Strip Tease (28 page)

“So what’s your impression?” the detective asked.

“One, Davey’s not too bright. Two, he probably doesn’t know exactly what happened to Jerry Killian.”

Garcia concurred. “He doesn’t have the nerve to do it himself, and the people who did are smart enough not to tell him.”

“In other words,” Shad said, “we’re wasting our goddamn time.”

The waitress brought a platter of bagels and a pot of coffee. Shad took off his shirt and asked the awestruck waitress to please throw it in the garbage. As they ate, Al Garcia peppered Erin with questions.

“Did he say whose yacht it was?”

“A friend,” Erin said. “That’s all he’d tell me.”

Garcia smiled. “Remember the Cuban kid who paid a thousand bucks for your shoe? His family owns the Sweetheart Deal.”

“The sugar people?”

“Yeah. They got Dilbeck’s balls in a vault somewhere.”

Erin drummed her nails on the table. “So the kid bought my shoe as a present for Davey.”

“A nice gesture,” Shad remarked. “Fetish-of-the-month.”

Garcia said, “Are either of you history buffs? Me, I love American history.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “I’m trying to imagine what Thomas Paine would think of a congressman who has sex with old shoes and laundry lint.”

Erin agreed that the republic was doomed. She said Tasmania was looking pretty good as an alternate homeland.

Al Garcia asked if David Dilbeck had mentioned the crucial photograph. Erin said he’d barely talked about that night at the Eager Beaver, except to apologize.

“What about Angela?”

“He offered to help with the new judge,” Erin said. “That’s the only time I was nervous. He seemed a little too interested.”

Shad got up to call the club and make sure no disasters had occurred in his absence. Orly got on the line and bitched about him taking the night off. A British sailor had almost choked to death in the pasta pit—Monique Sr. saved him with a modified Heimlich.

“Sorry I missed it,” Shad said. Orly hung up.

Shad returned to the table and said he’d better go, Mr. Orly was pissed. Garcia offered Erin a ride home.

In the car, she said: “So tell me.”

“What?”

“You’re humming, Al. You never hum. What happened?”

“Progress!” The detective waggled the cigar nub. “A very nice lady at the Missoula Holiday Inn remembers three Jamaicans getting a room and ordering a half dozen rib-eye steaks sent up. This happened a few weeks back. Apparently not a multitude of Jamaicans cruise through Montana this time of year. Anyhow, the nice lady punched their bill up on the computer and read me the charges.”

“And?”

“There was a twenty-two-minute phone call,” Garcia said, cigar bobbing, “to a certain residence in Miami, Florida.”

Erin said, “Dilbeck?”

“God, how I wish,” said Garcia. “No, darling. It was Malcolm Moldowsky—the congressman’s fairy godfather. The guy who keeps hassling your boss.”

So there was no doubt about it, Erin thought. They’d murdered Mr. Peepers.

“I’ll never prove it,” Garcia said, “but I can sure raise some hell. Did Davey Boy happen to mention Moldowsky’s name? Between hard-ons, I mean.”

“He talked about a guy named Crandall.”

“But no Moldowsky?”

“Not tonight,” Erin said. “I’ll try again next time.” The detective’s foot came off the accelerator. “Did I miss something?”

“I’m dancing for Davey again.”

“Like hell—”

Erin cut him off. “He tipped me a thousand bucks, Al. That’s three grand I walked with. A couple more nights like this, my lawyer’s paid off and I’ve got cash in the bank.”

“Too risky.”

“He’s harmless. Trust me, he’s a little boy.” She didn’t tell the detective what she had in mind, because he couldn’t help. In fact, he probably would’ve stopped her from going through with it. Likewise, Shad would be an unsuitable accomplice; too impulsive, too volatile. If things got hot, he’d wind up in the back of a squad car. Maybe Erin would, too. She couldn’t take the chance.

“Where,” Garcia asked, archly, “is the next rendezvous?”

Erin shrugged. “It’s entirely up to him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

They rode in prickly silence for several miles before she said, “Al, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” He spit the spent cigar out the window. “I think you liked it. Am I right?”

“It was easy tonight. I like it when it’s easy.”

He slapped the steering wheel with both hands. “Christ, it’s not a game. I pulled your dead pal out of the river, remember?”

She thought: He wasn’t there tonight. He didn’t see for himself. Dilbeck was completely helpless.

Garcia warned her that it was bound to get kinky. He said she was pressing her luck, seeing the congressman again. She told him he didn’t understand.

“Sure I understand,” he said. “It’s not about the money, is it?”

“Not entirely.” Erin’s eyes flashed. “It’s about power. Pure and simple.”

“Al,” she said, “you’ve been watching too much ‘Oprah.’ “

Angela, licking a cone: “Can we get a dog someday?”

“Sure,” said Erin.

“Not like Aunt Rita’s, either.”

“How about a dalmatian? Just like in the movie.”

Angela said, “No, I want a Great Dane. But not one that bites, OK?”

“Then we’ll get a puppy. We’ll train it together.”

“What about Daddy?”

Erin crunched hard on a pistachio. “Good question,” she said.

“He doesn’t like dogs. He likes birds.”

“I remember,” Erin said. “The dog’ll be yours and mine.”

Angela wore a thoughtful expression. “Is Daddy in trouble?”

“Yes, baby, I’m afraid so.”

“Are you in trouble, too?”

“No, Angie, I’m doing just fine.”

Later they walked around Burdine’s and looked at the clothes. Erin bought her daughter two dresses, two overalls and a pair of white Nike sneakers with pink slashes.

Angela said, “Momma, it’s not my birthday.”

“I know, honey.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” Erin said. “I love you, that’s all.”

“I love you, too, Momma. But don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying. It’s my allergies.”

Angela looked doubtful. She said, “Allergies make you sneeze, not cry.”

“For your information, little lady, there are many different types of allergies.”

They held hands, strolling the mall. Coming toward them, a handsome Latin man pushed a girl in a small wheelchair. The girl was pale with jet-black hair, done in braids. She wore a steel brace on one of her legs.

Quickly Erin tugged her daughter toward the doorway of a toy shop. “Remember all those Barbie dolls you lost—”

“But, Momma—”

“Let’s pick out some new ones.”

“But, Momma, look!” Angie had spotted the wheelchair going by. “It’s an Everest-and-Jennings.”

Great, thought Erin. He even taught her the names.

Angela said, “That’s like Daddy does, pushing me. Only why are they going so slow?”

“Because that little girl is hurt. It’s not safe for her to go fast.”

“Maybe when she’s all better?”

“Yes, baby. When she’s all better.”

Erin considered explaining to her daughter the saddest of truths—that some sick people never get better. It would’ve been a convenient segue back to the subject of Angela’s father, and why Angela could never be with him again.

But Erin let it slide. The child was only four years old; she had a whole lifetime to learn about sadness. Today was for dalmatians, ice cream and new dolls. At the toy store, Erin bought two new Barbies, plus swimsuits and evening gowns.

She said no to the fur stoles, but Angie didn’t make a fuss.

In the car, she asked, “Momma, when can I go home?”

“It won’t be long.” Erin prayed that Angie meant “home” with her, not Darrell Grant. “You mean the new apartment, right?”

Angela nodded excitedly. “I liked the stairs. That was fun.” She paused. “Where will Daddy go?”

Erin thought: What do I tell her—Daddy’s off to prison? No, prison is a scary word. How about: a special place for grown-ups who get in trouble. Or better: a big building that looks just like a hospital, except for the barbed wire. Again, Erin chose to dodge the topic of Darrell’s fate.

“He’ll be taken care of,” she said.

“Does he have another girlfriend?”

“I don’t know.” The question caught Erin by surprise.

” ‘Cause I don’t want him to be lonely.”

“He won’t be lonely, baby. I promise.” Erin had a depressing vision of Angela as a young woman, loyally visiting her father on weekends at Raiford. Darrell undoubtedly would try to recruit her in the smuggling of cigarettes and pills.

“Where are we going now?” Angie asked.

“Victoria’s Secret.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s where Mommy buys her outfits for work.”

“Your waitress clothes?”

“Right,” Erin said, with a sigh. “My waitress clothes.”

It was nearly five o’clock when they got back to Miami. Erin didn’t want to say goodbye, but she only had one hour to drive back to the club, and the traffic northbound was hell.

Angela kissed her on the nose and pinched her chin; it was a game they played.

“Momma, thank you for the new Barbies.”

“Remember to be nice, and share.”

“I promise.” Angie hopped out of the car, carefully clutching the shopping bag that contained her dolls. She stood on the sidewalk and waved.

“You run on inside,” Erin said. She blew a kiss and tapped the tip of her nose. As Angela started toward the house, Erin slowly drove away. Halfway down the block, she glanced in the rearview and saw her daughter running after the car. Erin braked hard, making the tires squeal.

“Momma!” Angela was on tiptoes at the window. Her cheeks were pink, and she was out of breath. She hugged the bag of dolls to her chest.

Erin said, “What is it, baby?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?” She opened the car door and Angela clambered onto her lap. Erin turned to see if someone else was on the street, someone who might have frightened the girl. She saw nothing.

“Angie, what’s the matter? What are you scared of?”

“Please don’t get in trouble like Daddy.”

“Oh, honey. Is that it?”

“Please!”

“Don’t worry,” Erin said, holding her daughter to her breast. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Darrell Grant phoned his sister from the Wal-Mart and said, “Where’s the nearest water from your place?”

Rita said, “Don’t tell me you got a boat.”

“A car,” Darrell said, “but I need to dump it.”

“Not in the water.”

“Yeah, in the water.”

“A brand-new car?”

“Lord Christ, Rita, can’t you just answer a simple question!”

Darrell Grant ditched the stolen Thunderbird in a drainage canal at Turkey Point, where Alberto Alonso worked. Then he hitchhiked to the trailer park and enjoyed one of Rita’s peanut butter-and-plantain sandwiches.

She said, “They’s been cops calling, all hours. Alberto says you must’ve fucked up.”

“You got any Gatorade? The green kind?” Darrell asked.

“It ain’t cold.”

“That’ll do.”

Rita poured him a tall glass. “We lost a pup to an eagle.”

“No shit,” said Darrell. “A real eagle?”

Rita said it damn sure looked like an eagle when it swooped into the backyard. “Also, your wife kicked the Christmas out of Al. Then Lupa got after him, too…”

Darrell Grant waved the sandwich and said, “Hold up now—”

“He’s up to the Veterans’ Hospital this afternoon. His tongue’s all infected.”

“Goddamn, Rita, you don’t mind if I finish my lunch.” Darrell puffed his cheeks to dramatize his urge to vomit.

Rita apologized. Then she said: “You can’t stay here.”

“I know.”

“The cops, they drive by all the time.”

Darrell said, “I need to borrow your car.”

“The axle’s broke.”

“What about that Pontiac acrosst the way?”

“Mrs. Gomez,” Rita said. “We ain’t speakin’ on account of the wolves got her Siamese.”

Darrell said his idea was to steal the Pontiac, not borrow it. Rita asked since when did he know how to hotwire a car.

“I don’t,” Darrell Grant said. “But I surely know how to use a key.”

From the backyard came a raw chorus of yowls. Rita scooped up her catcher’s mask and hurried out through the screen door. Darrell darted to the bathroom and explored the medicine chest; it was cluttered with gauze, adhesive tape and antiseptic ointments. Quickly he spied a bottle of codeine Tylenols, prescribed for the recently mangled Alberto Alonso. Darrell emptied the pills into a front pocket of his jeans.

He was fixing another sandwich when Rita returned. She said, “So what’s the plan, little brother?”

“Well, listen,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I intend to collect my beautiful daughter and get the hell pronto out of Florida. How’s that sound?”

“Start a new life.”

“Exactly.”

“Because you’re too smart for this shit.”

“I know it, Rita. I sure do know it.”

She always said her brother should’ve been an actor, he was so handsome. She could easily picture him on one of her soaps—maybe a charming young drifter on “All My Children.”

“What about your wife?” she asked.

Darrell Grant laughed caustically. “Erin will be very lucky,” he said, “if I don’t hurt her before I go.”

Rita poured more Gatorade. This time she tossed in a handful of ice cubes. “Raising a child by yourself, I don’t know.”

Her brother shot her a cold look “What’s your point?”

“I’m just sayin’ it might be easier by yourself. To get a fresh start and all.”

“I’m a super father, Rita.”

“Who said you wasn’t.”

“And, besides, Angle and I are partners.”

“That’s the part I don’t like,” Rita said. “Usin’ that little girl the way you do.”

Darrell said, “Hey, she has a ball with it. Just ask her if Daddy shows her a fun time.”

“Lord, I’m sure. Stealin’ wheelchairs.”

“Hey, you should hear how she laughs when we’re rollin’ down the halls. The way her hair flies all back, looks just like silk. Nurses wave and say, ‘See that pretty little angel!’ ” He smiled. “And out the door we go.”

Rita said, “You’re too good for that, Darrell. That’s gypsy shit.”

“Well, it works,” said Darrell Grant, “whatever the fuck it is. Now—where you figure old Mrs. Gomez keeps her keys?”

The morning after Erin danced on the yacht, David Lane Dilbeck gave one of the most magnificent performances of his political career. It began with a rally in Little Haiti, where the congressman excoriated the U.S. Immigration Service for its heartless treatment of black Caribbean refugees. He declared that America owed its strength and heritage to courageous boat people, and that the Founding Fathers would be shame-stricken to see us now rebuff the neediest and most desperate. The only awkwardness arose when Dilbeck, speaking in fractured Creole, badly mistranslated the Emma Lazarus inscription from the Statue of Liberty (“Give me your oxen, your seedless guavas, your broken truck radiators…”). Though perplexed, the Haitian crowd remained enthusiastic. Next the congressman raced to an American Legion barbecue, where he recounted the Battle of Inchon so vividly that many of the rapt veterans assumed that he’d seen action in Korea. He had not, for an undescended testicle had kept David Dilbeck out of the army. The congressman told his story with chin held high. His voice cracked as he poignantly described a young man’s private heartbreak, denied a chance to fight for his nation. Leaving the enlistment center on that sad autumn day in 1951, Dilbeck said, he had vowed to overcome his handicap and serve America as devotedly as any man with two normally descended testicles. Patriotic fervor led him first to municipal government, then to Congress! Let me keep my dream, David Dilbeck boomed. Let me serve again! Cheers rose from the vets, who put down their spareribs and waved, with sticky fingers, dozens of miniature American flags. The congressman placed a bandaged hand over his heart and led the Legion crowd in “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

The final stop was the Sunset Bay condominium, and here Dilbeck hit his peak—lucid, heartfelt and damn near eloquent. Erb Crandall was flabbergasted. He called Malcolm Moldowsky from a phone booth outside the rec room, where the congressman was addressing three hundred retirees.

“Malcolm, it’s unbelievable,” Crandall said. “He’s got ‘em in tears.”

“The Israel thing?”

“Yeah, but he shitcanned the script. It’s all off the top of his head.”

“Oh Jesus,” Moldy said. “You see any reporters?”

“Just Channel 10, but it’s all right. He’s a major hit, Malcolm. They’re bawling all over their bagels.”

Moldowsky tried to envision the scene. “Erb, I want an honest answer. Does David know anything at all about the Mideast?”

“He’s weak on the geography,” Crandall conceded, “but he’s gangbusters on the Palestinian question. I counted four standing ovations.”

Moldowsky clicked his teeth. “And he looks okay?”

“Like a million bucks. The best part, Eloy Flickman showed up for an ambush debate. That’s how come the TV crew was here.”

“Sneaky bastard.”

“Davey tore him apart,” Crandall said. “It was fantastic. Flickman took off like a scalded chihuahua.”

“Is that right?” On Crandall’s end, in the background, Moldowsky heard a wave of fresh applause. It seemed too good to be true. He thought: What happened last night between Dilbeck and the stripper? She must’ve screwed him silly.