Tropical Depression (20 page)

"She gets hurt I'll kill myself."

"You couldn't have stopped her going."

Murray said nothing.

Tommy pressed. "You know that, right?"

Murray knew Franny. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Okay then," Tommy said. He closed his eyes and sucked his brew like it was life itself.

Around six-thirty, when almost everyone in Key West was migrating toward the island's western flanks to watch the sun go down, Murray and Tommy drove to Duval Street to look for Franny.

It should have been a tranquil hour, or as tranquil as Duval Street ever gets. The light was soft, shadows fluttered down like quilts, and yet enough reflected sun remained to mute the gaudy glare of shop windows. The slackening breeze barely moved the palms; pedestrians were few; the musicians who twanged and howled in the unwalled bars were saving their louder songs for when the rush began.

But Murray Zemelman was not tranquil. Hunched over the wheel of his scratched-up Lexus, he drove Duval from the ocean to the Gulf and back again, desperately peering left while Tommy scanned right. They saw faceless tourists spinning postcard racks, early drinkers weaving down the sidewalks and stumbling into signs with menus stapled on them. They saw pretty men in pastel shirts, tattooed biker women festooned with bits of chain, hookers or beauticians with enormous mouths painted way beyond the outline of their lips. Images flicked past as in a drugged cartoon, and Murray realized he had no chance of spotting Franny from the car.

He parked a couple blocks in from the ocean, on the quiet side of town. He and Tommy got out and walked back toward the fray.

They looked for Franny's bicycle. It was pink, Murray remembered, and it had a milk crate for a basket.

But there were hundreds of rental bikes in Key West, and most of them were pink and had milk crates for baskets. Murray saw them chained to racks, to trees, to picket fences and to chain-link fences, to parking meters and no parking signs and each other. There was something surreal, Chinese, malign, in their alikeness.

The two friends started going into galleries, describing Franny, asking employees if they had seen her. The clerks struck thoughtful postures in front of garish canvases of tropical flowers, tropical fish, and said they really weren't sure, a lot of people filtered through, some of them were short and had curly graying hair, many were dressed in artsy shifts and sandals.

Sunset came and went.

Hordes of tourists put their lens caps on, turned toward land and alcohol, and surged in a slow stampede opposed to Murray and Tommy's progress. Walking became a battle, strangers became obstacles and enemies.

Murray ducked into a department store where he thought Franny might perhaps have shopped for Tommy's clothes. He accosted a salesman near a stack of shirts. The salesman had just come on at six, he hadn't noticed anyone like Franny. No, he couldn't check credit card receipts, there were privacy rules on that. He smirked at Murray: one more tourist jerk whose wife was on a binge, or leaving him, or both.

Back on the street, the sluttish glare of neon grew more brazen in the deepening dusk, the blaring tinny music cranked up like a siren in the bars. People got uglier against the grainy pink and blue and orange light. Murray, in the swelling nausea of his fear, became aggressive, cocked his elbows to preserve a capsule of empty space around him. Someone pushed him; confused, enraged, half-blind with swimming spots before his eyes, he pushed right back. Tommy stepped in front of him, forestalled more trouble with an implacable stare. He grabbed Murray gently by the forearm, coaxed him onward through the hellish carnival.

They found another gallery, climbed a short stone stoop to get to its front door. Inside, Murray asked again after his missing wife. The manager said no, he couldn't place her.

But then a clerk spoke up. He was very young, his job was wrapping purchases in thick brown paper. Barber's clippers had put pale chevrons on the sides of his narrow head; he had pimples that were very pink against his tanned and freckled cheeks. "I think I might've seen that lady." He seemed a little slow, saliva bubbled as he spoke.

"Yeah?" said Murray. "Talk to me."

"I remember 'cause she left in a limousine. Parked right at the bottom of the steps."

"A limousine?"

"A big dark car, I think it was a limousine. It was parked on the wrong side of the street. Had a driver."

Murray felt faint. He braced himself against a counter, he couldn't speak.

Tommy said, "She got into the limousine herself?"

The kid scratched his clippered head. "A guy met 'er on the landing there. Helped her down the steps."

"Helped her?" Tommy said.

The kid looked baffled by the question, worried now that he was somehow saying things he shouldn't say, getting himself in trouble. He shrugged and scratched a pimple.

Tommy went to Murray, put a hand on his shoulder, eased him toward the door.

Outside, maybe fifteen yards from the bottom of the stoop, a pink bicycle with a milk crate for a basket was chained to a
no parking
sign.

The grab had been made just before three that afternoon. It wasn't supposed to happen like it happened, in fact it was a total screwup.

A skinny young thug named Squeak had been dispatched to Key West by Charlie Ponte. His assignment: join forces with Bruno, kidnap the meddling Jew who was tied in with the Indian, bring him to the boss's Coconut Grove headquarters for a chat. If the chat went well, Murray would be returned in good health, cured of his unwholesome interest in Indian casinos. If the chat went badly, Murray would be dead, and the offending partnership sunk with him in the Gulf Stream, way out where the surging water was a mile deep.

The only problem was that the thugs kept getting hungry and missing Murray.

They lingered over breakfast, and staked out the Paradiso just after he and Tommy had left to see LaRue. When, twenty minutes later, Franny headed out alone, they didn't follow her; they waited. As the day dragged on, however, and they sat in their air-conditioned car parked alongside A-1A, boredom stoked Bruno's appetite.

Around one he said, "I could go for a calzone."

Squeak was a dutiful thug, a nervous thug. His face was concave, hollowed out with worry. His nose and cheeks sunk in, his sharp chin jutted out, in profile he looked like a crescent moon. He frowned at the idea of abandoning their post.

But it was Bruno who was behind the wheel, and Bruno was getting cranky. "Don't gimme that look," he said. "I want a fuckin' calzone."

"But Bruno—" Squeak began.

"Fuck it," said his colleague. "Fucker ain't come out so far, I don't see 'im coming out inna time it takes t'eat a fuckin' calzone. Spinach."

So they went downtown for calzones, and Murray and Tommy came home from the Eclipse while they were gone.

They were back in time to see Tommy leave the condominium by himself, to go sell shells.

Now the gangsters were confused. Just who the hell was home? They were hesitant to go inside the building to find out. The building was big, with many doors, security cameras, alarms maybe. Then again, it was getting to be mid-afternoon, and Ponte wanted them back by evening with a warm body in tow.

"I say we cruise," said Bruno.

Squeak tried to be logical. "After two," he said, in a voice like an ill-played clarinet. "A guy ain't out by after two, chances are he's stayin' in."

"Or else he's out already. Or else he's fuckin' been out all along. This is why I say we cruise."

Squeak shrugged fretfully. They headed downtown and crawled along Duval Street. On the second circuit they spotted Franny. She had big sunglasses on and she was carrying a shopping bag. They trailed her for awhile, watched her go in and out of stores.

"She's gonna meet the husband," Bruno said. "A buck says she's gonna meet the husband."

But there was no rendezvous, and the goons were getting tired of waiting.

Bruno said, "I think we gotta grab 'er."

It worried Squeak to change the plan. "Boss don't want the wife," he brayed.

Bruno picked his teeth. "Wives got influence sometimes. Guys, not always, sometimes, would do a lot to see their wife again."

Squeak scrunched up his face, it made him look like a little boy with an ulcer. "Grabbin' the wife, that ain't the job."

"Got a better idea?"

Squeak didn't, so reluctantly he took his pistol from its shoulder holster and put it in the right-hand pocket of his gray suit jacket. Bruno pulled across Duval Street, idled in front of a small stone stoop. Squeak climbed the steps, stood next to the door.

When Franny came out, he grinned and threw his left arm around her, hugged her in a vile parody of affection. His right hand was hidden in his pocket; he pressed his gun against her ribs, let her feel the muzzle. "Sorry, lady," he tweeted shyly in her ear. "Make a noise, you're dead."

Her breath caught in a strangled wheeze, she made no other sound. The upper half of her went stiff with terror, from the knees down she was limp. Squeak half-carried her down the stairs, she looked like she was drunk. Her eyes were wild, unnaturally wide and almost silver, as he prodded her into the back seat of the car, still clutching the shopping bag that held jeans and shirts and underwear for Tommy.

*****

They blindfolded her in North Key Largo and kept the blindfold on even as she stood in Charlie Ponte's office. So she didn't see the little boss walk slowly up to Bruno, stand on tiptoe, and backhand him hard across the cheek. She did, however, hear the smack. "Wha' for ya bring me a fuckin' woman?" she heard him say.

The big goon answered without resentment, seemed to have absorbed the blow with the dumb patience of a beaten ox.

"The Jew," he explained, "we couldn't find 'im. The Indian, him ya said ya didn't want right now. So we figured—"

"Shut up what you figured," Ponte said. "Ya got no brain, ya shouldn't figure. Take the fuckin' blinders off 'er."

Squeak untied the black satin sash.

Franny saw cruel yellow light, hard stubbly faces, Ponte's combed-forward mat of frightening slick hair above his shadowed soupy eyes. She thought she heard the faint sound of silverware on plates, smelled butter, hot rolls, seafood. Voluntary visitors to Ponte's sanctum came through the front door of Martinelli's; they walked between huge lobster tanks, through a vast dining room full of people eating lobsters, wearing lobster bibs. Franny had been brought a far less public way—she'd been prodded blindly down an alley paved in oozing cardboard that reeked of decomposing claws and tails and shells, then along a narrow catwalk that flanked a cove of black and stagnant water, and through a narrow metal door with many locks.

Now she stood blinking, trying not to tremble. She was still holding her shopping bag, it was her only link to life before the grab, and Ponte asked her what was in it.

"New clothes for Tommy Tarpon," she said.

Ponte mugged at Squeak and Bruno. "Isn't that sweet. A shame, what happened to his house."

He moved toward his enormous desk, sat down on a corner of it. He was the same height sitting there as standing up. "Cigarette?"

"I don't smoke," Franny said.

He regarded her. The towel-dried hairdo of a liberal. The loose-fitting clothes of a health nut. "No, I didn't think you did. Well, tough titty, I'm havin' a cigar."

He took his time unwrapping one, then bit a hole in the end of it and spit the plug out on the floor. "What's your name?"

"Franny. Franny Rudin." She strove to keep her voice steady and unquavering, something told her that was an important thing to try and do.

"Wanna siddown, Franny Rudin?"

She nodded. Squeak brought over a chair, she perched on the very edge of it. Ponte lit up, blew smoke in her direction, watched with pleasure as she squinted.

Then he said, "Your husband, Franny Rudin—"

"Ex-husband," she corrected.

"Why is he preventing us from using our influence and knowledge to make your friend Tommy one rich fuckin' redskin?"

Franny said nothing.

"I'll tell you why," said Ponte, knocking off cigar ash with a pinky. "Because he is a stubborn, meddling, busybody pain innee ass."

"You can say that again," said Franny.

This was not the answer Ponte expected, it took him a second to collect himself.

"The man's a total yenta," Franny added. Talking, she felt better.

"Fuck's a yenta?" asked the mobster.

"Ya know," said Franny, "a yenta, he's always minding other people's business."

"Exactly," Ponte said. "Pain innee ass. An' what's this ex-husband bullshit? You're living with the man."

"Visiting," she said. "And, for your information, sleeping in a guest room."

Ponte frowned down at his small expensive shoes, the liverish sacs beneath his eyes got darker. He was suddenly exasperated, felt that he was losing the momentum.

"Lady," he said, "I don't care if you're sleepin' inna fuckin' shithouse. The point is this: This husband, ex-husband, whatever—y'ever wanna see the man again?"

"Funny you should ask. That's the exact question I've been thinking about all week."

There was a pause. Behind Charlie Ponte, tiny translucent windows let in faint smears of red and green light. Muted by thick walls, a tray clattered to the tiled floor of the restaurant kitchen. The boss took a deep pull on his cigar, then got down from his desk, walked toward Bruno, and belted him again.

Ponte started pacing, cigar smoke plumed out behind him like steam behind a locomotive. "Now I got this fuckin' broad," he thought aloud, "now I gotta keep 'er... Squeak, anybody inna Odds motel right now?"

The skinny thug said there was not.