Майкл Коннелли - Tampa Bay Noir

The Giordano family’s days of running bolita and rum over in Tampa, and more recently drugs and women, are long over. Chum likes to say his people were cigar makers and that he’s retired, but he also likes to talk about all the shit he’s seen and how these Tierra Verde types in their cargo shorts and fishing shirts can’t begin to imagine. Mostly Dale has always figured Chum for a nobody who made a living by trading off his family’s history. Hell, Dale hadn’t even believed the rumors about the drum outside Smugglers or that Chum was loaning money for a living, at least not until he needed to borrow some for himself.

Dale never figured on being one of the guys who borrowed from Chum. But he also never imagined that one season of bad storms would stall the housing market and he’d get stuck upside down in so many condos. But those things did happen and when he needed money quick, borrowing from Chum meant no paperwork and no credit check. Dale’s wife didn’t even need to know. He sure never thought he’d end up having to sell his home of twenty years to pay Chum back, but in two weeks, that’s what’s happening. Two more weeks of keeping clear of the old man and then the sale will close. He’ll pay Chum back and Dale’s life can begin again. Maybe it’ll begin again with this new girl.

Even though from his table Dale can’t see Chum, he can still hear him.

“Was bit five times by the age of fifteen,” he is saying. His voice rattles in his throat, some say from having had a telephone cord wrapped around his neck, back when people still had telephone cords. “Right there in the channel running alongside Egmont Key. Most shark-infested water on the whole coast. I was like chum in the water.”

Dale stares hard at the Rays game playing on the big screen, so he doesn’t smile or laugh at hearing this story yet again. He isn’t as good at pretending as the other guys. He has pride, is the way he figures it. That’s been the hardest part of borrowing Chum’s money — having to tuck away the very thing that makes Dale a man.

“What’s her name?” Dale asks when Donna, the bar’s owner, slides a highball in front of him, the glass leaving a slippery trail on the table.

“Elise,” she says. The tendons under her wrinkled skin run like slender cables from her wrist to her elbow. Since her husband died last year, she’s been running the place alone and the strain is showing. “Elise from Birmingham. Doing my bookkeeping too.”

“Do any on the side?” Dale asks, taking a sip of whiskey and giving the new girl a nod to let her know she did good with his drink. “Bookkeeping, I mean. You know I’m needing someone part-time.”

“Couldn’t say. Worth asking, I guess.”

“Single?”

“Far as I know,” Donna says, and as she turns to walk away, she knocks one bony hip against his table. “But you ain’t. And don’t you forget it.”

Late in the fourth inning, though Chum still hasn’t left, Dale finishes his drink and when the new girl glances his way, he gives his empty glass a shake. Smiling with those bright-red lips, she nod and pulls the Woodford from the top shelf. He hasn’t even talked to the girl yet, but he already knows she’s something special. It isn’t just the lips shining like they’re wet or the bright eyes or the tiny waist that gives way to a full chest and round hips, it’s that she’s kind. She’s really laughing at the stories the guys are telling. Not just pretending for tips. That’s what makes her different from every other girl who’s passed through here.

As the girl, Elise, walks from behind the bar, Dale gets a good look at the rest of her. She wears tan shorts that hit midthigh and a white V-neck. Her skin, pale, almost pink, would be smooth to the touch, he’s sure of it. When she reaches his table, she rests a hand on his shoulder and stretches across him to set down the glass. Her chest brushes against his head. He closes his eyes and inhales. For the first time since he stopped being able to service his loans and his wife left him for borrowing from Chum, that thing that makes Dale a man, that searing thing that makes him want to attack the world for his share of it, is racing through his veins again.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” the girl calls out to Chum. She smells of lavender-scented lotion and Dale imagines her rubbing it on her arms and legs. “Sharks don’t have a taste for one man over another.” She squeezes Dale’s shoulder. “You believe that?” she says to him.

“Tell her it’s true, Dale.”

Dale looks to the bar at the sound of Chum saying his name, and the image of bare legs, one stretched out next to the other, disappears, and so does the girl as she picks up his empty and walks away.

“Sure is true,” Dale says, taking a long swallow that nearly chokes him. “He’s even got scars to prove it.”

“You know that spot I’m talking about, Dale?” Chum says, slapping a bill on the bar and walking toward Dale’s table. “You been to that channel? Been there at dusk, Dale? Damn good fishing.”

This is what Chum does when he’s honing in on a man — keeps repeating his name. Dale saw him do it to a dentist who lived on the island and who borrowed a quarter million to buy out his partner.

“Yep, that’s me,” Chum says, adjusting his thick glasses before resting both hands on Dale’s table. “Just an old man who likes to help out his friends on occasion. You think my friends appreciate an old man’s help, Dale?”

Taking another long swallow, Dale nods. “Course they do. I do too.”

Chum’s sour smell drowns the smell of sweet lotion rubbed on bare legs.

“I’m all set to close on the house,” Dale says, clearing his throat of the whiskey burn. “Did I tell you? Two weeks. I’ll have all your money wired the second the papers are signed.”

“I gave you cash in hand,” Chum says. “And that’s how I want it repaid. Cashier’s check will do.” He leans closer, his hot breath making Dale turn away. “Don’t usually see you in here, do I?” He pauses as Dale slowly shakes his head. “Myself, I promised Mrs. Giordano, God rest, I’d always get myself home in time for supper.” Another pause. “What about you? How late does your missus let you stay out?”

“She’s out of town,” Dale says, and takes another long drink because Chum wanting to know what time he’s leaving is not good. “Besides, got a nice-looking distraction here tonight. Hell, might stay until close. But don’t you worry, two weeks and we’ll be even.”

Chum slaps the table and pushes away, hobbling toward the door on mismatched legs.

“Just an old man,” he says, “with old stories.”

Ever since Dale listed the house for sale, which was his only hope of paying Chum back, a part of Dale has been wishing Chum would drop dead before the house closed. Surely the debt would disappear if Chum disappeared. Dale knows people. He could ask around, find a few guys who might take on the job. This is what meeting a girl like Elise will do for a man. She’s making Dale believe he can have the thing he’s been wishing for, making him realize he deserves it.

Pulling on the wooden door, Dale stumbles onto the boardwalk outside Smugglers. He draws in a deep breath. Island air. It’s salty and heavy, tinted with the smell of fish, too thick to go down easy. Behind him, the bar’s lights switch off. At some point during the evening it rained, but not enough to break the heat. The lights in the parking lot throw a glare on the damp concrete that stretches out below him. It shimmers like black ice.

Leaning heavy on the railing so he won’t fall, Dale pulls out his phone. The lights on it blur as he squints and holds it close. He sets an alarm for nine a.m. tomorrow morning, doing it now so he doesn’t forget. Elise is coming to the house at ten a.m. sharp. That’s what she said. Sharp. And she also said she was happy to help Dale with his bookkeeping and that she needs every extra penny she can get. Maybe, if the business bounces back, he can bring her on regular.