Split Images (1981) (26 page)

"Angela--"

"If I don't get him now I may never. But I'll be at the airport, don't worry about that."

"That's not it--"

"Bryan, what about the little girl?"

"What little girl?"

"The one--you found her body inside the car, with her panties pushed down?"

"Rolled down. Nothing. We don't know any more than we did," Bryan said. "Angela," he said then, "why don't you wait?"

"Bryan, who took care of me before I met you? I gotta go. I love you and I'll see you tonight."

She was gone.

THE PALM BEACH REALTOR that Robbie was to play golf with phoned at two-thirty to say he was terribly sorry but there was no way he could make it this afternoon; he was showing a Saudi's place to a West German, Christ, middleman in an Arab-Kraut deal and hoped to God he came out of it in one piece.

Robbie said, "You'll come out of it with about a hundred grand, Tony. But don't ever ask me to play golf with you again. Is that understood?"

The realtor said, "Hey, Robbie--"

And Robbie said, "Get fucked, Tony," and hung up.

He found Walter in his room and brought him up to the study along with two cold bottles of Heineken.

"Change of plans. We move today."

"How come?"

Jesus, everybody was giving him a hard time.

"Because I want to do it today," Robbie said."I'm ready. I want to walk in there and do it. Is that hard to understand?"

Walter had to see it clearly in his mind. He took a big swallow of beer and wiped his mouth with his hand.

"How we know the guy's gonna be there?"

"He comes every day between five and seven, doesn't he?"

"Almost every day."

"Okay, if he's not there, we don't do it. We do it tomorrow. There's not that much to plan, Walter.

I'm gonna use the MAC-ten with the suppressor.

We walk in--"

"What do I use?"

"We walk in," Robbie said, "I open up with the MAC and you open up with the Hitachi."

"The camera? You're kidding me."

"I told you that, didn't I? I want to see it, I want to study it--same way a football team studies game films. I want to get it down right, Walter, so when we go for the big ones"--he snapped his fingers three times--"it works like that, like the pros do it.

You have a team operation you better have splitsecond timing or else you're gonna blow it. And when you blow the big one, Walter . . . that's it. No more."

Walter said, "I'm gonna be standing there with the fucking camera on my shoulder--"

"This time you are. I want to see it, Walter.""You're the star--that what you're saying?"

"I'm not gonna be in it--"

"Big movie, Assassination of an Asshole, starring Mr. Robinson Daniels. You want George Hamilton to be in it, too?"

"Walter, you don't shoot me. I'm not in it. I want the camera to follow only the guy. I want to see how he reacts, I want to see everything he does."

Walter was silent a moment. "What about the broad?"

"Who, Dorie? . . . We get her out of the way.

Lock her in a closet."

"Jesus Christ," Walter said, "I thought you knew what you're doing. Lock her in a closet--the cops let her out, they take hold of her finger, this one. They say okay, you know who did it? Point 'em out."

"We cover up," Robbie said. Goddamn dumb Polack. "Wear masks or something. Ski masks- no, we'll tie bandanas around, you know, just our eyes showing and wear sunglasses."

"Jesus Christ," Walter said, "Butch and fucking Sundance. Broad looks at you, hears your voice, or she happens to look out the window, sees a Mercedes and a fucking silver Rolls Royce . . . I think, Mr. Daniels, I'm gonna pass on this one. What I ought to do, get my ass outta here right now."

"Finish your beer," Robbie said quietly. He walked away from the bar, stood with his hands inthe pockets of his chinos, then drifted back, taking his time.

"Walter? . . ."

"You're not ready," Walter said. "You haven't thought it out. We went out on a STRESS operation--before we hit that street we knew every fucking move we're gonna make and what we do if different various situations come up."

Robbie said, "Okay, we don't want a witness, there won't be a witness. If Dorie happens to be there, well, that's too bad."

Walter said, "Oh no, uh-unh. The broad's got nothing to do with it."

"She works for him--what's the difference?

She's part of an illegal operation."

"She puts out for him," Walter said. "That's all she does I know of or seen her do. I don't want no parts of shooting broads. I told you that a long time ago, I never shot a broad in my life and I hope to God I never get in a position I have to. You're telling me about all these assholes--were there any broads on your list? No. Broads might be there, yeah, but that's all. They're like on the side, what broads do, they hang out. No sir . . ."

Robbie said, "Okay, we call her up. Give her a message to meet Cheech at the polo club. Five o'clock. Which means we got to move."

"Wait a minute," Walter said. "Wait a minute.

You got the phone number?""Not yet."

"You think it's in the book? Narcotics drop, they got it under N?"

"You can get the number, can't you? Call the Broward County Sheriff's Office. Like you did before."

"What if Drug Enforcement's got a tap on the line?"

"You're somebody from the polo club," Robbie said. "Chichi asked you to call her for him. You're not gonna leave your name, Walter."

"They might not have the number."

"They can get it, can't they? Or you call the telephone company. Tell them you're with the Palm Beach office of the DEA. You know people there, you know the routine. Walter, this is your end of it.

You know how to do all that kind of stuff. But we've got to move."

"Yeah, but what if they want to talk to my superior, something like that?"

"You're the superior, Walter," Robbie paused.

"You're the star. For two grand a week, including your combat pay, it doesn't seem like much to ask.

A couple of phone calls? Come on . . ."

Walter walked over to the narrow casement window that looked down on the swimming pool and the patio with its umbrella tables. He stared at the immaculate blue, green and yellow orderliness of the scene, the arrangement of color reaching to theocean. If the guy wanted to he could have the grass painted red and dye the water in the swimming pool purple or cover the whole setup with a golden dome. The guy could do anything he wanted. Easy.

It came down to a simple question. Would you rather be inside pissing out, or outside getting it all over you?

Walter came away from the window. "Okay, I'll try the phone company, give 'em some bullshit. But when I call her, I don't think it should be a message from the guy. It's gotta be somebody else,'cause what if he happens to call her? It's gotta be somebody offering her a deal, like something she can't pass up."

Robbie was sitting at the bar now. It seemed to come to him almost immediately, the way his expression brightened.

"Dorie thinks she's an actress. She does get a few small parts at dinner theaters, the maid, maybe a couple of lines. But how about--tell her they need somebody right away up at Burt Reynolds's place."

"Where, Jupiter?"

"Yeah, it's perfect. By the time she gets there and gets back, it's done."

Walter drank his beer. It sounded pretty good.

He looked at Robbie sitting like The Thinker now, fist supporting his chin, weighing something heavy.

"What's the matter?""Nothing," Robbie said. "I'm trying to decide what to wear."

Angela wore the new white-linen sunback, feeling and looking good; but more for Bryan, later, than any effect it might have on Chichi. Cheech would probably try something just to test her availability- out of habit, part of his nature--come on with some kind of slippery Latin routine and she'd tell him to knock it off and he would. That's what she told herself. The alive feeling of expectation was something else. She didn't want him to make the moves, but at the same time she wanted to see him at least try. After all, how many internationally famous great lovers did you come across when you knew you were looking good and certain you could handle the situation? She hoped.

Then an anxious feeling of impending disappointment: following the gravel, coasting the Buick through the clumps of sea grape to find the circular drive empty; the cement apron in front of the threecar garage empty. The house with a closed, empty look. The son of a bitch.

Dorie, barefoot in bra and panties, a hairbrush in her hand, opened the door and said, "Hi," and disappeared.

Angela entered cautiously, through a hallwaypast kitchen and den to the spacious front room. A little white dog sniffed her but ran off as she reached to pet him.

"Sit down if you want."

Angela turned to see the red-haired girl halfway up the staircase. The little dog was with her, looking out through the balusters.

"I love your dress. I wear white, I look like some Appalachian kid in a CARE package dress. You know what I mean? I look dumb in plain white things, like they're wearing me. I have to wear something busier so it all like blends together. You know what I mean?"

Angela said, "Is Chichi here?" She held up her slim reporter's notebook, a credential. "I've got an appointment to interview him."

"Good luck," Dorie said. "Listen, I gotta get ready. Unless you want to come up."

"Do you expect him?"

"Cheech shows up or he doesn't. If he told you he'd be here--"

"At six."

"Well, he still shows up or he doesn't. God, is it six already?" She disappeared, the little dog hopping up the stairs after her.

Angela moved to the French doors, looked out at the patio and pool, the stretch of beach beyond.

This had to be the most secluded place on the coast; almost as though the great real estate rush hadpassed it by. There was enough property here for a good-size condominium.

Dorie's voice said from the top of the stairs, "I don't think I know your name. Do I?"

"Angela."

"I'm Dorie and I've got a problem." Still in her bra and panties, pulling the brush through her hair. "You wouldn't do me a huge favor, would you?"

"Sure. If I can."

"I've got a chance to do a walk-on tonight at the--are you ready?--the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre. I don't even know the name of the play, I'm supposed to be there practically right now and my fucking car's at a gas station in Deerfield, getting fixed. Actually it's done. I thought Cheech would be here to drive me, but the son of a bitch, you can't rely on him."

"You need a ride just to Deerfield?"

"God, if you would."

"I'd be glad to," Angela said. "But hurry, okay?

I'll leave him a note in case he comes--" and looked up as she heard the door open.

Chichi, in person.

In golf clothes and a linen sports jacket over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging empty. Angela watched his entrance, coming in to see two women waiting for him--one in a white sundress, one in a bra and panties--the inspector of embassies show-ing mild surprise one moment, a gesture of inevitability the next, no more than his due.

Then coming alive. "Angela!" Coming toward her, both hands extended, limp--the sports jacket somehow clinging to his narrow shoulders--to touch her gently, to kiss both of her cheeks . . .

Dorie said, "Cheech! I'm in a play tonight!"

He turned to look at her with genuine concern.

"Ohhhh, Dorie, you're leaving us? . . . And Mr.

Piper . . . How are you today, Mr. Piper?"

Dorie left in the rented brown Buick, not trusting herself in Chichi's Rolls. The Buick would be at the Mobil station in Deerfield. Then, later on, Chichi would drop Angela there on his way back to Palm Beach. No problem.

"Alone at last," Angela said, playing the game, smiling to show him she was playing.

"I'm going to bathe," Chichi said, holding his dog, trying to hold Angela's hand, drawing out his exit, "and change into something comfortable."

"After a hard day at the club," Angela said.

Chichi's eyes smiled. "You've had your bath."

"Yes, I have."

His eyes smiled and smiled.

She would make a note that they "flashed and danced" and see if she could work up an analogy to Caribbean moonlight, reflections on tropical waters--if she could do it unpretentiously and if Bryan didn't think it was dumb.

Walter had said, "First, we want the cars turned around so they're facing out, you never know. But that road's too narrow, all the trees and shit, to turn around once you're in there. So you have to back in from Ocean Drive. Wait'll you don't see anybody coming. You go in, I give it a couple minutes, then I go in."

This is where they were, on the access road to the beach, about a hundred yards from Chichi's house.