Authors: Peter Leonard
Cobb got out of the white Cadillac with a sawed-off shotgun, held it across his body, and blew out the windshield of the security vehicle. Jack jumped in his car and drove out of the parking space as Cobb turned, pumped, and fired two times, blowing out one of the taillights. Cobb got back in the Cadillac, floored it in reverse, tires squealing, turned the car ninety degrees, and took off.
A dazed, over-the-hill security man, windshield glass covering his pink uniform shirt, got out of the damaged vehicle, talking fast into a two-way radio.
“Goddamn it, get the PD over here posthaste. White Caddy coming your way, two Caucasian males, one of them has a shotgun.”
Cobb raced through the complex, knees under the steering wheel, trying to keep the car in a straight line, trying to feed shells into the shotgun. He glanced at Ruben. “Hate to bother you, think maybe you could give me some assistance here?”
“Looks like you doing all right to me. What you want?”
“Would it be too much to ask you to hold the fucking steering wheel?”
Ruben slid over in the seat and gripped the side of the wheel.
Cobb let go, fed shells into the loading flap till he heard each one click. He held the action release button, pumped the slide, loading a shell in the chamber.
Now he took the steering wheel back. Up ahead, Jack's car was almost to the gatehouse. Cobb heard a siren in the distance.
“You make all the plans, what next?”
“We'll find out, won't we?” Cobb was jacked, revved up. “Got a problem, you can leave anytime.” Ruben didn't like it, too bad. The shotgun barrel was wedged at an angle on the floor mat, the rounded grip sticking up over the bottom of his seat. If Ruben tried anything, Cobb wondered, could he bring it up and pull the trigger?
The guard was standing in the exit lane next to the gatehouse as Jack approached. The guard stepped back in, and the security gate went up. Jack turned right on the beach road. The siren was getting louder, closer. The guard saw Cobb and Ruben coming and drew a revolver, holding it down his leg. Cobb lowered the side window and rested the shotgun barrel on the sill. The guard saw it and dropped the revolver, taking a step back, ran into the gatehouse and out the other side, moving along the boulevard entrance to the complex. Cobb busted through the security gate and turned right on the beach road just before a speeding Palm Beach County Sheriff's cruiser, lights flashing, entered the complex.
“Believe that? Old Duane came through again, didn't he? There was never a doubt in my mind.” But there was. Jesus, that was close.
“Is not over yet,” Ruben said, going negative on him again.
“I had hoped my earnest vibes would rub off on you, turn your contrary outlook around, but it doesn't seem to be working.”
“I don't know what you saying. Man, you like to talk, uh? Try not to open your mouth, try not to say nothing for five minutes. I bet you can't do it.”
“What's the point?”
“What I tell you, uh?”
No matter what happened, this was the last time he'd be dealing with Ruben Diaz.
They caught up to Jack a couple minutes later on a narrow stretch of beach road, the southern part of Palm Beach, Cobb hanging back in the Caddy. “Want to take him now, or see what he does?”
“Think he got the money with him?”
“Where else is he gonna keep it?”
“I don't know, man. Maybe he buried it. I saw that one time in a movie.”
Duane wanted to give Ruben an IQ test, wondering what his score would be, remembering from high school that most Americans were between 85 and 115. Considering how many times Ruben had been hit in the head, Cobb wouldn't be surprised if Ruben's IQ had dipped below 80, borderline deficiency in intelligence, not feebleminded, but he might get there yet. Cobb's, on the other hand, had been 130, but he thought it was higher now. He just plain felt smarter. “I think we let him get comfortable, see what he does.”
“Why ask, you already make up your mind?”
“I thought you might surprise me.”
“Lose the tone, or I'm gonna surprise you.” Ruben reminded him of Charles Bronson now, Charles delivering a line in a movie, saying it straight, but there was menace in his voice. You believed Bronson just as Cobb believed Ruben.
They followed Jack to the airport in West Palm and into short-term parking, Jack driving like a maniac through the structure, tires squealing around turns, dodging people rolling their suitcases, jumping out of the way. Cobb and Ruben were on the third level passing the elevators. Ruben said, “Stop, there he is.” Jack was wheeling a suitcase into the elevator.
Ruben ran for the stairs, went down to the second level, where the gates were, ran to security. It was packed. He was out of breath, out of shape, sweating under the guayabera. He scanned people in the roped-off area six rows deep that reminded him of a livestock pen, everyone angry, taking off their shoes, coats, belts, rings, Jesus, practically undressing to get on a fucking airplane. McCann could not have gone through that fast. Ruben didn't see him.
He went down to the lower level and ran outside. Glanced toward the taxis lined up, no sign of him. He looked left at the car rental pickup lane, saw Jack in a crowd, getting on a Hertz bus. “I find him,” Ruben said, calling Cobb on his cell phone. The Hertz bus took off.
Driving out of the complex, Diane passed a Palm Beach Police car, lights flashing, speeding by. She slowed down and watched it pull up to the high-rise entrance. The security gate had been broken off, no sign of the guard. Diane stopped at the road, no idea where Jack was, but maybe she knew where he was going. It was a long shot, but it was the only one she had.
Three hours later, she crossed the bridge to Captiva Island, driving on a narrow strip of land, houses on both sides of the road set back behind tropical foliage. Diane was thinking about the two times she had been here with Jack. They had been deeply in love then, couldn't get enough of each other. They had stayed at Jensen's On the Gulf the first time.
Captiva was sleepy, old Florida, the pace so slow Jack thought someone had slipped a Quaalude in his orange juice. The first time, it took him a few days to adjust and realize he didn't have to be anywhere. He wasn't on a schedule. “This is the most relaxed I've been in ten years,” he said after a couple days.
They stayed in a cottage on the beach, smoked weed, lay in the sun, and read paperback thrillers. They went to the Mucky Duck, drank shells of beer, and ate grouper sandwiches. They made love in the afternoon and took naps. When did things between them begin to change? Diane never noticed. Though when he took the job at Sterns & Morrison, they saw each other less often. Jack was gone three or four nights a week, and that went on for years.
The bottom line was that in spite of the affair, Diane thought she still loved him. At first it bothered her. She had run the gamut of
emotions from anger to forgiveness. Jack had cheated on her. Diane thought she could handle that and maybe let it go and move on. But now the situation was a lot more complicated. Vicki and Sculley were dead. And Jack had stolen money from one of his clients. But worst of all, he let her think he had been killed on 9/11.
She stopped at Jensen's, went to the reception desk, and asked if Jack McCann had checked in. He hadn't, and now she was thinking, coming here was crazy. She got in the car and decided to drive to Fort Myers, drop the rental off, and fly home. Passing the 'Tween Waters Inn, she thought about the last time she had been there with Jack, pictured him having a Stoli and tonic, talking to locals and tourists, Jack the all-purpose conversationalist.
Diane hit the brakes, made a U-turn, and pulled into the 'TWI parking lot. She grabbed her purse, went into the crowded restaurant, and sat at the bar, a three-sided rectangle. She looked across at two fifty-year-old guys in golf shirts, drinking white wine, self-conscious sitting by herself. One of the guys raised his glass to her, and she looked away.
The bartender, wearing a Drive-by Truckers T-shirt, said, “What can I get you?”
She ordered a Coke and opened a menu that was on the bar top next to her. Diane had not eaten anything all day and was thinking about a hamburger when she heard him say, “Anyone sitting there?” She turned and saw Jack behind her in shorts and a T-shirt, looking tan and healthy like he was the Captiva poster boy.
“You remind me of someone, but the girl I know has blonde hair.”
Diane thought there might be a slim chance he'd be here but now was surprised to see him. “You finally got the nerve to face me, huh? I had to come all the way down here.”
“How'd you figure it out?” He sat next to her.
“It seemed like the logical choice knowing the trouble you're in. This is the end of the line. Who would think to look for you here?”
Jack raised his hand, got the bartender's attention, and ordered a Stoli and tonic. He turned in Diane's direction, eyes meeting hers, then glancing down at the bar top, head bent forward, avoiding her.
“Look at me.” She said it angry, wondering what had happened to Jack, the stand-up guy she married.
He fixed his attention on her. “I owe you an apology.”
Diane shook her head. “You owe me a helluva lot more than that.”
The bartender set Jack's drink down in front of him. He looked relieved to escape the hot glare of her gaze for a few seconds. Jack picked up the cocktail, took two big gulps, and put it back on the napkin. He faced her again. “I got involved in something that blew up on me.” He paused, glancing at his vodka and tonic, picked it up, and took another long drink.
“I think I know a lot of it. The affair with Vicki, the money you took from one of your clients. When I first heard it, I thought, no way. But it's true, isn't it? I met with Mel Hoberman and Barry Zitter. They wanted me to pay them back what you stole out of your life insurance. I know Cobb and Diaz, the two guys looking for you, and I don't think they're going to give up. What I don't know is why.”
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake? I'd say it's a little more serious than that.” Diane paused. “Why didn't you call me when you got out of the Trade Center? Why did you let me think you were dead?”
Jack finished his cocktail, the booze loosening him up, and signaled the bartender for another.
“Forget about your drink and talk to me.”
“I was in trouble.”
“Are you talking about San Marino Equity?”
“I don't know what that is. Never heard of it.”
“Ruben Diaz said you owed them seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“He was scamming you.”
“He showed me a contract that had my signature that wasn't even close, telling me I was responsible for the debt. Any of this sound familiar?”
Marquis Brown landed
in Fort Myers, went to the rental place, and they gave him a Chevrolet.
It took an hour to get there, going over the bridge from the mainland, Marquis driving on a thin strip of land now, water on both sides, windows down, a warm breeze blowing through the interior. The idea of coming here was triggered by a conversation with Diane after seeing a For Sale sign in the front yard. Marquis had wondered, was she in on the scam?âand he was still wondering. Called her, she said she was in Florida, and it all started to make sense.
His conclusion: her husband, caught in a terrorist attack, saw opportunity, faked his death, wife collected the life insurance. Marquis was thinking about the photos of Diane posing in the bikini at the rental house on Captiva Island and hearing Diane say “Captiva” when he'd asked where they had talked about retiring.
“
Why did you
have an affair?”
“I don't know.”
Diane frowned. “Come on. What happened, were you tired of me?”
“It had nothing to do with you.”
She wanted to reach over and punch him. “If you loved me, if you were happy, you wouldn't have done it.” She picked up her Coke and held it. “Who made the first move?”
“It wasn't like that.” He had that guilty look on his face again.
“What was it like?”
“It just happened. I was at Ulysses. She walked by me, and we started talking, had a couple drinks, that was it. She told me where she worked, and a week or so later, I stopped in for lunch and saw her, and saw her again that night.”
“Is that code for you slept with her?”
“Why think about it?
“You didn't think it was wrong, did you?”
The bartender put a fresh cocktail in front of Jack and grabbed his empty glass. Jack picked it up and took a drink.
“You don't want to answer that one, huh?”
“I can't explain why it happened. I don't know. A good-looking girl came on to me. It made me feel good. It made me feel young.”
“Do you know why you cashed in most of our savings and stole money from one of your clients? Who are you?” He looked like Jack but didn't sound like him. He glanced at the cocktail. Diane could see he wanted it and didn't want to answer the question.
“Vicki was in serious debt, owed a loan shark a lot of money.”
“Why was that your problem?”
“I felt sorry for her.”
“She's dead, so you can put her out of your mind. And now you can add Sculley to the list. They shot him in his apartment.” Diane paused. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Jack didn't want to answer that one either, picked up the drink, and brought it to his mouth, stopped, and looked at her. “I feel terrible.”
“I hope so. What do you feel for me?”
“The same as I always have.”
“What does that mean?”
“I love you,” he said, with no emotion behind it, and drank his drink.
She wanted to punch him, knock that stupid look off his face.
“Vicki didn't mean anything to me.”
“That's worse. You risked everything for something that didn't mean anything?”
Jack wasn't expecting that. “I don't know.”
“Now you sound like a dumb-ass.”
“That's what I am.”
“Why didn't you call me? Why did you let me think you were dead?”
“I already told you.”
“Tell me again.”
“The whole thing got out of control. I was trying to protect you. I didn't want you involved.”
“You don't think I was involved? You have no idea.”
“I know you were, and I'm sorry.” He put his hand over hers and she pulled away.
“Want me to go, I'll go. Walk out of your life for good.”
“Didn't you already do that?”
Jack finished his second drink. The bartender approached, Jack shook his head. “I told you, I didn't have a choice.”
“Sure you did.”
“Okay, if that's how you feel.”
“Don't put this on me. I didn't have anything to do with it.”
Jack slid off the bar stool, stood next to her, took a wad of bills out of his pocket, peeled off a ten and a twenty, and left them on the bar top. “I know you're not going to believe this. I've missed you. You're all I've thought about. But I don't think that's enough, is it? I don't think there's anything I can say or do that is.”
Hearing him confess, hearing him tell her that he had screwed up helped, but it wasn't enough. Not even close. Diane watched Jack walk out the door.