Cinderella (8 page)

    Her eyes opened wide.

    She saw blood gushing from her throat in a torrent.

    A scream bubbled soundlessly in her mouth.

    In an instant, she was dead.

    Domingo wiped the blade of his knife on her skirt, and then ran his hand up her thigh to her panties. Ernesto watched him and said nothing. He tore the page with Anne Santoro's address and phone number from the address book, and then walked toward the bedroom door.

    
"Vienes?"
he asked.

    Domingo nodded.

    

    

    At ten o'clock on Wednesday morning, Matthew remembered that he had to call Susan about the Father's Day weekend. He did not much feel like making this particular call. On his desk were copies of the two files he had Xeroxed at Otto Samalson's office on Monday. Matthew wanted to read those files more thoroughly than he had yesterday, when he'd only briefly glanced through them. He had asked Cynthia Huellen, the firm's factotum, not to put through any calls. But now he was about to make one. To Susan. Who, on Sunday night, had left his bedroom in a huff.

    Years ago, when there were still some laughs left in their marriage, he and Susan had defined a "huff" as a "small two-wheeled carriage." A person who went off in a huff was therefore a somewhat lower-class individual who could not afford to hire or own a "high dudgeon." A high dudgeon was one of those big old expensive four-wheelers. A person who went off in "high dudgeon" was usually quite well off. A person who was in a "tizzy," however, was truly rich since a tizzy was a luxurious coach drawn by a great team of horses to a stately mansion called "Sixes and Sevens." All at Sixes and Sevens were in a tizzy save for Tempest, the youngest daughter, who was in a "teapot." A teapot was even smaller than a huff, about the size of a cart, but fitted with a striped parasol that… And so it had gone.

    In the days when their marriage was still alive.

    These days, their marriage was as dead as old Aunt Hattie, who had left Sixes and Sevens in a "trice," which was a flat-bedded vehicle used to transport coffins. Dead and gone. Like all things mortal. Which is why he had no burning desire to talk to Susan today. But place the call he did. Dialed the number by heart-used to be
his
number, after all-dialed all seven numerals, and waited. Listened to the ringing on the other end. Waited. Five… six… seven… all at Sixes and Sevens…

    "Hello?"

    Susan's voice.

    "Susan, hi, it's Matthew."

    "Matthew! I was just about to call you!"

    "I wanted to discuss arrangements for the weekend," he said. Business as usual. Forget the foolish hugging and kissing on Sunday. "You do remember it's…?"

    "Father's Day, yes, of course," she said. "But, Matthew, first I want to apologize for Sunday night."

    "There's no need."

    "I'm so ashamed, I could die."

    "Well, really…"

    "That's why I was calling," she said. "To apologize. I'm genuinely sorry, Matthew."

    "So am I," he said, and guessed he meant it.

    "Walking out," she said. "Dumb. Just plain dumb." She hesitated and then said, "Just when it was getting good, too."

    There was a sudden silence on the line.

    Matthew cleared his throat.

    "Uh, Susan," he said, "about the weekend…"

    "Yes, the weekend," Susan said. "Here's what I thought, if it's okay with you. Can you pick her up here at about five on Friday?"

    "Sure, that'll-"

    "And if you have a little time, maybe you can come in for a drink."

    Another silence on the line.

    "Yes, I'd like that," Matthew said.

    "So would I," Susan said.

    "So… Friday at five, right?"

    "Right. See you then. And Matthew…?"

    "Yes?"

    Her voice lowered. "It really
was
getting good."

    There was a small click on the line.

    It sounded like a maiden's blush.

    Smiling, he put the receiver back on the cradle and pulled the first of the two folders to him. Both folders had been labeled here at the office yesterday morning, after he'd given the photocopied pages to Cynthia. Both folders contained Otto's standard contract form, signed by himself and the party or parties hiring him, stapled to which was a two-paragraph rider. The first paragraph stated
why
Otto was being hired, and the second was a disclaimer to the effect that whereas Otto would investigate diligently and in good faith, there was no guarantee, stated or implied, that he would necessarily achieve results. That Otto had felt it essential to add this rider to his basic contract indicated that he'd been burned before and was taking no chances on collecting his fee. Each folder also contained Otto's daily notes on the case, all of them typed clean.

    The first folder was labeled DAVID LARKIN.

    

    

    Whether you approached the place by land or by sea, it didn't make any difference. Either way, you could see the sign announcing Larkin Boats. Big white double-sided sign with ice-blue plastic lettering on each side, Larkin Boats. Biggest retailer of boats in all Calusa, sold them new, sold them used, sold them from dinghies to yachts-Larkin Boats, his TV commercials said. The Way to the Water. The showroom was on the Trail itself, but behind that was a deepwater canal and enough dock space to accommodate fifteen, twenty boats, depending on the size. Bird sanctuary just beyond the canal, and beyond that the Inland Waterway, man wants to take a boat out for a spin, be my guest. Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water.

    Late that Wednesday morning, Larkin was sitting with Jimmy the Accountant on the foredeck of a fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft Constellation, a boat maybe twenty years old but still in terrific shape, could take you clear to the Bahamas if you wanted it to. Larkin was wearing jeans and Topsiders, and a white T-shirt with blue lettering on it: Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water. Jimmy the Accountant was wearing a green polyester suit and pointy brown shoes and a white shirt with a tie looked like somebody vomited on it and mirrored sunglasses and a narrow-brimmed straw fedora. Jimmy was five feet eight inches tall and he weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and Larkin thought he looked more like a fat spic than the Italian he actually was. Jimmy's real name was James Anthony Largura but almost everybody called him Jimmy the Accountant or Jimmy Legs, both names having to do with his occupation. Jimmy the Accountant came to see you when there was an accounting due. Jimmy Legs
broke
your legs if you didn't account to his satisfaction. Or your arms. Or your head. Or sometimes only your eyeglasses.

    Jimmy was Larkin's younger brother.

    Jimmy was here to ask if Larkin could let him and some friends of his use one of the boats for a little trip they had to make on Friday, the twentieth of June. The kind of boat Jimmy had in mind was a cigarette. Which could outrun the Coast Guard, if Larkin followed his drift. Larkin followed his drift perfectly, not for nothing were they brothers. Jimmy and his friends were expecting another shipment, of what Larkin didn't want to know. Larkin made a point of never asking Jimmy about business. That way, Larkin stayed clean. Every once in a while, Jimmy asked him for the use of a boat. Larkin always said what he said now.

    "If somebody accidentally left the keys in one of the boats, and somebody came in and used it, I wouldn't know anything about it. It comes back safe and sound, that's terrific. It gets blown out of the water, I didn't even know it was gone."

    "Yeah, that's cool," Jimmy said.

    Forty-two years old, Larkin thought, and he looks like a fat spic, and he buys his clothes in the discount joints lining 41, and he still talks like a teenager. Yeah, that's cool. Jesus!

    "Then we pick it up that night sometime, that's cool with you, huh?"

    "If I don't know anything about it," Larkin said.

    "But the keys'll be in one of the cigarettes, huh?"

    "It's possible keys could get left in a boat by mistake."

    "Sure, I dig," Jimmy said.

    I
dig,
Larkin thought. Jesus!

    The men sat in the sunshine drinking beer.

    "I hear you're searchin' for some broad," Jimmy said.

    Larkin looked at him.

    "A Miami hooker," Jimmy said.

    Larkin said nothing.

    "Stole your watch," Jimmy said.

    "Where'd you hear that?" Larkin said.

    "You remember Jackie? Jackie Pasconi, his mother used to run the candy store downstairs when we were kids in New York? Jackie? Pasconi? Whose brother got stabbed up in Attica? Don't you remember Jackie?"

    "What about him?"

    "What he does sometimes, he works-he
used
to work-for this guy got shot here last Sunday. This Jewish guy, I forget his name. Jackie done work for him in Miami."

    "What kind of work?"

    "Like listening around, you know? Like a snitch, sort of, but not really, 'cause this wasn't for the cops, it was for this Jewish private eye, what the fuck's his name, I can't think of his name right now."

    "Samalson," Larkin said.

    "Yeah, right, Samuelson."

    "So?" Larkin said.

    "So I run into Jackie at the dogs, he starts tellin' me my brother hired this private eye to find this hooker ran off with his solid gold Rolex, that's what Jackie tells me."

    Larkin looked at him again.

    "Is it true?" Jimmy asked. "That a hooker took you for five bills
plus
the gold Rolex?"

    "No, I didn't pay her nothing," Larkin said. "I didn't even know she was a pro."

    "But she got your watch though."

    "Yeah."

    "Walked off with the watch, huh?"

    "It was on the dresser."

    "You musta been sleepin', huh?"

    "Yeah."

    "This was when, in the morning?"

    "Yeah."

    "She was gone when you woke up, huh?"

    "Yeah."

    "With the watch."

    "Yeah."

    "So why'd you go to a private eye? Whyn't you come to me? I'm your brother, I coulda taken care of this for you."

    "Well."

    "Better'n any fuckin' private eye, that's for sure. Who got himself killed, by the way."

    "Well."

    "You think she mighta done it?"

    "I
know
she did," Larkin said.

    "Killed him? No shit?"

    "No, no, I thought you meant-"

    "Oh, the watch, sure. But you don't think she killed him, huh?"

    "Who the fuck knows
what
she did," Larkin said.

    One thing he knew for sure, she'd stolen his watch. The other thing he knew for sure… well, the other thing was something he hadn't even told Samalson, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell his brother, either. Nor anybody. Ever. Fucking little bitch! He wondered now, sitting in the sunshine on the foredeck of a sleek Constellation with his fat brother Jimmy Legs the Accountant in his polyester suit, wondered if maybe she
had
killed Samalson. Because suppose Samalson was getting close? And suppose she knew this was something more than a solid gold Rolex, this was something could get a pretty girl's face rearranged in a way you'd never recognize her again. And suppose she knew the minute Samalson zeroed in she'd be having company who didn't want to hear no shit about what a big gorgeous cock you got, honey. It was possible. Desperate people did desperate things.

    "You want me to go on the earie?" his brother asked.

    "What?" Larkin said.

    "You want me to listen around, see I can get a line on her? Bust her fuckin' head and get the watch back for you?"

    "You've got other things to do," Larkin said.

    "No, I ain't too busy just now," Jimmy said. "You want me to, or not?"

    "Well, I'd like to find her," Larkin said.

    "Then consider it done," Jimmy said. "What's her name?"

    "Angela West. That's the name she gave me. But I don't think that's her real name."

    "You got a picture of her?"

    "I gave it to Samalson."

    "Then tell me what she looks like."

    "Blonde hair, blue eyes, about five feet nine inches tall."

    "How old?"

    "Twenty-two, twenty-three. Tits out to here, legs that won't quit…"

    "They'll quit when I find her," Jimmy said.

    

    

    What he told her, he said there was dope in the house there.

    Coke in the house, he said it had to be worth on the street something like seven hundred and fifty K. Six kilos of pure, something like that. This customer of his had seen them- half a dozen of those white plastic bags-when he opened the safe. Well, seven including the one that was already open and on the dresser. Figure he'd already used a few bags, or sold them off, whatever, so say there were still four in the house, maybe three, shit, even
two
would make it worthwhile.

    You came away with two kilos of pure, that was a bit more than seventy ounces, you stepped on it till you got it to street strength, you could ask a hundred and a quarter a
gram.
Something like twenty-eight grams to the ounce, you multiplied that by your seventy ounces, you got nineteen hundred and sixty grams times a hundred and twenty-five bucks, you came away with two hundred and forty-five thousand bucks, almost a quarter of a million, that's if there was only
two
kilos in the house.