would hurt you a hell of a lot worse.”
Alcazar shook his head in disbelief. “In my country, it is a particular sin to harm a madman. But you are testing me…”
He broke off. The phone had stopped ringing and the stocky thug, the one with the good suit, had come to whisper in Alcazar’s ear. Alcazar’s eyes flickered, came back to Deal.
“Excuse me,” he said and followed the thug into a glassed-in office. After a few moments on the phone Alcazar covered the mouthpiece. He glanced out at Deal, then said something to the thug with a dismissive gesture.
The thug looked through the glass at Deal, shrugged, and came outside. Alcazar had returned to his phone conversation.
“Mr. Alcazar wants you to have something,” the thug said, his voice echoing as he approached Deal. Deal had the odd feeling that he had heard the voice before somewhere. Then he forgot that, wondering what Alcazar might be offering. A pair of broken arms? Cement overshoes? An ice pick in the ear? There wasn’t a soul who knew he was here. He could join the primeval sludge of the Everglades. Disappear without a trace. Like Janice.
“Mr. Alcazar says take any car you want.” Alejandro waved his arm about the showroom. Leon’s eyes had narrowed in disgust.
Stunned, Deal followed his gesture. Alcazar was still engrossed in his conversation. Deal looked back at the thug.
“He wants to give me a car?”
“Except for the red Ferrari up there,” the thug said. “It’s sold,” he added. Deal didn’t think he said it very convincingly.
Leon spoke up. “Man wants to do right by you. He didn’t ask me. If he did, I’d tell him to kick your crazy ass. Kick your ass so bad you could tell George Washington about it.”
“It’s what Mr. Alcazar wants,” Alejandro repeated.
Alcazar was leaning back in his desk chair so that Deal could see the top of his head, where the hair was thinning. Deal turned back to Alejandro. “Like, he’d give me the Lotus, here?”
Alejandro stared back at Deal, widened his eyes enough to mean yes. It looked like he’d had his face sanded, but you could still make out the blue craters of acne scars in the bright lights of the showroom.
“So I could drive around in a little yellow car, forget anything ever happened?”
Alejandro shrugged.
“You can jam it up your ass, you want to,” Leon said.
“Mr. Alcazar wants us to give him the keys, Leon,” Alejandro said.
Leon glanced at Alejandro, then toward Alcazar’s office, as if he were about to seek confirmation. Finally, he grunted, then moved off to a wall cabinet, shaking his head. He spun the combination dial, opened the door to a bank of keys, took a moment finding the right ones. He brought the keys and tossed them at Alejandro. Alejandro caught them at his chest and after a moment of simmering at Leon, turned to hand them to Deal.
Deal took the keys, hefted them. He stared through the thick glass walls of the room where Alcazar was speaking vehemently but soundlessly into the phone, facing the showroom now. Deal watched, idly reading what the man was saying.…
Doing exactly as we agreed
, Alcazar said, his expression angry, as he listened to whomever was on the other end. Abruptly Alcazar broke in.
Fuck your baseball
, Deal read, or thought he did. Maybe he had missed something, or maybe it was some kind of idiomatic curse. Alcazar glanced up, saw Deal staring at him, then turned away.
There was a heavy rumbling noise behind him and Deal turned to see the skinny thug pressing a button at a control panel, the big glass doors that had slid shut behind the limo rolling open again.
Deal glanced at the Lotus, remembering what Morton had told him. He calculated the figures. Nearly quadruple what they’d offered him through Penfield. This was an
automobile
, as Cal Saltz would say.
“So that’s it, I just drive right out?”
“We’ll send you the paperwork,” Alejandro said.
Leon glared at Deal, his pupils down to pinpoints. Deal looked at the car. Maybe there was a bomb beneath the driver’s seat, Deal thought, but then discounted it. Nobody looked ready to run.
Deal nodded. They wanted to give him a car.
The strange hum he’d felt earlier that evening had returned, filling his ears, crowding out thought. It was his blood whistling down his veins, maybe, or his brain shorting out. So the streets were paved with gold. Little boys with hatchets ran wild.
Deal glanced at Alcazar, who had his back to them, waving his hand as he spoke into the telephone. Janice was dead. Deal was a madman. Raoul Alcazar was the prince of reason. A car. The universe inside out. Where a moment before, there had been blood running in his veins, Deal felt them now carrying nothing but a hot, angry wind.
Deal smiled at Alejandro. Or thought he had. The look on Alejandro’s face seemed unsure. Deal, on the other hand, had never felt more certain.
He opened the door to the Lotus, folded himself down inside, gripped the thick leather wheel. It took him a moment to find the ignition, another to get the seat back where he wanted it. He was aware that he was still smiling at Alejandro, through the windshield now. The wind inside him had risen to a scream. He saw walls of caverns pulsing with a volcanic light of their own.