Elmore Leonard - Glitz

The front-door chimes kept ringing.

Have his mom get him a lawyer, not the court. They didn’t have anything on him anyway. They couldn’t.

The damn chimes, that double ding-dong repeated over and over and-shit-over until the irritation of it pulled him out of bed in his black bikini briefs to the front door for a peek through the peephole. Not three feet away from him on the porch was a giant colored guy. He should have stopped to think, kept quiet, but the sight of the guy startled him and Teddy said, “What do you want?”

The giant colored guy said, “You, baby. Open the door.”

It wasn’t the way a cop addressed you. Teddy stepped over to the window, peeked through the grillwork and saw the black limo parked in the drive… Like the limo Iris had got in with those people to go to the apartment. And there had been a big colored guy in that party. Now he was good and confused. If this was the giant colored guy his mom had talked to, where was the bearded guy who had used the bathroom? If the bearded guy was the Miami cop, Vincent, what was he doing with the spade from Spade’s? Man, it was confusing.

Teddy ran through the hall to the kitchen and looked out back. Nobody in the yard. Now the giant colored guy was banging on the door, shaking the house almost, calling “Teddy? Open up, man. I’m a frien’.” The dumbest thing he ever did was ask what the guy wanted. He wondered if he should call the real police. That would be something, wouldn’t it? But decided, no, play a lone hand. Mr. Magic. Now you see him, now you don’t. He got dressed fast and packed a canvas bag, a couple of knit shirts, undies, extra pair of jeans. He slipped on a pair of blue Nikes. The money Marie had given him was in his wallet. Shit, the camera case-he got it, hung it over his shoulder. What else?

He got one of his mom’s VISA cards out of her dresser, then slipped quietly out the side door into the empty garage. Buddy would have to have his appointment today. If his mom was here she’d do something. He’d go through backyards to East Drive and up to Ventnor. Teddy opened the door to the yard and stuck his head out to look one way, across the back of the house, then the other…

The cop, Vincent, said, “Hi, Teddy, you all packed?” Taking the bag and the camera case. “Good.”

Teddy had to go back inside and open the front door. He watched the cop, Vincent, take the Colt out of the camera case and hand it to the giant colored guy. He was even bigger close. The cop headed through the living room then. Teddy knew where he was going and couldn’t help but call after him “ ‘Ey, good luck.”

Teddy began to hum George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone”; see if the giant colored guy knew it and would say anything. But the giant colored guy was studying the Colt automatic, looking it over good. Teddy said, “Careful with that if you don’t know nothing about firearms.”

The giant colored guy looked up, aimed the gun right at him and said, “You remind me. I remember seeing a cartoon, this poor little skinny bum is standing behind this big heavy-set rich cat holding a gun in his back? The little bum is saying to him, ‘Stick ’em up, this is a water pistol, I mean a holdup.’ Little bum, you know he ain’t ever gonna make it. You remind me of him.”

Teddy said, “Come on, don’t fool around, ‘ey?”

The cop, Vincent, came back in empty-handed, of course. Teddy said, “Didn’t find what you were looking for? That’s too bad.”

“You got rid of everything,” Vincent said.

“You mean the pictures? Oh, they got burnt up in a fire. Yeah, all my PR memories. Like I wasn’t even there.”

“I’m glad I saved a couple,” Vincent said, taking two prints out of his coat pocket to hold them up. “Didn’t you miss them? Or’d you just burn everything without looking?”

Teddy said, “ ’Ey, wait a minute…”

The cop was holding up the two shots of Isidro, the cab driver, and it didn’t make any sense. What did the cab driver have to do with Iris, here? Was the cop trying to confuse him or what? Then the cop was saying he hoped he’d packed his resort clothes and Teddy said again, “ ‘Ey, wait a minute…”

Rosemary comes in his office with some letters for him to sign. She stops dead, can’t believe her eyes. “Mr. Garbo, what are you doing up there?” And he says to her, “I’m tap-dancing on the fucking desk. What’s it look like I’m doing?”

That was how the day began in his mind, Jackie getting out of bed. What should be one of the happiest days of his life: Frank Cingoro dead, Ricky Catalina in custody, the undesirables off his back. But his vibes were bothering him. Something was going on. He’d stayed at the hotel last night because he couldn’t find the Moose; he’d called LaDonna at home three times this morning and got no answer. Now the narky-looking cop from Miami was sitting in his office and he was trying very hard to be cordial, in light of the guy’s twelve grand deposited with the cashier.

“The Moose says I made a mistake. I should offer you an apology.”

“No need to,” Vincent said. “But there is something you could do for me.”

Jackie’s mind telling him, Get him a broad, get him tickets to the show, autographs, take him backstage… and said, “You’ve noticed the personally inscribed photographs I have here on the wall? Every one of ’em major showroom attractions.” Jackie moved toward the display, pointing. “Like my very dear friend Lee, wearing the jacket there cost him a hundred and fifty grand. Or the inimitable Engelbert, right here. You name me somebody of their statue, as my pal Norm Crosby would say, and if the star you name isn’t up on that wall-mister, I’ll give you a brand-new hundred-dollar bill.”

Vincent took a moment. He said, “Joe Cocker.”

Jackie said, “Joe Cocker? You putting me on?” He looked over to see DeLeon standing in the doorway. “You decide to make an appearance?” Jackie shook his head. Look at him, going for the sofa. “Where’n the hell you been?”

“Doing chores, Mr. Garbo, sir.”

“We’re gonna have a talk, my friend, soon as I’m through here.” He turned to Vincent, sitting in a chair by the desk. “What’s the guy’s name again?”

“Joe Cocker.”

“You got to be kidding.” Jackie looked over at DeLeon. “You ever hear of him?”

“Yeah, Joe Cocker, man.”

Now the Miami cop said, “He had a big hit, ‘With a Little Help From My Friends.’ You remind me of it. I don’t know if we’re exactly friends, but since I helped you out, you might say, I thought you might want to do something for me.”

Jackie leaned on his desk and nodded, like he was giving it some thought. “You helped me out…” He checked with DeLeon. “You know what he’s talking about?”

“Listen to the man,” DeLeon said.

“He helped me out-is he kidding? Guy walks in, gets the management in an uproar, the Donovans, Dick and Jane at the fucking seashore, I can’t turn around I’m tripping over one of ’em trying to fuck me up, the broad dying to. I got them on one side, I got La Cosa Nostra on the other, I got more people trying to dick me than if I turned tricks for a living-this guy says he helped me out.”

“You not listening,” DeLeon said, “you talking.”

Jackie said, “Hey, Moose, you got nothing to do? Go polish the fucking car’r something. Jesus, the help you get these days, I’m telling you. I start out this morning I was feeling pretty good, my stomach, no heartburn, no indigestion…”

Vincent said, “That’s because you missed the dinner with the Ching. You were pretty lucky.”

“You think so, huh? I’ll tell you something,” Jackie said. “There’re three things I attribute to what’s made me a success in life. One, I don’t worry about anything happened in the past I can’t change. Two, I don’t hold a grudge. Revenge is for losers, guys that got nothing else to do. And three, most important of all, I watch my ass so nothing unexpected comes up behind me. And the closer I watch it, my friend, the luckier I get.”