Money Men (12 page)

Red remembered how the high rollers all had their tongues hanging out when she swished between the crap tables with trays of drinks, and the legs of a fashion model.

Though she could have had anyone she wanted at that time, it was he who had ended up at the Chapel of Dreams saying vows, with a young Tony Dio as best man. It was in the frenetic days of casino credit, room service, and quick, solid scores; his partner, Tony Dio, bringing in the suckers from Atlanta and Chicago to buy stock, land, and gold that didn't exist.

Mona flitted along the counter, filling cups again from a steaming glass pot. She was making her best thin-lipped smile.

Red rolled up the Caddy's windows and concentrated for a moment on relaxing, then tightening, his stomach
muscles. It
was his own device for trying to calm nervous intestines.

He got out of the car and walked across the street to the coffee shop. With a deep breath for sphincter control, he swung open the glass door and walked in. He took a seat at Mona's section of the counter.

Her back to him, she arranged plastic-wrapped crackers around a bowl of soup. Knowing her temper, he would not be surprised if she saw him and slammed the soup and crackers directly in his face. That's the way she was: quiet, almost docile until anger flamed. Once, in the parking lot of the Stardust Casino she almost scratched a would-be mugger's eyes out. "Cherokee Indian blood," she always said.

"Hi, Mona," he said in the softest tone he could muster.

She turned and frowned at him as if she had known he was there. She placed the soup bowl in front of a black man wearing a gas-station uniform farther down the counter. Then she picked up silverware and a napkin from a box and placed them in front of Red.

"I thought I'd just stop by, now that I'm out," he said.

Mona took a pencil and order book from her skirt pocket. "I heard you were out. May I take your order?" She leaned on one foot.

"After all this time you don't have to be so hostile," he said.

"What do you want?"

"I just thought we could talk."

"About what?" Mona snarled. She glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "One of your
big
ideas
that everyone else ends up paying for?" Tomahawk eyes.

"I'll take a cup of coffee," Red said.

She served the coffee and kept busy with other customers as he drank it. His guts felt mushy. He restrained the bathroom urge.

"What time do you get off?" he said as Mona flashed by with a pie à la mode.

"Eleven," she mumbled without looking at him.

He sat for a half hour fiddling with cream, sugar, and spoon. Finally she returned.

As she made out the check for the coffee, Red spoke in his best bedside manner. "I want to talk to you about something important. It'll just take a couple minutes. Can I meet you out in front when you get off work?"

"Wait out in front," she said without looking up, and handed him the check.

Outside in the Caddy, Red looked at his watch over and over again. He knew he couldn't expect wonders. After all, it had been five years. But looking at it realistically, the foot was in the door, and the first step was always the hardest. It wasn't as if he hadn't conquered her once, tamed her hot little ass and made her legs stick straight up in the air when they screwed. The facts as they stood were that she
had
agreed to meet him. He stuck his hand down in his pants and adjusted his genitals.

At 11:00 he broke into a sweat. He knew once she was in the car it would be easy to talk her into joining him for a drink, and with good ol' Mona, liquor was always quicker. At 11: 15 he wondered if his watch was slow.

He walked back inside the coffee shop and spoke with a young waitress. "Mona? She just got off a few minutes ago. Went home." She pointed. "Left out the back door. She always goes out that way."

Red barely made it to the men's room.

It was after 9:00 P.m. when Carr arrived at his apartment. The one-bedroom place was generally in order. It contained a sofa, TV, kitchen table and chairs, and not much else. Affordable apartments near the beach were small.

In the bedroom, he took the gun and handcuffs off his belt and laid them in a dresser drawer. The framed picture on the dresser was of his mother and father in front of the old frame house in Boyle Heights where he had grown up. The picture was the only one he had framed. The others, of him and his army buddies, police buddies, agent buddies, mugging around beer-bottled tables, were stuffed away somewhere along with the yearly pistol-marksmanship plaques.

The furniture and carpet had the musty smell that things near the beach get; and the brick-and-planks bookcase in the living room (James Jones, a few spy novels and law-of-evidence books) was visibly dusty. As Sally said, "The whole place could use a thorough and complete cleaning."

The phone rang. It was Sally.

"How about dinner along the strand somewhere?" she said. He could tell she had been drinking.

"Sure."

"Let's ride," she said.

They leaned their bikes against a front window of the restaurant. The foot-high Cyrillic-style letters on the window read PRINCE NIKOLA OF SERBIA-YUGOSIAV FOOD.

Attached to the front door was an almost life-size photo of a tall muscular man wearing wrestler's trunks and a metal-studded championship belt. He was flexing his arms and, with the exception of heavy Slavic eyebrows, was completely bald.

They went in. The tables were filled with tanned beach types. Blonde, stringy-haired young women and frizzy-haired men, all wearing garish T-shirts and sports pants.

From behind a small wine bar in the corner, Prince Nikola of Serbia, wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and white trousers, waved them to a table. He rushed over with menus and a bottle of wine. His accent was heavy. "Sarma-stuffed cabbage-is only thing left that's any good. I tell you truth, Charlie." He poured wine into two glasses.

"Sounds okay to me, Nick," Carr said.

Sally nodded agreement. She picked up the wineglass and drank fully half of its contents.

"Did you read in the newspaper about the man on trial for raping his wife? The judge was talking about it. A landmark prosecution." She swished her wine and sipped.

Carr nodded.

"I hope he gets convicted," she said.

"Uh-huh."

"What do you think about it?" She looked at the ceiling.

"About what?"

"About whether a man can be charged with raping his wife."

Carr looked out the window. "I guess maybe he could be charged with stealing his own car, too. Or with indecent exposure when he gets out of the shower."

Sally shook her head and pursed her lips. She filled her wineglass.

"I want to talk about us," she said.

"Go ahead." Carr hoped Nick would hurry with the food.

Sally's mouth was set straight. It was the "let off steam" look. "It just seems that things have changed between us. We don't talk any more." She sipped her wine. "Not that you
ever
were the most open person in the world. I'm not trying to start an argument." More wine. "I've talked to a lot of other women in my Wednesday-night sensitivity class who have the same problem. There's this hostility now between men and women. Both are afraid to be taken advantage of. It's not that I want to be married; I was married once. It was too restrictive for me. I just think that our relationship could become closer." Her voice cracked. She took another gulp of wine. "We've known each other for years. We just seem to be drifting. We go to restaurants, you just sort of drop in to my apartment now and then... You're too self-contained. It's almost as if you don't need other people...and you don't relate well to new people."

"That's just the way I am," Carr said.

"I know
how you are. It took me years to understand you. It's because of your background. The army, the police department, then one field office after another as a Treasury agent. All the crap. Your life experiences have made you unable to show emotion."

Prince Nikola of Serbia brought another bottle of wine, winked at Carr, and poured.

"Maybe I should join your sensitivity class. I'm interested in the part where you stand around in a circle and goose the person next to you, or whatever it is they do."

"You haven't understood a word I have said," Sally said. "We are not
relating
to one another right this very minute."

It was more of the same during the meal, Sally picking at her food and drinking wine until her lips had a purplish tinge. By coffee time, she was in the "rut" phase.

"An absolute rut," she said. "You go to the same Thursday-night fights with the same friends. You even go to the same restaurants. The same bars in Chinatown. I mean, do you know how many times we've been to
this very
restaurant?" She was beginning to slur.

"Nick is a friend of mine," he said.

"That's not the damn point!" She slapped an open palm on the table.

Riding back along the dark Santa Monica strand, Sally weaved slightly from side to side and continued to speak. She used the words
need, relate, affection,
and
dialogue
over and over again.

By the time they got to her apartment, she had begun to cry. No sobs, just the usual controlled-anger tears.

Inside, she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and poured wine. Then she sat in the middle of the living-room floor holding her wineglass with both hands.

Carr sat down next to her. He stared at the floor. "There is something serious I've been wanting to say to you for a long time. I just haven't been able to get up enough guts to say it."

Her look was incredulous. She set her wineglass down and put her hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" she said softly.

Carr leaned close to her face, his lips next to her ear. "I'm a sex fiend," he whispered. He stuck his tongue in her ear and wrapped his arms around her.

Sally tried not to giggle as she made a halfhearted attempt to struggle.

"Charlie, stop! You're making fun of me!"

He kissed her lips and reached to unzip her pants.

They made wine-prolonged love on the living-room floor. Afterward, Carr carried the nude and sleepy Sally to her bed. He pulled a cover over her, and she said "I love you" without meeting his eyes.

"I love you, too," Carr mumbled.

He dressed and bicycled back to his apartment.

After showering, he wrote a note and dropped it in the drawer next to his holster and badge. It read:

1. Check mug books.

2. Ballistics report.

3. Autopsy report.

He went to bed.

****

TWELVE

The secretary ushered Red Diamond into a paneled office. The little lawyer sat at a big elevated desk with nothing on it but polish. He stuck out a two-ringed hand and forced a smile.

"Glad to see you out," he said.

"Hi, Max."

Max Waxman's bald head was fish skin stretched tightly over skull, with ear-level black hair falling limply over his collar. He wore thick glasses and a sparse mustache. His tie was white silk. "What can I do for you?"