Elmore Leonard - Cat Chaser

He asked Bienvenido about the radio broadcast. Was it true, what the lottery-ticket man had said?

Bienvenido said, “Yes, all day it’s on the radio about you. You don’t hear it?” He began switching dials on the car radio, getting static and rock music until he found a voice speaking dramatically in Spanish. “There,” Bienvenido said. “Listen.”

“What’s he saying?” Moran hunched over the front seat rest, laying his chin on his arm.

Bienvenido was leaning toward the car radio. “He say… the American Marine who fell in love with the girl name Luci has returned.”

“What? Come on-”

“For many years since the way Captain Morón has been thinking of her, missing her…”

“ Cap tain?”

“… with his heart breaking, until now he has returned to find her.”

“Jesus,” Moran said. “They’re making it up. I hardly even knew her.” He turned to glance at Mary who sat composed. “They’re making all that up.”

“He say… if anyone knows where to find Luci Palma, tell her that the Marine, Captain Morón, is here who loves her very much and wants to take her to the United States to live. He is at the Hotel Embajador.”

“I don’t believe it,” Moran said. “How do they know all that? I mean my name. I didn’t give anybody my name.”

“Captain Moron?” Mary said.

“Morón,” Moran said. He poked Bienvenido’s shoulder. “How do they know about me? What’d you tell the newspaper?”

“What you told me, only. I think the radio station call the newspaper and maybe the hotel,” Bienvenido said, “talk to some people there. I don’t know.”

“But it isn’t true. None of it.” He turned to look at Mary again. “Do you believe it?”

Mary gave him a nice smile. She said, “I can’t wait to meet Luci.”

There were a dozen or more Luci Palmas scattered about the hotel lobby, some with relatives, mothers and perhaps fathers; several more were in the cocktail lounge talking to winter ballplayers, doing all right, forgetting why they had come here. There was no announcement. It was like a celebrity, a movie star, arriving. A bellman nodded, holding open the door, and all the Luci Palmas converged on the bearded man with the stylish lady, who was maybe his aide, his secretary. They called out to him, “Captain! Here I am!” They said, “Oh, it is so good to see you again!” They said, “My Marine, you have return!”

Moran said, “Wait a minute!…”

The bellman said, “Can I assist you, Capitano?”

Mary slipped through the girls crowding in, walked over to the front desk. She watched from here, standing with a travel group of Chinese from Taiwan who nudged each other, staring. Mary said, “It’s George Moran, the American film star,” and some of them raised their cameras and began taking pictures.

She watched Moran in a much different role now, but the same Moran, surrounded by girls with silky dark hair and woolly Afros, girls in dresses and girls in tight jeans, girls with imploring eyes trying to make themselves heard in both Spanish and English-Moran in the middle, hands raised close to his body, trying not to touch them. He was working his way out of the pack now toward the front desk, his eyes with a helpless look finding Mary. She smiled at him.

Reaching her he said, “What do I do?” And looked at the desk clerk who stood composed, almost indifferent.

“Will you tell them I’m not the one?”

The desk clerk raised his eyebrows. “You are Captain Morón.”

“I’m not a captain. I never was.”

“I don’t believe they care you aren’t an officer. You are Mr. Jorge Morón, are you not?”

“They’re not old enough,” Moran said.

The desk clerk seemed surprised. “You like them to be older?”

“They’re not old enough to be Luci Palma. It was sixteen years ago. There isn’t one of them over thirty.”

“Take a good look,” Mary said. “There isn’t one of them over twenty-five.”

Moran said to the girls, “Wait, stand still. Be tranquilo , okay? I’ll ask each of you one question, una pregunta , all right?”

“I’ll be in the bar,” Mary said.

“Wait. Help me, will you?”

“You’re doing fine, George. Ask your pregunta .”

Walking away, working through the girls pressing in, Mary heard him say, “All right, I’m gonna ask you how old you are. Comprende? Quantos años tiene? … You first. Hi, how’re you doing?”

She was aware of the tender feeling again: a comfortable feeling, even as she realized there was much more to Moran than a natural, easygoing manner. At times he seemed almost naive; yet he continued to surprise her.

She chose a table on the far side of the lounge, away from the entrance and the ballplayers at the bar, and ordered a scotch. The chair felt good; it was low, with soft cushions and casters; she crept it closer to another chair at the table and put her feet up, stretching her legs, brushing at the wrinkles in her beige slacks. When the waitress brought her drink she looked up to thank her. The waitress moved off and a man was standing at the table.

“If you’ll permit me…”

“To do what?” Mary said.

“Speak with you, please.” His manner was pleasant, unhurried. “You’re the friend, I believe, of the Marine.”

Mary nodded. “We’re buddies.”

The man’s dark eyes relaxed in warm creases. He looked to be in his early thirties with a trimmed mustache and hair styled by a hotel barber, swept straight back from a high forehead: the look of light-skinned Dominican aristocracy, Mary judged. He wore a tailored white cotton shirt that hung free of his trousers like a light jacket, open enough to show some of his chest hair.

He said, “I like to have a woman who is a buddy. I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I suppose the way we are, men and women, uh? The difference between us.”

“How do you know the Marine and I aren’t married?”

“I find out those things.” He smiled.

More than pleasant, his manner was instantly familiar, confident, the Latin lover come-on. Mary sipped her drink; she’d been there several times.

“Excuse me. My name is Rafael Amado.” He paused, giving Mary a chance to introduce herself, but she passed. “I think your friend should know that none of those girls could be Luci Palma.”

“He knows,” Mary said. “He’s just having a little fun.”

“Yes, that’s good… My name is Rafael, but by most people I’m known as Rafi.”

“That’s cute,” Mary said.

The Dominican smiled. “You like it? Good. I wonder if I may join you.” He brought over a chair without waiting for permission and eased into it, careful of the press in his black trousers. “Thank you. May I buy you a drink?”

Mary raised her glass. “I’m fine.”

He looked up, snapped his fingers and said something in Spanish that was abrupt, without the pleasant manner, though it returned instantly as he said to Mary, “If I may have one with you.”

She wished Moran would hurry up. She wanted to see the look on his face, coming in and finding her taken care of. It might tell her something. Then immediately doubted it. Moran wouldn’t make assumptions, waste time being jealous. If he were to hesitate, appear to be just a little awkward, that would be good enough.

Rafi said, “When I heard on the radio about the return of the Marine I thought, Could it be? Then in Listin Diario I see the message, Cat Chaser is looking for the girl… and I thought, It is, it’s the same one.”

“The message,” Mary said, “I haven’t seen it yet.”

“In the newspaper personal column,” Rafi told her. “Cat Chaser is looking for the girl who ran over the roofs of buildings and tried to kill him. Call this hotel. It’s very clever the way it’s said.”