Elmore Leonard - Cat Chaser

“That’s been on my mind too,” Mary said. “I don’t think I should take the money. Assuming he’ll still offer it.”

“You’ve got a signed agreement, haven’t you?”

“I don’t think that would bother Andres too much.”

Moran raised her face to see her eyes, dark, questioning. “I was rich once. I thought it was more of a pain in the ass than anything else. As a matter of fact the beer at the club never tasted right.”

Mary said, “George, ten years ago I was making a hundred dollars an hour modeling.” She gave him a quick couple of fashion-model expressions, mouth and eye movements from smile to pout. “All that high-fashion New York-beautiful-people bullshit. I did lipstick, perfume, eye-makeup; I was gone before designer jeans. I quit and didn’t look at myself for two years. I thought about going to law school until I worked for a lawyer and got pension plans up to here. I don’t know what I want as far as a career goes; but the best thing is to just be rich and not worry about it.”

He said, “Are we gonna get married?”

She raised her face, her turn to search his eyes.

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“It’s okay with me.”

She pulled away from him. “What do you mean, it’s okay? You just go along? You’re not obligated, Moran. You can do whatever you want.”

He brought her back to him gently, moving his hand over her, down her arm to the curve of her breast, soothing.

“Don’t think so much. Let it happen. We’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

They met at the Holiday Inn each afternoon for the next several days, tried the Castaways on the Beach and went back to the Holiday Inn because it was familiar and they felt at home. Mary came in her tennis warmups. (Nolen Tyner asked Moran where he went every afternoon. Moran told him visiting. Then Nolen got a surveillance assignment and Moran wondered if he was the subject; but it had to do with a child-custody case in West Palm.) They booked the Holiday Inn room for another week and brought wine and fruit. They talked about playing tennis sometime. They didn’t talk about Andres or when or what if. They were together and it was enough. Mary said maybe being rich wasn’t that important. Moran said not as long as you can afford motel rooms. But it was a shame to pay when he had an entire motel going to waste, the place empty except for one guy and he wasn’t there during the day. Mary finally said all right, she’d come to the Coconuts. Tomorrow.

She came at one o’clock in her warmups carrying her yellow bathing suit. Moran introduced her to Jerry and showed her around; it took about five minutes. Mary said she loved it. They went into Moran’s bungalow and he told her not to pay any attention to the tropical floral-print upholstery and the curved bamboo arms on the furniture, he was going to redecorate one of these days. Mary told him to forget it, his decor was back in. He showed her the bedroom next, where she could change, put on her bathing suit.

They were still in there a little after two when Jerry called. Jerry said, “There’s a gentleman and a young lady here to see you.”

Moran stood holding a towel around him.

“Who are they?”

Jerry said, “His name’s Rafi Amado. He says he’s from Santo Domingo.”

MARY WATCHED THEMfrom a side window: Moran standing with his thumbs hooked in the low waist of his cutoffs, the bearded innkeeper, gesturing then, yeah, this is it. How do you like it? She could almost read his lips.

The red-haired girl seemed, if not impressed, at least satisfied by what she saw. A strange-looking little thing, attractive, but all her colors wrong.

Rafi, in a shiny black business suit, was squinting, cocking his head as he inspected the Coconut Palms’ center court-doors to a dozen rooms in a plain white facade with aqua trim facing the small swimming pool-as though if he caught the right perspective the Coconuts would become the Fontainebleu, a place with real swank.

It’s your fault, Mary thought, but had to smile. Rafi was nodding, trying to look impressed. The red-haired girl would roll her lower lip, then lick it and roll it out again. Very strange. She wore a blue and yellow flowered-print dress-giant mutations that might be daisies-the dress tight in the bust but several inches too long, below her knees. Miss Sugarcane.

That’s not nice, Mary thought.

But did she have to be nice? Moran seemed to be handling the amenities, making them feel at home, inviting them now to take a lounge chair. He came toward the house as they sat down, Rafi with a stern expression saying something to the girl.

Moran came in and closed the door.

“Not a soul here, the guy shows up all the way from the Dominican Republic.”

Mary came away from the window. “Who’s the girl with him?”

“Loret. That’s all I know.” Moran went to the refrigerator. “She wants a Seven-Up.”

“Are they staying?”

“He says he’s got something to tell me. Like bad news, the way he said it… I don’t have any Seven-Up. I knew I didn’t have any, I don’t know why I’m looking.”

Mary said, “Should I come out?”

Moran brought two Cokes and a bowl of ice from the refrigerator and closed the door. “Whatever you think.”

“Aren’t you a little surprised to see him?”

“I’m very surprised. He says, ‘And how is your buddy, Mary?’ and gives me a wink. I said you’re fine.”

“You didn’t tell him I’m here?”

“No.” Moran was at the counter now mixing a rum and Coke for Rafi. “I’ve still got a funny feeling about him. In fact I’ve got more of a funny feeling than ever.”

“Do you think he knows who I am?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Should I come out? I’ve got to go home pretty soon.”

“Shit,” Moran said. “The one time I don’t have anybody here. Maybe I can get rid of them.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Mary said. “Assume he’s straight, but keep your eyes open. I think I’d better just slip out.”

“You can go around the other side to the street.”

“I’d better. Unless you want me to help you entertain.” Mary smiled. She walked over to him, raising her arms. “Our time will come, George. Hang in.”

Rafi said, very quietly, “I like Loret to tell you if she can. She has trouble not only with the words but”-he gestured, touching his chest-”because of the way it makes her feel.”

She didn’t seem too troubled to Moran: leaning over to slip her sandals off, the bodice of the dress opening to give Moran a peek at her full breasts. She sat back wiggling her toes. They looked dirty.

“But let’s see,” Rafi said, his sad eyes moving to the girl. “Loret? Tell him who you are.”

The girl looked at Rafi and immediately her expression clouded, her lower lip came out and her chin seemed to tremble. Rafi gave a small nod toward Moran. The girl turned to him, raising her head proudly.

“I am the sister of Luci Palma.”

Moran said, “Well, I’ll be.” The girl looked nothing like the Luci Palma he remembered. He said, “You’re a lot younger.”

“Yes, twelve years,” the girl said.

“Well, how is Luci these days? Where does she live?”

“She’s dead,” the girl said. She seemed to glance at Rafi before placing her glass of Coca-Cola on the ground and covering her face with her hands.

Moran heard muffled sobs. He looked at Rafi.

“She’s dead?”

Rafi nodded. “I found it out the day you left. I spoke to someone who told me of Loret and I went to see her.”

“How did she die? Was she ill?”

Rafi looked at the girl. “Loret, tell him how she died.”

Her hands came away from her face; her eyes seemed glazed now, red with sorrow.