Double down, p.25
Double Down, page 25
Waverly nodded and the waiter hurried away.
“So,” she said, opening her arms expansively, taking in the entire ship, “what do you think?”
“It’s a lovely surprise, Caroline.”
“I hoped you’d like it. And this isn’t all. There’s more yet to come.”
“What more?”
“You’ll see,” she said over a feverish, ripply laugh. “First I need to wind down. All day I’ve been tight as a coiled spring.”
That he could believe. Her face was flushed, makeup streaking ever so slightly under the lingering heat of the day. Her eyes were luminous, delighted as a child’s. Whether she owed the color and electric radiance to excitement or anxiety or chemistry or some combination of the three was impossible to tell, an open question, one he was no more disposed to pursue than the mystery of what was coming next. Not tonight. Her surprise, let her orchestrate it as she would.
The lounge filled rapidly, every table occupied. At the far end a trio of black musicians entertained, calypso of course, setting the mood with lyrics properly risqué:
“Lulu had a boyfriend,
Drove a garbage truck,
Never collect no garbage,
All he did was—
Bang bang, Lulu,
Lulu gone away,
Lulu gone a’bangin’,
When Lulu gone away.”
Howls of riotous laughter. Applause. An audience eager to be pleased.
Soon the champagne arrived. Caroline lifted her glass. “Here’s to us, Tim. You and me. And a beautiful evening.”
“Who deserves it more?”
“Who indeed.”
They clinked glasses.
“I gather you didn’t have any trouble getting away,” Waverly said.
“Why? Because I was on time for a change?”
“Partly that. Also the very fact you’re here.”
“There was no problem. Oh, Avis and some other wives were planning to meet for drinks and dinner, but I begged off. Told them I needed a time-out.”
“Robbie?”
“He and Jock left just before I did. Don’t wait up, were my instructions.” She took a sip of champagne, set the glass down, reached across the table, and laid a hand on his arm. “Let’s not think about them, Tim. Any of them. We’ve got tonight. That’s enough.”
“Carpe diem?”
A fragile, recollective smile crossed her face. “Remember that Marvell line, ‘Tear our pleasures with rough strife, / Through the iron gates of life’?”
“I remember, but only barely. In my line of work there tends to be a steady depletion of intellectual capital.”
“Well, who’s going to argue with a metaphysical poet?”
Now Waverly raised his glass, touched it to hers. “Certainly not I,” he said, and this time his own smile was genuine, uninduced. “You’re on.”
A little after seven the vessel shuddered slightly beneath them and, almost imperceptibly, began to slip away from the dock. “Let’s watch,” Caroline said, and so they stood leaning into the rail, gazing silently at the harbor gradually receding behind them, the knot of frantically waving figures shrinking in the widening distance between ship and shore, and beyond the port the line of urgent traffic whooshing down Highway One, and beyond that the flat orange disk of sun tacked on the fringe of the sky. And for a moment Waverly was overtaken by that peculiar wordless sense of wonder that overtakes the outward-bound voyager, the curious sense of gazing into one’s own past. Till his eyes fell on a black Mustang parked along the fence behind the entry building, and he understood suddenly and in a way he had not before, the hounds of the past were relentless in their chase, remorseless, and utterly empty of forgiveness.
The ship, led by a tiny pilot boat, rounded Peanut Island and passed through the Lake Worth Inlet and out to sea, cleaving the placid water and trailing a cleft of tumbling, billowy suds in its wake. Caroline turned to him and said, “I booked us a cabin, Tim. Royale class. Top of the line. And that’s the last surprise.”
Jock had a little surprise to spring, too, but he was sitting on it just then, saving it for later. For right now he was content just settled back in the stretch limo streaking south on I-95, working on his second Wild Turkey, watching the trail of smoke from his Macanudo coil through the air, and listening noncommittally to his partner—let’s make that employee, keep our ranks straight—blowing far less substantial smoke. Nonstop, breathless. Sounded like some twitchy third-stringer trying to psych himself up. Smack talk. Smoke.
Patient as a spider, Jock waited for it to run down. Somewhere around Lantana it did, and in a tone dry, skeptical, he said, “So all’s we got to do is reel him in, huh? Pan-fried raghead?”
“Absolutely,” Robbie said with a firm, chopping gesture. “We do some fancy gang-bangin’—i.e., walk him over the site, show him the blueprints, let him get a peek at the numbers, projections, keep him entertained—we do all that, it ought to be a lay-down sell. Should be nailed by Tuesday, Wednesday on the outside.”
“That quick? Here I’d’ve figured he’d be maybe havin’ some cash-flow problems, price of oil bein’ where it is.”
Robbie’s face cracked open in a slick smile. “Not this one. He just pumps overtime. I’m told he’s famous for scamming on the quotas.”
“Yeah, who told you that?”
“Some traders I met in London. When I was over there greasing him.”
“When was that, again?”
“Last February.”
“February,” Jock repeated. “Four months, goin’ on five, things can change. Your A-rab magic carpets, they ain’t flyin’ so high these days.”
Robbie produced some automatic chuckling noises, but no reply. His glance strayed to the glass in his hand, fastened on it.
“Well, sure do hope you’re right,” Jock said with a kind of easy congeniality, but drawling it out a little longer than necessary and squinting at him, eyes full of twinkly malice. “ ’Bout that sellin’ job you said. ’Cause if you’re not, then somebody gonna be left holdin’ a nasty steamin’ turd here.” And the way he pitched that made it plain the somebody was not going to be Jock Appelgate.
“Listen, our man’s a bailer, authentic prince, I’ve had him checked, got more money than camel apples, wells good for another half century, I’m on top of it.” The words came firing out, rat-a-tat, but tremulous, too, defensive, and much too agitated. Robbie seemed suddenly to recognize it, slowed himself down. “We’ve got nothing to sweat. It’s as good as sealed.”
“Real glad to hear that,” Jock said amiably. “I do dislike sweatin’. Too old for it anymore. Comes easier to you young bucks.”
Robbie had nothing to say to that. He tossed down his drink, poured another and held out the bottle to Jock, whose head shook no. They rode awhile in a silence exaggerated by the smooth, soundproof glide of the limo. Exits whisked on by: Delray, Boca, Deerfield. A little south of Pompano, Jock started things up again.
“That entertainment you was speakin’ of, what all you got lined up?”
“For starters, a whole stable of blue-eyed blondes. Florida girls. Buzz is that’s the way he likes them.”
Jock snorted. “Figures,” he said with some disgust. “Scratch a A-rab, you gonna find a closet coon underneath every time. Can’t get enough a that white meat.”
“Maybe that’s why they call them sand niggers.”
“Huh, worse’n niggers, comes to pussy.”
Robbie made a short laugh. “Also there’s the game, of course. I mentioned it when I called Wednesday.”
“So what’s he think about that?”
“He’s looking forward to it. Impatiently, is what he said.”
“Tell him about your pro-fessional friend?” Jock asked, trace of a sneer on the friend.
Robbie winced a little but he said quickly, “Oh yes. That notion really seized him. You know how good he thinks he is.”
“Yeah, I heard. Well, we’ll for sure find out, won’t we? Oughta be a real mean shootout.”
Robbie seemed relieved at the direction the conversation had taken. Firmer ground. Encouraged, he went on talking, mostly about agendas, strategies, numbers. Things like that. More of the smoke.
Jock showed a listening face, but there was distance in it, too, and he pretty much tuned him out. Biding his time, collecting his thoughts and his words. In business, where allegiances were liquid as sweat, timing was all. So he waited till they turned onto the Airport Expressway; and then at a break in the rushing monologue he cocked his head slightly, like a man with a problem to settle in his mind, and unloaded his surprise.
“Y’know, Robber, other night I was layin’ some numbers of my own on the calculator machine. Come up with a mighty hefty figure you’re into me for. I’m speakin’ of that up-front money I advanced you a while back, keep you floatin’. Looks of ’em, them numbers I’m referrin’ to, you ain’t been pullin’ your weight, this venture.”
Robbie looked stunned. “Well—yeah—that may be—but—” His voice was stuttery, ascending toward the higher registers. He started over. “That was the arrangement, Jock, for the time being, anyway. It’s only short-term. You know I’m good for it. And I like to think I’ve been making it up in dogwork lately, keeping this whole package glued together.” It came out lower now, steadier. Filled with sweet reason.
“That’s what you like to think, is it? Lemme tell you something, counselor. That dogwork worth about two shakes of a rat’s ass. Don’t mean jack shit. Everybody else in, takin’ all the risk. I’m done carryin’ you, boy. Come up with your share or I’m cuttin’ you loose. Simple as that.”
“But it’s not that simple,” Robbie said, straining to hold onto the reasonable tone. “You know how hard it is to float a loan right now, my part of the world. Houston’s a ghost town, everything up for auction. It could take a while.”
“Well, I can understand,” Jock said clemently. “Maybe we can work something out. Half might do, show you was in earnest.”
“Half! That’s still large money. What kind of time are we talking?”
Jock set his glass on the tray. He pursed his lips, laid a thoughtful finger along the side of his nose. “Oh, next week be just fine. Before you head on home, say.”
Robbie’s boiled face blanched. “Jesus,” he said, squirmy in his seat, voice on the rise again. “That’s not possible. How am I going to do that, raise the money and juggle everything here at the same time?”
Jock snickered a little, fixed him with a relentless squinty smile, allowed, “I got faith in you, Robber. Always did. You’re the kind a fella you throw in the pigpen, you just naturally come out CEO of the hogs.”
At about eight o’clock that evening, by Central Time, Gunter Dietz was summoned to the phone. He apologized to his dinner guests, avoided his wife’s black glare, and retreated to the privacy of his study to take the call. With the door securely shut behind him, he cleared his throat, lifted the receiver, and in his best business voice—calm, steady, firm—said his name.
“Me, Mr. Dietz. Eugene. Sorry to be callin’ you at the house again.”
“Quite all right, Eugene. I rather expected it would be you.” Among their guests that night was a titled Englishman, and Dietz, who was always looking to improve himself, had picked up some of that gentleman’s inflections and speech patterns. But since it was Eugene he was speaking to now, he slipped in and out of a more natural vernacular. “So. What do you hear?”
“Gotta tellya, Mr. Dietz, nothin’ that sounds right.”
“In what way?”
“Well, just took a report from down south, and it looks like there ain’t no action. Zip.”
“How do you mean, ‘no action’? Specifically.”
“Mean just that. Place they’re stayin’, our people wired in the manager, and he says the Jew’s keepin’ his head down. Juicin’ mostly. Ain’t hardly moved all week. And tonight the other one, card scuffler, he’s out on a midnight boat cruise, f’Chris’sake. Got some twist along. It’s like he got his mind on his love life, ’stead of business.”
Tacked to the opposite wall was a plaque honoring Dietz’s generous contributions to the United Way. He gazed at it. Unconsciously, the knuckles of his free hand rapped the desk. After a short pause he said, “That last game, that was Monday night, was it?”
“Yeah, right. Monday and Tuesday.”
“Since then there’s been no, ah, evidence of any more scrambling?”
“Like I said, zip.”
“And no getting into the wind moves?”
“Not a one.”
“This is very strange, Eugene. Not the way it’s supposed to be. Not good.”
“Don’t I know it, Mr. Dietz. Don’t stand up, none of it. I think we oughta send our man in right now, you want my idea.”
“The two weeks is up, when again?”
“Be midnight, Wednesday.”
Dietz studied the calendar on his desk. “Hmm,” he said, “five days.”
“That’s if you wanta let ’em keep on givin’ with the shuffle, that five.”
“And you think they’re going to dime on us?”
“Lookin’ that way.”
Dietz could hear the anxiety and doubt in his subordinate’s voice. Like any effective executive, he listened for such things, took them into account. He was silent a moment, gathering his thoughts, weighing and considering his options.
Eugene finally said, “I can call it in anytime, Mr. Dietz. Tonight, you want.”
And Dietz, his decision arrived at, replied quite evenly, “No, no, I think not. Not just yet. What I’ll do, I think, is make a trip down there. Business is slow this time of year, I could get away by, oh, say, Tuesday.”
“You think that’s a good idea, Mr. Dietz? Gettin’ yourself in that close?”
“I appreciate your concern, Eugene, but I intend to act strictly in an advisory capacity. Like a, uh, consultant, you might say. This is one closing I want to see done right.”
“For a while it went in stages,” Caroline was saying, lying on her side, snuggled against him. Her voice was frail, plaintive, but one of her hands described nervous circles, as if to draw figures of ruin and disaster on the air. “There were times—not many—when it was calm, almost serene. Then there’d be an explosion and it would all turn ugly again. A few years ago there was a period when everything seemed to be spinning out of control. That was a very bad time for me, Tim. Hospitals, sedatives, wise psychiatrists. What they used to call, politely, a ‘nervous breakdown.’ ”
“And now?” Waverly said. “How is it now?”
“Now it’s mostly just numb.”
“But there was a time when you loved him. In the beginning, at least.”
Caroline considered gravely before she replied. “I suppose so. I don’t know. Your memory plays tricks on you, after all these years.”
“Not mine. I remember your wedding, I saw you, I was there.”
“What you saw was a girl,” she said, somewhat impatiently. “A child. Oh, there was the sexual part, in those days. Robbie could be awesomely priapic. I’m sure he still can, though not with the wife, of course.”
And remembering also the scene at Jock’s hideout condo the other night, a dissolute Robbie sandwiched between his machines of infinite pleasure, Waverly thought how apt it was, priapic, how fitting. The sort of word that would roll easily off her tongue. But what do you say to it, a harsh truth like that? You say nothing. So that’s what he did, said nothing, lay there allowing his gaze to float around the room, this Royale class cabin of theirs with its beige walls and its gaudy flowered drapes at the recessed window; its couch and chairs strewn with their hastily discarded clothing; its complimentary bottle of champagne, three-quarters gone now, on the table by the bed; and its mirror over the bureau, giving back an image of two melancholy fugitives from life’s insults and disappointments and abundance of fractured dreams.
It was Caroline broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Tim, for making you listen to all this.”
“I asked.” Which was the truth. It was something he wanted to hear from her, wanted to know.
“It’s the champagne. Gives me the vin triste.”
“You know,” he said pensively, “I’m just as sorry. But I confess I don’t understand why you put up with it. Why you stay. Your children, you say, but that won’t wash. Not in this age. Children go with their mothers.”
“Not when the mother’s unfit, they don’t. Robbie’s got a file on me, very thick and very damning. At documentation, he always excelled. There’s all those hospitals, shrinks. The drugs I need to keep going anymore, they’re on record, they couldn’t help my case.” She shifted slightly, turning so she no longer faced him. She hesitated, drew in a shallow breath, murmured, “And there’ve been other men, too. As you might guess.”
Once again Waverly was lost for something to say.
“You give up a lot along the way, Tim. You drift.”
Who should know better than I, is what he thought, but what he said was, “You couldn’t make it without them? Without your kids?” This was the part he needed to settle.
But she said, “I don’t know, I don’t know,” distress rising through her voice. She reached across him for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply. It seemed to steady her some. “Can I tell you a little story? About Robbie, Jr.?”
“Of course.”
“He was always a lonely child, stayed close to home, no friends, playmates. Nothing at all like his father. Before we got the place in Hunters Creek, we were living in a small house in Houston. There was a park just down the street, with picnic benches, swings, slides, an old bandshell. Nothing particularly special but, for whatever reason, Robbie loved it, loved that park.
“One morning—he was six, I remember it distinctly—he announced he was going there. A picnic, by himself, all alone. The neighborhood was good, it was safe, it seemed to me a fine idea. Like a gesture of independence. Very encouraging sign. I packed him a lunch, got him started.
