SNAKE parked the rental Trans-Am at the curb in front of the Southern Manor, and sat there with the motor and the air-conditioning running, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the car. The Florida sun was heavy, unkind, and her destination did not beckon. The Southern Manor was a two-story house of faded stucco with a sagging wooden porch, a sign that said ROOMS embedded in a graveled yard, and a rusted flagpole without a flag. The other houses on the street were much the same. This was hardscrabble Florida, tracts of land that were virtually treeless, flat and sandy, dull and discouraging.
She looked again at the Southern Manor. David Ogden wanted it burned, and at the moment that didn't seem like such a bad idea.
I am, she told herself, about to become a house-sitter. I am supposed to sit around on my butt and make sure that somebody doesn't torch this monstrosity, which is just plain stupid. I love Sammy, he's my brother and I know that he's got the brains in the outfit, but he sure screwed up on this assignment. He gives the college gig to Vince, and I can't argue with that because I don't know the first thing about basketball, and I don't want to. He gives Ben the cruise ship, and that makes sense. But he gives Martha the Simms girl, and he makes me the house-sitter, which is all wrong. Martha is soft, and I'm steel. Martha is sweet, and I'm sharp. Martha says please, and I say gimme. The Simms kid needs a hard-nosed, hard-assed bitch. That's me. This job needs an earth mother who can make friends and talk to people. That's Martha. So why, Sammy?
She stared at the house with distaste, and the house stared back. The only way to guard the place effectively was from the inside, which meant renting a room. She dredged up memories of cheap rooming houses: lumpy mattresses, stiff grey sheets, ancient air-conditioning, one bathroom to a floor, and a sign in every room that said NO COOKING. Someday, Sammy. Someday.
She went into the house to rent a room, and ten minutes later she was still trying. Bertha Costigan, the owner of the Southern Manor, was a cheerful woman of middle years who was perfectly happy to sit her down, give her a cold Coke, chat with her, and complain about the weather. What Bertha Costigan could not do was rent her a room. "I wish I could, but I simply can't," she explained. "I have six rooms, and they're all occupied. I wish I had six more, a dozen more. I'd rent them all this time of year."
"What about doubling up?" Snake asked. "Maybe I could share a room."
"Afraid not. I don't have any other young women staying with me right now, and even if I did, most people don't like to share."
"Anybody leaving soon?"
"Not likely. You see, I don't have what you call transients here. Most of my people have been with me for quite a while. Now, Mrs. Moskowitz, she's been here close to five years, Mr. Pasco the same, and the Roveres maybe four. Poor Mr. Teague has been here the longest." She lowered her voice. "He's an invalid, can't move around." Her voice shifted up. "Then there's Mr. Krill, about a year, and Mr. Ramirez, six months or so." She lowered her voice again. "Mr. Ramirez, he's Cuban, but he's one of the good ones." She showed the palms of her hands. "So you see, there's nothing I can do for you."
"If it's a question of money-something extra?"
"I'm sorry." A firm shake of the head. "You'll have to try somewhere else."
"I was counting on this place."
"There are plenty of others. There's nothing special about the Southern Manor."
You got that right, thought Snake. What do I do now, pitch a tent in the street? The time frame starts tomorrow.
The front doorbell rang, and the landlady went to answer it. Snake caught a glimpse of a heavy-set woman standing on the porch. Mrs. Costigan said, "Morning, Ellen, right on time."
"You know me, like clockwork," said the woman. "How about this weather?"
"Pressure cooker."
"And it's gonna get worse." The woman came in, and disappeared down a hallway.
"Ellen Coombs, county nurse," Mrs. Costigan explained to Snake. "Comes by every day to see to Mr. Teague."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing wrong with the man except he's got the disposition of a junkyard dog. Believe me, I know, I was a nurse once, myself. And not any country nurse, either. I was an R.N. in a hospital, Buffalo General up north. Trained at St. Mary's."
Snake tried to look admiring. "If there's nothing wrong with him, why does he need a nurse?"
"It's just that he can't move around anymore, bedbound they call it. Stays in his room all day and all night. Ellen comes by to make sure he's clean and cared for. I could do it myself, but my nursing days are over.
"Sounds like he belongs in a nursing home."
"That's what they say, but he won't have it. Stubborn old goat, he says this is his home, and this is where he stays." She added proudly. "That's what I mean about my people. Real loyal."
"Bertha?" The nurse poked her head out of the hallway. "I have to shift his bed today. Can you get someone to give me a hand?"
"Hold on for a minute." The nurse's head vanished, and Mrs. Costigan said with quiet contempt, "County people. That woman doesn't know what real nursing is. Can't even move a bed by herself."
"Can I help?" asked Snake.
"Bless you, no. I'll get Barney." She went to the foot of the stairs, and called up, "Barney? Barney, you up there? Ellen needs some help."
There was the sound of a door opening, and a voice called, "Be right there."
A young man came scampering down the stairs. He wore only shorts and sandals. His torso was a muscular V, and his skin glistened. He looked as if he worked out daily. When he saw Snake, he flashed a smile at her. To Mrs. Costigan, he said, "What's up, Mom?"
"Ellen needs a hand with Mr. Teague. Would you mind?"
"Sure thing." He looked at Snake with interest. "Hi, you just visiting, or are you moving in?"
"I wanted to move in, but there's no room."
"I told her," said Mrs. Costigan. "I'd be pleased to have her, but there you are."
"Too bad." Krill was still showing teeth. "You'd be an adornment around here."
Mrs. Cotigan said, "Barney?"
"Right." He winked at Snake. "This place would fall apart without me." He went down the hall.
"Always willing to help," said Mrs. Costigan. "Not like some these days."
"Your son?"
"Lord, no, that's Barney Krill, one of the roomers. He just calls me Mom, that's his way. Well, if there's nothing else I can do for you…" Her voice trailed off, waiting.
Snake nodded, and said goodby. She went out on the porch and stood there, trying to figure her next move. The door opened behind her, and Barney came out. He stood next to her. He was cat-quick in the way that he moved.
"That didn't take long," said Snake.
"Just a bed to shift. I wanted to catch you before you left."
"Why?"
"Why not? Pretty girl like you."
Snake stared at him.
"Well, you know… I thought I could give you a hand, help you find a place. I know most of the cheap places, and if you came here you must be looking for cheap."
He looked down at her confidently, the smile still fixed on his face. The flesh along his pectorals jumped.
Snake said, "You flex them like that, you might break one."
"No problem, I've got spares. Listen, why don't we go get a drink, or something, and then we can find you that room."
"A drink at ten in the morning?"
"Okay, coffee."
Snake looked at him, considering the idea. He was obnoxious. His smile was insincere, and his flattery was clumsy, but there was the off chance that he might turn out to be useful. She was still debating with herself, when he said, "A penny for your thoughts."
"No, thanks." She reached into a pocket, and came up with some coins. She found a penny, and handed it to him. "That's my line. A penny for yours."
"Huh?"
She jumped into his head. She rummaged around, working her way past the blatant sexuality and self-esteem. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew it at once when she found it. She almost laughed, and when she came out of his head, she was smiling. She didn't smile often, but when she did she could light up a room.
Krill thought the smile was for him, and his own smile rose to his eyes. "Let's go," he said. "There's a place down the street for coffee."
Snake shook her head. She was still smiling. "No thanks. I don't think I'll have any trouble finding a room."
"Might not be so easy."
"I'll manage."
The smile disappeared. "Suit yourself."
"I always do."
She went down the steps to her car, leaving him to stare at her back. She drove around until she found a telephone. She called Sammy at the Center, and told him what she needed.
"He calls himself Barney Krill, but his real name is Barry Kagen," she said. "He's wanted in Akron, two counts of grand theft auto."
Sammy said, "So what?"
"So I want you to pull a wire in Akron, get the police there to call the county people down here. I want this guy picked up by tomorrow morning, the latest."
"You sound sore. What the hell did he do to you?"
"Not a damn thing. I just want his room."
Late the next night, installed as the newest roomer at the Southern Manor, Snake sat by herself on the sagging porch in a rickety glider, rocking back and forth as she went over the events of the day just past. It was a dark night, the street was unlit, and the only light on the porch came from a single yellow bulb. The air was light now, almost pleasant. The inside of the house was quiet with the silence of sleep, and the only outside noises came from insects, from a yapping dog, and from the faint rumble of trucks along the interstate, half a mile away. It was a time for reflection, and, under different circumstances, it would have been time for a daily report. But there wouldn't be any daily reports on a job like this, only a final summary at the end of the time frame. Still, she formed the report in her mind as she rocked back and forth.
Sammy:
Thanks for pulling the wire in Akron. The state police picked up Kagan, aka Barney Krill, about ten this morning. I was parked across the street, and saw them take him. I waited a decent interval, then went into the house and found Mrs. Costigan collapsed in a blubbering heap. Just couldn't believe that sweet, friendly Barney was a car thief. I told her that the world is filled with evil, and asked if I could have his room. She brightened up when she realized that she wasn't going to lose even one day's rent. She practically fell all over me. I made sure she changed the sheets.
Once I was inside, my first job was to check the physical layout for fire risk. What I found was part good, and part bad. First, the bad.
The building is stucco, which doesn't burn easily, but there is enough of a frame construction involved to make the place flammable. Just about anything will burn if you crank the temperature high enough, and the way that the professional torches are using accelerants these days, the house could go up in a flash. Am I assuming that Gemstone is a torch? I think I have to. Ogden picked him (her) specifically for this job, and I can't get it out of my mind that his instructions to him (her) referred to a burning villa in Nam, and the smile on his (her) lips when he (she) smelled the burning rose bushes. So I have to figure Gemstone for a pro who will know how to use an accelerant, maybe gasoline and maybe something more sophisticated, and probably placed at the bottom of the stairwell to create the maximum draft. So that's my key area of observation, but I can't defend it twenty-four hours a day, and that's the bad part.
Here's the good. Almost nobody parks on the streets here. Cars are kept in driveways or carports, and, in the case of the Southern Manor, in a small area around at the side of the house. This means that I have a clear field of observation for any strange vehicles entering the street or parking there.
Also good. The house is filled with smoke alarms, well placed, and all functioning if those little red lights mean what they say.
Even better. About fifteen years ago a local ordinance was passed here that requires all hotels, nursing homes, and rooming houses to install a direct-wire alarm to the nearest fire station. The alarm here is in the parlor, a red button behind a glass panel. Break the glass, push the button, and the alarm is transmitted over the wire. A number pops up on the dispatcher's board, and he knows where to send the equipment. No delay in dialing 911, or anything else like that. If I need the troops, I can have them here in minutes.
So that's the physical situation. I figure to keep an all-night watch during the time frame, and grab whatever sleep I can during the day. When the job is over, you and I will take about a week off.
After I checked the physical layout, I spent the rest of the day tapping the residents of the Southern Manor. I realize how unlikely it is that Gemstone is one of them, but it had to be done, and how I wish I could have skipped it. Sammy, you and I both know how much like a sewer the human mind can be, which is why every ace I know avoids tapping heads unless it's for business. Or, of course, for love. Okay, sex. But not casually, not for the fun of seeing what someone is thinking, because it isn't worth it. Too much like diving for pearls in a cesspool. But today it was business, and it had to be done. First I checked out the two hired girls who help around the house, nothing there, and then
I went to work on the residents. Sammy, you've got to see this collection yourself to believe it. So far I've got myself one pussycat, a piano-playing psychopath, an elderly grifter, a pair of thieves, and a woman who iced her husband. I tell you, Barney Krill is an angel compared to some of these people. I haven't gotten to Mr. Ramirez yet. He's the Cuban, he's off somewhere in the barrio today, and considering what I've found so far, I can hardly wait to meet him.
Mike Teague is the pussycat, and no matter what Mrs. Costigan says, he really is bedridden. He lies there all day, and his head is filled with memories of punching bags and boxing gloves, the smell of liniment and sweat, and the thud of flesh hitting flesh. Mike was an athletic trainer all his active life, first with teams, then with fighters, and the walls of his room are covered with photos of the people he calls "my boys." Ballplayers of every sort, coaches, managers, but mostly boxers. Mike is one of those people who never met an athlete he didn't like, he's incapable of malice, or envy, or greed. He spends his time writing postcards to his boys, a dozen a day, and he gets that many in return. He never forgets a name or a face, and he can tell you in graphic detail what Willy Pep did to one of his boys that night in Cleveland back in Forty-seven. Sure, he's short-tempered and grouchy, who wouldn't be, tied to a bed that way, but he isn't any junkyard dog. He's a pussycat, and he certainly isn't Gemstone.
I tapped Jeremy Pasco next. He's a slim little guy, about twenty-five, with dark hair that he slicks back, and a mustache that's hardly worth mentioning. Pasco comes from Dallas, but he hasn't been back there in years. He makes a living playing cocktail piano six nights a week at the Flamingo Lounge on Third Street, and he spends most of his days at the track. He's a loser in more ways than one. The ponies don't love him, and the way he sees it, the rest of the world is down on him, too. You know the type. Nobody appreciates him, nobody recognizes his talent, nobody ever gives him a break, and every time he stubs his toe it's because some son of a bitch put a rock in the road. He once had ambitions as a concert pianist, but that's only a dream now. He's past it, he hasn't practiced seriously in years, and he's going to spend the rest of his life playing "Misty" and "Stardust" to the same old bunch of drunks. But there was a time when it could have happened, until somebody put that stone in the road. The guy with the stone was his younger brother, David.
Jeremy and David Pasco were born two years apart, the only children of two musicians. Papa Pasco was a violinist with the Dallas Symphony, Mama taught piano at home, and their boys were raised in a world of music. Both kids were introduced to the piano at an early age, and both took to it with a natural ease. They were good, everyone said so, and by the time that both were in their teens, people were predicting brilliant futures for them. If it had been a horse race, Jeremy would have been the favorite. At that stage in their development, his playing was the more considered, the more sensitive, and his technique was more advanced than his brother's. He was on the way up, and the first rung on the ladder was the All-Texas Youth Competition. Winning the All-Texas would open the right doors, and for two years Jeremy worked with the competition as his goal. He was nineteen when his parents thought he was ready. They entered him and, almost as an afterthought, they entered David, too. They expected little from the younger brother, but they thought that the experience would be valuable for him. Jeremy was the rising star.
It didn't work that way. At nineteen, Jeremy had progressed as far as he ever would, while David had matured into an accomplished artist. Both brothers made it into the final round, but David was the winner, and Jeremy finished out of the money. When the decision was announced, Jeremy threw his arms around his brother and hugged him exuberantly, grinning broadly as if he, himself, had won. It was a family triumph, he told his parents, and hugged his brother again.
The Pasco family went to bed late that night after a champagne supper. Jeremy sat up in his room and waited until he was sure that the others were asleep. He knew exactly what he was going to do. At two in the morning he packed a small bag, looked around his room, and said goodby to his childhood. Then he went down to the parlor, found his mother's sewing box, and took her pinking shears. He went up to his brother's room. David lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring. Jeremy put his pinking shears around his brother's right index finger, and paused. David did not move. Jeremy squeezed. He was surprised at how easily the shears cut through flesh and bone. He cut off David's finger at the second joint, severing it completely. He grabbed his bag, and ran. He went out of the house and down the street with the screaming in his ears. He did not look back. Not then, not ever.
He's been pounding the piano at places like the Flamingo Lounge ever since, and he still feels that he got a bad break. That's Jeremy Pasco. He isn't much, but he isn't Gemstone, either.
Clara Moskowitz is an eighty-five-year-old flim-flam artist who scores off susceptible elderly widowers, a first cousin to the octogenarian lady sharks who cruise Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Clara prefers to work the provinces, and she does well at it. Nothing spectacular, not a fortune, but every so often she'll meet some poor sap who was married to one woman for fifty years, and who, now that she's gone, does not know how to make it on his own. Clara shows him how. Nothing physical, not at her age or his, just a little hand-holding, lots of sympathy, a commanding presence, and before el sappo knows it, Clara has taken over his life, his checkbook, and his CMA account at Merrill Lynch. Unlike her Miami cousins, she never marries the mark. She's already buried three husbands, and she can't take the strain of those funerals anymore. She just turns the sap upside down, and when there's nothing left to shake loose she sends him back to South Dakota, or Wisconsin, or wherever to live off the reluctant generosity of his children. The way Clara sees it, she gives value for the money, and there must be something to it, because no one has ever filed a complaint. She's a neat little piece of work, our Clara, but she isn't Gemstone.
Then there's Mr. and Mrs. Rovere. Paul and Patsy are in their late fifties, and the story they give out is that Paul took an early retirement from his job back in Kingston, New York. Dicey heart, a small pension, but they manage with it. Breakfast at The Clock, lunch at Denny's, the early-bird special at the Fisherman's Net, sit on the porch in the evenings and rock away the hours. It isn't a bad story, and they actually do come from Kingston, but their name wasn't Rovere then. It was something quite different back home where they were pillars of the Dutch Reformed Church, and Paul was the chairman of the building fund. Yeah, you got it. His retirement began the day he cleaned out the fund, and they headed south. He got away with something just short of 200K, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it isn't working out. They had just enough brains to steal the money, but not enough to know what to do with it. Instead of putting it to work, they've been nibbling away at it for the past four years, and it's almost gone. They don't sleep well. They lie in bed with the covers over their heads, wondering which will come first, the law, or the day when there won't be enough left for the early-bird special at the Fisherman's Net. They're pathetic people, but neither of them is Gemstone.
The last one I tapped was Bertha Costigan, and I peeled that woman's mind like an onion. On the surface I found a placid, kindly widow whose life revolved around her rooming house and the people who live there. On the next layer down I found that she's had a lifelong love affair with the state of Florida, not the drab place where she lives, but the fantasy Florida of the travel brochures and the television commercials, the white beaches and the emerald water, the orange groves and Disney World. Under that I found a deep pride in her former profession; years ago in Buffalo, New York, she was a well-respected nurse. Buffalo, that was the next layer down, and when I reached it, it almost froze me stiff. Buffalo, with its snow, and ice, and freezing winds; and on that level of Bertha's mind I found a reservoir of hate. She hates Buffalo, she hates the cold weather, and she hates the years that she spent there. That time includes the years of her marriage, and she hates her husband, too. Late husband. She hated him when he was still alive, and even though he's been dead for twenty years, she hates him still. In her mind he comes across as an inconsiderate, domineering son of a bitch, but for Bertha the worst of his sins is that he never moved her to Florida. Harry was an actuary with the Metropolitan Life, and when they first were married she told him how much she despised the cold, and sleet, and snow that battered Buffalo every winter. She begged him to get her out of there, and he promised that he would. He promised her the Florida of her dreams, and that was the part she could never forgive, for he never delivered. The years went by, and every year there was another reason why they couldn't move south. There was Harry's job, there was his ailing mother, there was the cost of moving. Each year he came up with something else-once he actually announced that he was allergic to oranges-and after a while it was clear to Bertha that Harry wasn't going anywhere. She knew now that he had never intended to fulfill her dream, and that for as long as he lived she would be stuck in Buffalo.
So she killed him, and moved south with the insurance money.
Sammy, I'm not kidding, she really did. She doesn't know that she did it, or rather, she knows, but she's buried it so deep that it's gone from her conscious mind. I swear, I had to go down eleven layers before I found it, but there it was, tinkling like a lonesome bell.
… Treviton every three hours… Treviton every three hours… Treviton every three hours…
Do you see it? Husband Harry has a massive heart attack, and once he's off the critical list they send him home from the hospital because, what the hell, his wife is a registered nurse, and she can take care of him. Bed rest, TLC, no excitement, and Treviton every three hours. She's administered Treviton to more cardiac patients than she can remember, there's nothing difficult about it for her, and for the first four days she keeps to the routine. Never occurs to her not to. But this is Buffalo in February, and on the fifth night the wind comes sweeping up the lake, and the Grey Goose Express unloads three feet of snow on the city. That does it. The next time that Harry is due for his dosage, she goes into his room and looks out the window. The streets are blanketed, the snow is coming down in curtains, and she can almost feel the freezing winds that are blowing outside. She looks down at the Treviton on the tray beside the bed, she looks down at Harry asleep there, she looks outside at the snow again, and without allowing herself to think about what she is doing she picks up the tray and walks out of the room without administering the medication. It's as simple as that. She sits up all night in the kitchen drinking coffee and listening to the whistle of the winds outside. The hours go by, three, and six, and nine, but she never leaves the kitchen. She never goes back to the bedroom. It's a long night, just long enough, and Harry checks out just before dawn.
That was twenty years ago, and, as I said, she doesn't remember it that way. Talk about suppression, she's got it buried so deep that it would take a shrink with a degree in civil engineering to blast it loose. When she thinks about it at all, she remembers that she nursed poor old Harry round the clock, never left his side, but his heart just gave out. Snap of the fingers, quick like that. She did her best, but it wasn't enough. It was God's will, and who could blame her if she chose to move away from the scene of such sorrow? That's the way she recalls it, and she really believes it.
Are you ready for the cream of the jest? Harry the actuary, Harry the Met Life guy, Harry the conservative one, had only about half the life insurance coverage that she thought he had. Through all the years of their marriage he had denied her the Florida of her dreams, and he did it again from the grave. There wasn't nearly enough for the white beaches and the emerald waters; there was hardly enough for the hard-scrabble sands of Glen Grove, and a rooming house to give her an income as she grew older. Isn't it enough to make you weep for the old gal? Yeah, me too. But whatever you think of Bertha Costigan, she isn't Gemstone.
That leaves Julio Ramirez, the only one I haven't met. From what I can gather, he's a slim, dark, well-mannered guy in his thirties who scrapes together a living as some sort of an entertainer in the Cuban community here. Of course, the barrio here isn't anywhere as big as what you find further south, but…
Snake stiffened, and braced herself to stop the rocking of the glider as a car turned the corner and came into the street. She got to her feet, and moved quickly out of the light and into the shadows at the end of the porch. The car slowed as it neared the house, and she tensed, ready to move again. It was a jump to the front door, and three quick steps to the alarm. The car turned into the parking area near the house. The headlights went out, the motor went off, and a door slammed. She heard footsteps on the gravel, on the stairs, and a man walked onto the porch. He was also in shadow. He stopped, looked around, and said cautiously, "Is there someone here?"
"I'm sorry," said Snake. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Where are you?"
"At the end of the porch." She stayed in the shadows.
"What are you doing here?"
"Who wants to know?"
The man laughed softly. "Take it easy, I didn't mean it that way."
"I'm new here. I moved in this morning."
"I see. I live here, too. I'm Julio Ramirez. And you?"
"Claudia." She tried to make out his face, but the shadows covered him.
"Welcome to the Southern Manor, Claudia. Will you be staying here long?"
"Maybe. Who knows?"
"You probably won't. Nothing happens here, nothing exciting."
"Did I say that I was looking for excitement?"
He laughed again. "No, you didn't. Goodnight." He turned to go inside.
"Goodnight."
His back was to her. He was the last one, and she decided to tap him on the spot. One quick sweep of his head was all that she needed. She tapped, but nothing happened. She frowned, and tapped again. Still nothing. She tapped a third time, but it was like banging against a wall. She couldn't get in. He had a block up, a mental barricade that no normal person could have erected. Only an ace could have done it.
He wheeled around to face her. Head-to-head, he said, Who the hell are you?
You felt it?
Of course I felt it. You hit me like a sledgehammer.
And you brushed it off like a feather. You're good.
I used to be.
Do we talk?
If you wish.
Walk into the light.
They both moved at the same time, and stood facing each other under the porch light. They stared at each other. Snake saw a lean, dark-haired man with smooth olive skin and a thin mustache. Her eyes widened. So did his.
Snake.
Rafael.
The moment hung on tip-toes, and then they had their arms around each other. They kissed. He cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her again. They both grinned broadly. They both were close to tears. Snake stepped back.
"I don't believe this," she said. "What are you doing here?"
He looked dazed. "How did you find me?"
"I didn't. I mean, I wasn't looking for you."
"Then why…?"
She shook her head. "You look older."
"How kind of you to say so. You don't."
"Who's Julio Ramirez?" She had known him as Rafael Canero.
He shrugged. "Just a name."
"What do I call you?"
"Make it Julio, I'm used to it. When you said Claudia-I always thought of you as Snake."
She put her hands on his shoulders, and stood back. "Let me look at you."
She looked long and hard at the man who once, for a brief time, had been her lover. In those days, Rafael Canero had been an ace in the employ of the Dirección General de Inteligencia, the Cuban version of the CIA-how long ago? Six years back, she figured, at the United Nations when he had been attached to the Cuban mission, and she to the American. His cover job had been as the commercial attaché, and hers had been as a translator, but both had done what all sensitives do. They were snoops.
They had been lovers for three months, and it had been a time of desperate loving, for by the rules of the topsy-turvy world in which they lived they were forbidden to know one another. They were on opposite sides of the political fence, security risks if they exchanged so much as a word, but they had managed. As sensitives, they had their own ways, and it had started during one of those slam-bang cocktail hours in the North Delegates' Lounge where drinks were still a dollar apiece and the place was packed every night with all ranks and all nations. Doing it the way aces did it, head-to-head from opposite ends of the bar with the crowd in between unaware of what was going on.
Hey, you down there in the blue dress and the pretty eyes-yeah, you, the Yankee ace-you read me?
It isn't blue, it's aqua, and which one are you?
The good-looking guy in the grey pinstripe suit.
From here I can see four grey suits, and none of the guys inside them look all that great.
You got to be kidding. Look, I'm raising my glass now.
Oh sure, the Cuban.
You know me?
I've seen you around. What's on your mind?
I could get arrested for what's on my mind.
Save it for your dreams.
No, I mean really arrested, because what I got on my mind is to come down to your end of the bar, say hello, maybe buy you a drink, but if I do that we're both in trouble. A Cuban and a Yankee, both aces, not so good.
My people wouldn't be happy.
Neither would mine. Bright lights and lots of questions, you know?
I know.
So I was thinking… you got a keeper?
No, we don't work it that way.
You're lucky. I've got a keeper, but he doesn't have the brains that God gives to goats. I can lose him easy if I want to.
Now why would you want to do that?
Come on, what do you say?
It's risky.
What isn't?
Plenty of things. Watching television. Washing my hair. Things like that.
Sure, if you play by the rules then nothing's risky. You always play by the rules?
That did it. Where and when?
You know Woody's on Third Avenue?
Sure.
Half an hour?
I'll be there.
That was the way it began, and from there it had escalated into three months of frantic loving, months of meeting on the sly, drinking in bars that no one knew, using motels in Jersey and Queens. Three months of looking over their shoulders before diving into bed, and then one day it was over. He was ordered back to Havana, and that was the end of it. There was time for a quick farewell, one last night of laughter, and then he was gone. Until now. Now he was here with his arms around her, and the years had dropped away.
She rested her head against his shoulder, and said, "We have some things to talk about."
"We can talk in my room."
"I don't think so. We'd better talk here."
"Oh?" He took his arms away. "Sorry, didn't mean to push."
"It isn't that."
"Then what?"
"I think we have to talk business."
He laughed. "What a Yankee you can be, always business first. You're not exactly overwhelmed by this reunion, are you?"
"More than you think, but we still have to talk. You can start by telling me what a Cuban ace is doing here in Glen Grove."
"Wait here, I'll be right back."
He went into the darkened house, and returned in a moment with two cold bottles of San Miguel beer. He gave one to Snake.
"Mrs. Costigan keeps a few bottles in the refrigerator for me," he explained. "She thinks it helps to remind me of home. Actually, it's made in Tampa and it tastes like Bud, but I drink it. It makes the old lady happy."
Snake took a sip. "You haven't answered my question."
"I don't see that I'm obliged to."
"You're not, but I'm hoping that you will."
"For old times sake? You're here on a job, aren't you?"
"Of course, and I assume that you are, too."
"As a matter of fact, I'm not."
"Oh sure, you just decided to take your vacation in Florida this year."
"It's simpler than that. I don't work for anyone anymore. Not the DGI, not anyone. I'm retired."
Snake said flatly, "You wouldn't kid an old lover, would you? No ace ever retires. My people don't allow it, and neither do yours. No agency allows it."
"Who said I asked permission?"
"You mean you came over?" She knew that could not be. If he had defected to the Agency, she would have known about it.
"You're not listening to me. I said I was out of the business."
"Do you mind if I tell you that you're a lousy liar?"
"I don't mind at all," he said cheerfully, "but it's true. Do you want me to prove it?"
"How?"
"I'll open up long enough for you to take a look. Just long enough. You can see for yourself. Do you want that?"
She was suddenly unsure. "If you do."
"Go ahead. I have nothing to hide anymore."
He opened up. She went in and saw that he was telling the truth. She came out quickly. He slammed the gates.
"You saw?" he asked.
"Yes. It's still hard to believe, but I saw. I'm sorry, it didn't seem possible. When did you…?"
"About five years ago."
"What happened?"
"It's a long story."
"I'm not in any hurry. Is there any more beer?"
"Enough."
"Then go ahead." She moved to the glider, and sat with her legs tucked under her. "Tell me all about it."
He leaned against the porch railing, and grinned so broadly that his teeth gleamed in the night. "All right, you asked for it."