Elmore Leonard - Cat Chaser

Both of the men wore lightweight jackets with open sport shirts, the collars folded out flat. One dark, with thick hair and Latin features, a mustache that curved down around the corners of his mouth. The other older, pink-skinned, heavyset going to fat; he wore dark-framed glasses and pushed them up on the bridge of a pug Irish nose as the door opened and he turned from the desk.

Moran’s first-glance impression: Miami Police.

Jerry was tense, frowning. He said, “George, do we have a guest name of Prado staying with us?” He had a stack of reservation cards in his hand. “I don’t recall that name. Less they checked in on my day off.”

“Let me see,” Moran said, coming around the counter now, playing the game with Jerry for whatever reason he was doing it, but knowing one thing for sure, before they said a word: They weren’t police. Jerry and the police were buddies. Moran took the guest cards and started going through them. They were old ones, from last season.

The Latino younger guy was staring at Moran, weighing him and apparently not impressed. He said, “Come on, what is this?”

Moran said, “What was the name, Bravo?”

“Prado.” The younger one reached across the counter, held his arm extended and snapped his fingers.

“Give me those. Come on, let see what you got.”

Jerry said, “I told him, George, they’re private property. I’m not supposed to show ’em.”

The heavyset Irish-looking guy put his hand on the younger one’s outstretched arm. The arm went down to the counter and the heavyset one pushed up his glasses again. He said, “George, we’re not getting anywhere fast here, are we? Looking through cards-what’ve you got, maybe two units rented, three? You got five cars outside counting mine.” He turned to the windows that looked out on the courtyard and the illuminated pool. “You got lights on in one unit I can see. Maybe they’re in there watching the ball game, which I wish I was home watching right now myself. But I know this fella we’re looking for doesn’t care too much about the NFL or who goes to the Super Bowl next January, so he’s probably doing something else in there. We can go down and knock on the door. We can knock on every door you got here, but I don’t want to disturb any your guests might be sleeping. Cause a commotion, give the place a bad name. That’s where I stand. What I want to know, George, is where you stand, why you’re being uncooperative.”

Moran didn’t say anything. He was trying to think of the phone number of the Pompano Beach Police.

“He owe you rent money?”

Moran still didn’t say anything.

“That’s a pretty easy question, George. You don’t have to scratch your head on that one, do you?”

The Latino one said, “Come on, George, cut the shit. What room is he in?”

The heavyset one turned to look at the Latino. He said, “Corky, go on outside, okay? Go on, I’ll take care of it.”

The Latino took his time, reluctant, but went outside toward the pool.

The door closed and the heavyset Irish-looking guy said, “Fucking spic. Somebody told ’em they have hot blood, they have to live up to it. Don’t worry about Corky, I’ll put him on a leash I have to.”

“Or I can call the cops,” Moran said.

The heavyset man sighed. He dug into his rumpled size-44 jacket, brought out a business card and laid it on the counter. “Jiggs Scully. I used to be a cop myself. City of New York, borough of Manhattan, George. I bet I can talk to ’em better’n you can.”

Moran picked up the card. “Business Consultant…”

“That’s correct,” Scully said, “I’m a consultant. See the address? New World Tower, Biscayne Boulevard. I advise people on business matters, act as a go-between, bring people together that want to make deals… things like that. You want to know any more, come by my office we’ll have a coffee sometime. Okay? Right now I’m going down to see Mr. Prado. Where you come in-I’m gonna knock on his door, he don’t open it then I might have to kick it in. I mean the business I got with him is that pressing. So you can give me a key and maybe save yourself a door. What do you think?”

Moran said, “You can knock on the door. But if he doesn’t open it you don’t go in. You can talk to the cops and we’ll see how good you are.”

“Oh, man,” Jiggs Scully said, sounding tired, leaning on the counter again. “I notice that thing on your arm. Once a Marine, always a Marine, uh? Gonna stand your ground. Okay, pal, he don’t open the door I’ll go home, watch Monday Night Football. How’s that sound to you?”

Jerry stayed inside by the window, within reach of the phone. Moran would give him the high sign if he had to use it. Right now it was quiet out there. The two men had gone down to oceanfront Number One, knocked, waited, knocked again and the door opened. Now they were inside. Jerry looked at the clock. Twenty past ten. Now they’d been in there only a couple of minutes. Jerry opened the office door now. He called out in a low voice, “George?”

The figure near the shallow end of the pool didn’t move; he was watching the end apartment. Beyond it was darkness and the ocean. Jerry stepped outside. He closed the door behind him quietly and crept up to Moran.

“You able to hear what they said?”

Moran shook his head.

“That wind out there, you can’t hear yourself think,” Jerry said. “The piano player opened the door, then seemed to step back, didn’t he? Like he was inviting them in?”

Moran didn’t say anything. He wished Jerry would go back inside.

“Maybe they’re from the finance company, gonna repossess his car. I didn’t like ’em at all. That type,” Jerry said, “they come in a place, you know they’re gonna take whatever they want. First I thought it was a stickup.”

“You better stay by the phone,” Moran said. “You look up the number?”

“Seven eight five… seven eight five two nine… Or is it nine two one one?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Moran said, “but you better be sure.” He saw the door open. “Jerry, they’re coming out.”

Jerry hurried off.

Moran watched the younger guy, the Latino named Corky, appear, then the piano player and the woman. The Irish-looking guy, Jiggs Scully, closed the door and turned the knob to make sure it was locked. They came in single file now along the front of the apartment wing, heading for the alcove next to the office where the Coke machine and ice maker were located. They could go through the alcove to the street. They were about twenty feet away, passing him now.

Moran said, “Mrs…” He didn’t know what to call her. He said, “Is everything all right?”

Jiggs Scully, a barrel shuffling along, bringing up the rear, looked over. “Everything’s lovely, George. Go on back the ball game.”

Moran said, “Mr. Prado?”

The Latino guy, Corky, said something in Spanish and laughed. Jiggs Scully said, “George, you’re paid up, you got nothing to worry about there. We’re gonna go out have a few pops. We’ll see you later. Have a nice evening.”

Moran followed them as far as the alcove. He watched them walk past the line of angle-parked cars, past the woman’s gray Mercedes, Nolen’s rusting-out blue Porsche. He didn’t see the piano player’s car. All four of them got into a two-tone red and white Cadillac and drove away.

Moran had to go to the office to get the key to Number Five. Jerry said, “Nolen’s in there. He’s been in there all evening.”

“I guess he’s asleep,” Moran said.

“But why would he know anything about them?” Jerry said.

Moran didn’t answer, already going out the door. He stepped over to Number Five, listened-there were faint sounds coming from inside. He knocked hard, three times. When nothing happened he used the key to open the door. The place smelled like a bar.