“You’re my kind a guy,” Tommy said. “What’ll you have? It’s on the house.”
The barman placed the beer in front of him. “This’s fine,” Vincent said. “I never drink hard stuff till the evening or I’m finished work.”
“I don’t either,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll have one with you.” He looked at the barman who moved off to draw another. “You have to be careful, especially mixing business with pleasure here. On the one hand I have to socialize. On the other I have to know what’s going on. You understand my position.”
Vincent said, “Are you the Tommy Donovan?”
“Well, I’m the only one around here, anyway.”
“You own the place.”
“I work at it.”
“Behind the bar?”
“I know what’s going on in every area of this operation. To me, the bar is as important as the casino. I don’t want to see any skimping on drinks or indifference to patrons. Eddie here”-the barman placed a draft beer in front of Tommy-“we were just discussing different kinds of drinks, seeing if we could come up with a new one, something unusual.”
“It must be interesting work,” Vincent said, “running a place like this.”
“Well, it keeps you out of trouble.” Tommy drank off part of his beer and touched a napkin to his mouth. “You just come in?”
“No, I’m checking out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’d you do?”
“Not bad. I got what I came for.” Vincent raised the canvas bag, placed it on the bar and zipped it open. “Take a look.”
Tommy leaned close in the timeless semidark. He said, “Jesus Christ, I hope you didn’t win all that here. On the other hand if you did, well, that’s how it goes. How much you win?”
“Twelve grand.”
“Well, yeah, you know I thought you looked familiar.”
“You comped me,” Vincent said.
“Sure, I remember. You were pointed out to me.”
“I’m on my way now to San Juan. Try my luck there.”
“Well, hey, you’re gonna stay at Spade’s, aren’t you? I insist. Sure, we’ll comp you exactly the same as you got here. It’s on the computer, we just punch it down there.” Tommy grinned. “Give us a chance to get even. Yeah, your face is very familiar, I just haven’t been able to put a name to it.”
“Vincent Mora.”
Tommy began to nod. “That’s right, sure. Mora, you came down from Boston, didn’t you?”
“I came up from Miami.”
“Yeah Miami. Listen, I got a tell you, I have a little trouble with names, Vinnie. But faces, I never forget a face. Actually, once I have a drink with a guest I never forget his name either. Next time I see you I’ll know. Vinnie Mora, from Boston.”
Tommy, Jackie, Ricky, Teddy, Eddie… Vinnie. It was time to get out of here. Vincent finished his beer, offered his hand. “It was a pleasure, Tommy.” He stared away from the bar and looked back. “Hey, and say hi to your wife for me.”
Vincent left him standing there.
He eased down to sit on the edge of the bed, not wanting to wake her, not yet; but saw her eyes open in the moment before he kissed her and felt her arms come around him and strain to hold him, keep him here. Linda said, “I’m not going to let you go.”
“Come with me.” Raising up on his arms to look at her.
She didn’t say anything. Their eyes held in the dim light, the bedroom draperies closed, her eyes changing now. It wasn’t the look he wanted to take with him. There were good ones he already had stored away. This one was solemn, almost sad; it meant she cared about him, but it was not the one he would look at when he thought of her. He said, “I wouldn’t ask you to leave your job.”
“My gig.” Trying to smile.
“Chiquita Banana. You are some entertainer.”
She said, “I don’t have a name for you, not yet. But I’ll think of one.” She said, “You have to go, don’t you?”
“DeLeon’s putting Teddy in the car, the limo. You might as well use mine as long as you’re here. It’s on a card and I’m rich. Right? The keys are on the desk… They’ll probably ask you to leave…”
“I’ll get a place. Don’t worry.” Looking at him with sad eyes again. She said, “Vincent?” and hesitated.
“What?”
“Is it going to work? What you’re doing?”
He felt she was going to say something else and changed her mind. “It has to. I don’t see any other way.”
She said, “Vincent?”
Her hands moved over his shoulders, bringing him to her. They held onto each other as long as they could, until he whispered to her, “I have to go.”
She missed him with the sound of the door closing, in the silence now. She saw him in darkness in his white jockeys holding the gun upright against his shoulder and saw him-looking out the window of Room 310 of the Holmhurst-in the street light, out in the cold mist in his skivvies. He had never told her what the man coming out of the hotel said, the drunk, seeing him like that. They had made love. A man fired shots into their room and they made love after, under the covers, the room cold because of the broken window. He had not told her what the man said and there were things she hadn’t told him. They should have told each other things. Maybe they didn’t have to, but there were things that were good to hear. She got up and went into the living room.
The car keys were on the desk, lying on a hotel envelope addressed to CHIQUITA. Inside were twenty one-hundred dollar bills and a note that said:
Dear Chiquita,
This is scale, the going rate for getting shot at and being part of all this. I hope it is only the first part and we will have a lot more parts to come, but I have to leave it up to you. I’ll be at Spade’s Isla Verde. Maybe even comped.
Vincent the Avenger
Vincent came off the elevator, hesitated and turned left toward the casino instead of the other way, into the lobby. Twelve-thirty in the afternoon the room was alive with players, with flashing lights and bells going off. He was beginning to feel at home here. He dropped a quarter into the first free slot machine he came to and pulled down on the handle. The drum, illustrated with bars, cherries, bells and oranges, rolled, jolted to a stop. Nothing. He dropped in another quarter, pulled the handle down, watched the drum spin and stop. Silence. He slipped his last quarter into the machine, yanked on the handle and walked away, indifferent, but ready to hunch his shoulders against the sound of clanging coins, jackpot bells…
Well, there were all kinds of ways to gamble in San Juan.
MODESTA MANOSDUROS, ISIDRO’S WIFE, told them she could describe the man, yes, and identify him if she saw him. An American with light hair, a narrow nose, skin so pale you could see his bones and the color of his veins… They told her to wait please, not yet. They brought her into the dark end of a room where five men stood at the other end with lights shining on them. They asked her if she saw the man she believed had been with her husband. She said, yes, that one, and pointed to Teddy Magyk. They dismissed the five men and asked her where she had seen this man before.
“I never saw him the way you think,” Modesta said.
The policemen looked at each other. “Then how can you identify him?”
“I don’t see him with my eyes.” She touched her forehead with one finger. “I see him here.”
They brought her into another room, an office, asked her to please sit down and showed her a photograph.
“My husband when he visited El Yunque with the American.”
“Have you seen this picture before?”
“No, never.”
“How do you know this is El Yunque?”
“I know El Yunque.”
“Did you know your husband was going there with the man you identified?”
“I know he did,” the woman said, “because this is my husband and this is El Yunque.”
The policemen looked at each other again. They asked her to remain seated in a chair that was uncomfortable and gave her coffee that was weak, like water. After talking to them for more than an hour, repeating everything Isidro had said to her about the man who was his prize, she was hungry and told them she wanted to go home.