Paul Levine - Riptide

Harry watched her preening until Violet noticed. “Whatcha lookin’ at, anywho?” she asked.

“Whadaya mean?”

Violet’s face crinkled into a thin-lipped smile. “Ah’m just wondering why you’re quiet as a church mouse right now, when most times you’re flapping your gums like a preacher on Sunday morning.”

“No reason,” Harry said, softly.

“Oh, Harry, I believe you’re jealous that ah’m gonna see that old man tonight but you’re too damn proud to say so.”

“No, Vi, if you wanna go out looking like that, it’s okay.”

“Hany darlin’, ah’m gettin’ all gussied up so the old man’ll ask me to stay the night so you can get the bonds and ah’ll have an alibi that’s tighter than a lug nut on a sixteen-wheeler.”

Harry looked away and shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“You’re so damn-fire cute to be jealous, I just love you to death. But git your mind on business. Now lookee here.”

Violet used a paper napkin to draw a map of the South Side Theater, showing the alley leading to the fire door, the stairs to the mezzanine office, and the drawers tucked away in the corner. Harry concentrated hard and memorized the layout before melodramatically torching the napkin with a seventy-nine-cent lighter. A paunchy and chintzy 007. Then she showed him one of the remaining bonds so he’d know what he was looking for and told him she’d tape over the latch on the fire door.

After Violet left, Harry watched television for an hour, tried to take a nap but couldn’t sleep and paced until eleven-thirty. His hands were shaking when he turned the key in his ten-year-old Plymouth — four doors, blackwalls — that looked like two tons of scrap metal and sounded like liftoff at Cape Canaveral.

He headed north on Washington Avenue, turned right, and curled back south on Ocean Drive, driving in circles for an hour, watching the models long-leg it past the cafes and grills and clubs that he lacked the confidence to enter. These were places with women who would never return his glance. Men with flat stomachs and full heads of hair who knew how to dress and what to say, laughing all the way to the next party. To Harry Marlin, the invitation to the party was money, and it was within his grasp.

He let the night swallow him, counting the minutes. Traffic was light on South Beach and he liked that. He turned onto Collins and headed north, still killing time. Just past the bridge to Arthur Godfrey Road, lots of cars were jammed up, trying to get out of the Fontainebleau, Miami Beach cops directing traffic. Harry cruised by and caught a glimpse of an older crowd, rich dudes wearing tuxes, their women in long gowns, some carrying floral centerpieces, and the valet parkers going crazy trying to unscramble all the Mercedeses in the lot. Another one of the charity balls finishing up, and Harry imagined himself buying a table for a thousand bucks for the Alzheimer’s Gala, giving away the tickets to his friends, wondering which of the gamblers and con men would like to dance to Big Band sounds.

Harry slid the Plymouth through a U-turn, tires squealing in front of Seacoast Towers, then headed south on Collins. At Seventeenth he turned right and headed away from the ocean past the Jackie Gleason Theater where the marquee said 42nd Street, and the show must have been over because all the old farts were pulling out of the municipal lot in their Fleetwoods and Town Cars. Again, uniformed patrolmen directing traffic, thank Jesus, all the cops tied up tonight and it’s going to be fat city. He headed toward Alton Road and shivered when he passed the darkened windows of Zilbert-Rubin Funeral Home, which reminded him what the whole damn city was about, a cemetery. He turned south on Alton, passing Lincoln Road on his left. A siren wailed from behind and Harry saw a flashing red light and the adrenaline pumped, but then he saw it was a Miami Beach taxi, an ambulance. Another heart run out of voltage.

The old Plymouth wheezed and coughed to a stop three blocks from the theater on Espanola Way. Harry parked in front of a two-story apartment house — rentals weekly, air-conditioned — and walked to Lincoln Road. A warm, steady ocean breeze rattled the fronds on a line of queen palms. The sound sent shivers up Harry’s spine. He strolled twice around the block, casing the joint, ski cap pulled down over his ears, nylon backpack hanging loosely from his shoulders. It was nearly one a.m. and the Road was dead. The breeze, a straightaway easterly, pushed discarded newspapers into darkened doorways and against concrete planters.

Harry walked the deserted sidewalk, pretending to look in the windows. The first time he missed them. Jeez, was he blind, or did they just appear in the pet shop doorway next to the theater? Two of them, slouching against the window, teenagers, skinny in jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes. One had a glove and a bat, the other was flipping a hardball, from one hand to the other.

Small but mean-looking. Friggin’ Marielitos. No, closer now, he could see one’s shirt had the drawing of a frog, a coqui, and the slogan “I Love Puerto Rico.” A PR and proud of it, Harry thought, like boasting about having the clap.

Real close now, they eyed Harry. Both were tattooed, green scorpions winding across stringy arms. “Got the time, man?” one said to Harry.

“Chuck you, Farley,” Harry said, sensing a rip-off. Lift an arm and your watch is gone.

Harry kept walking, did another orbit of the block and the kids were gone. He ducked into the alley at the side of the theater and quickly found the fire door in back. He paused long enough to put on the rubber gloves he bought at the drugstore, the kind the doctor wears to check your bunghole for the Big C. Then he yanked the heavy door open without a sound. He slid inside, removed the tape from the latch and let the door close, loving the sound of the lock clicking into place. In a moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only lights were the red exit signs, so he took his flashlight out of the backpack and looked for the stairs to the mezzanine.

The theater smelled of ancient carpeting with too many candies and colas stuck in the woof. The air was musty. The wind slapped a loose shingle against the roof, and Harry listened to the groans from the building’s plumbing. And another sound, too. His own heartbeat.

His footsteps on the rubber-matted stairs squealed in his ears as he followed the beam of the flashlight, a heavy three-foot Kel-Lite like the cops use to bust your skull. The door to the office was right where the map had shown, and it gave a little to the push, so Harry pried it with the small crowbar, which clawed the cheap veneer but didn’t open the door. What the hell — he gave the door a solid smack with a shoulder and the wood shrieked.

Another smack, another shriek.

The flimsy door still stood between Harry and everlasting bliss, so he stepped back, drew his right knee toward his chest and unleashed a kick with his newly purchased lumberjack boots. The bottom hinge tore out of the soft plaster and it was just like in the movies, except Clint Eastwood doesn’t fall on his ass.

The door was swinging on its top hinge, mortally wounded, and Harry scrambled to his feet. He used the Kel-Lite to search the office. First he emptied the desk drawers, messing things around, making it look like a dumb-shit burglar didn’t know what was there. The flashlight picked up something — what was it — a photo. Violet, her buns shoved up in the air, arms squeezed together, eyes tiny red dots from the flash. He put the picture in a pocket of the army jacket.

Now where’s the cabinet? There, in the corner under a ratty blanket, everything according to plan. He didn’t have the combination to the cheap lock, but he had a crowbar. It took only a moment to pop the latch on the top drawer… sweet Jesus, let it be… seven come eleven… but empty! Oh shit no.