Elmore Leonard - Cat Chaser

“Maybe we’ll put it back the way it was.”

“I like this,” Loret said, touching her wiry hair. “I don’t want to look Negro.”

This increased her sullen expression and Rafi told her, again, to smile. “You want to be rich, you have to learn how to smile.”

“What do I get?” the girl asked him.

“The world,” Rafi said.

She could have it. He’d settle for a home in the embassy section of town, a few servants, an armed guard at the gate he’d present with a cigar each evening as he drove out in his Mercedes.

Rafi had been hustling since he was seventeen years old, since working the aduana trade during the revolution of ’65 when they looted the customhouse and the docks along the Ozama and sold everything on the black. TV sets, transistor radios, tires, Japanese bikes. It had been a training ground: learning how to get ahead when you begin with nothing. But he was up and down, spending half what he earned on his appearance, to look good in the hotel lobbies, and he had nothing of substance to rely on for a steady income. The few girls he managed worked when they felt like it and cheated him when they did. He’d threaten to cut them with a knife and they’d give him big innocent eyes. Loret’s look was more sulk than innocence.

“Push your lower lip out a little more.”

“What do I get for this?”

He loved her more each time she said it. It was a sign she was moved by greed.

“Push the lip out… Yes, a nice pout, I like that. Aw, you look so sad. Let me see a little more-you’re filled with a great sorrow… Yes, that’s good. Begin to believe you’re very depressed. You feel lost.”

She said, “You better tell me what I get.”

“Tell me what you want,” Rafi said. “But not yet. You’re too depressed. Something terrible happened to your sister that you loved very much…”

He cocked his head at different angles to study the sad little girl. Not bad. The breasts were a bonus. She would have to be rehearsed, of course; still, he knew he was very close to what he needed. Work with Loret the rest of the day. Present her sometime tomorrow.

In the meantime he should pay his respects. Call the Marine and tell him you’re onto something but don’t tell him what. You’ll get back to him later this evening. Yes, you want to look industrious. You don’t want to seem to be just hanging around.

He called the hotel and asked for 537.

When there was no answer he got the operator again and asked if Mr. Moran had left word where he would be.

The operator said, “Mr. Moran has checked out.”

“What do you mean he’s checked out? Give me the desk.” He was sure there was a mistake. But when he spoke to the clerk he was told, “Yes, Mr. Moran has checked out.” What about Mrs. Delaney? “Yes, she also.”

Rafi said, “Did Moran leave a message-I’m sure he did-for Rafi Amado?”

The desk clerk said, “Just a moment.” He came back to the phone and said, “No, there’s nothing for you here.”

HE TALKED TO JERRYfor a few minutes, left him whistling “Zing Went the Strings of My Heart” and as soon as he was in the bungalow Nolen’s smiling face appeared at the door.

“You’re home. When’d you get in?”

Moran said, “When did I get in? ” He dropped his bag on the kitchen counter. “You’re watching me get in.” He had left Mary exactly fifty minutes ago at the Miami airport where they stood holding, kissing in a crowd of people, as though one was seeing the other off. She got in a taxi and Moran wandered through the parking lot looking for his car, the white Mercedes coupe he’d owned for seven years.

Nolen said, “You wouldn’t have a cold one in that fridge there, would you?”

“If you left any,” Moran said. “Take a look.” He wanted him to leave so he could call Mary. It could be the wrong time to call but he missed her and he couldn’t imagine de Boya answering the phone himself; a servant would answer. And pretty soon his voice would become familiar to the help. Here he is again for missus. He’d have to make something up, give himself, his voice, an identity.

Nolen uncapped a couple Buds, placed one on the counter for Moran and slipped up onto a stool.

“I skimmed the swimming pool.”

“Good.”

“Didn’t find any used condoms or anything. No alligators. The two broads from Fort Wayne left and the old couple with the Buick. In fact everybody’s gone. We had a couple broads from Findlay, Ohio, work for Dow Chemical, they were here for three days. I asked ’em if they heard the one, the salesman from New York who’s in Findlay, Ohio, on business and runs into a foxy broad at the Holiday Inn? One drink they’re in the sack, it’s beautiful. But this guy’s a good Catholic so he looks up a church right away, goes to confession and the priest gives him five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for his penance. He leaves for New York, meets another good-looking broad at La Guardia. They drive into town together, go to her apartment and jump in bed, it’s beautiful. But now he’s got to go to confession again before he gets home. He goes to St. Pat’s, tells the priest what he did and the priest gives him a rosary. The guy says, ‘Father, I don’t mean to question you giving me a rosary, but I went to confession in Findlay, Ohio, for the same thing and I only got five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.’ The priest looks at him and screams, ‘Findlay, Ohio! ’ Like he can’t believe it. ‘Findlay, Ohio -what do they know about fucking in Findlay, Ohio!’… Otherwise,” Nolen said, “there’s nothing new.”

“How about old business?” Moran said, taking clothes out of the bag. “I’m a little more interested in what was going on when I left.”

“The lovers?” Nolen said. “They broke up.”

“And when we last saw the guy who broke them up,” Moran said, “you were treating him to one of my beers.”

“Jiggs,” Nolen said. “He’s all right, a nice guy.”

“Yeah, good old Jiggs Scully,” Moran said, “hands out phony business cards for laughs, but as it turns out works for de Boya.”

“I’m gonna have to explain a few things to you,” Nolen said.

Moran picked up his clothes and dropped them in a wicker basket. “Will it take long?”

“George, that’s not nice… See, you’ll be interested to know that Jiggs doesn’t exactly work for de Boya. De Boya borrows him from time to time, for heavy work.”

“The piano player, Mario, that’s heavy?”

Nolen shook his head. “De Boya didn’t hire Jiggs for that one. The sister did, Anita.”

“I see,” Moran said, telling Nolen he didn’t see at all.

“You know the song ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do’? It’s like that,” Nolen said. “Anita doesn’t want to go through a lot of shit with Mario, she just wants to cut it off clean. So she hires Jiggs. The piano player thinks her brother sent him and he’s not gonna have a tantrum or argue with the brother and get his legs broken, he wasn’t that deeply in love. I said to Jiggs, ‘You ever hear the guy play? You gonna break anything break his fingers.’ But evidently the brother did find out about it and he sent Corky along. You got it now?”

“Have I got what?”

“Corky is Corky Corcovado. He’s Dominican, he works for de Boya. But Jiggs, Jiggs you call when you need him.”

“Not the number on the card he gave me,” Moran said.

“As a matter of fact,” Nolen said, “that is his number. But the girl on the switchboard won’t admit it if she doesn’t know who you are. You call him, you have to be a regular.”

Moran thought a moment. “She said Dorado Management.”