Welcome to Paradise (23 page)

He pulled in between a low ceiling and an
oily concrete floor under evil, maddening fluorescent lights. He
passed up some open spaces, crawled along until he saw a dark gray
Lincoln with a New York plate that said BIG AL.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered. He parked across
an aisle and a couple of slots away. He lowered the windows and
switched off the engine. The air stank of exhaust.

With the motor off it was ungodly still.
Nicky pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. He spoke to
Katy but pointed his gun at Al. "Ya got an hour, sweetheart. Smile
pretty."

She kissed Al Tuschman on the cheek and
climbed out of the car.

Katy was still wearing her pink shorts and
lime-green top and high-heeled sandals, and the concrete floor felt
very hard against her feet.

She walked stiffly to the elevator and tried
to clear her head. She knew some things she wished she didn't know.
She knew that thugs were liars, that there was not the slightest
guarantee that she and Tusch would go free if she produced Big Al.
She knew, as well, that she could probably escape, alone. Men like
this—the truth was that, for all the jealousy and posing, women
didn't matter to them; their deepest passions—hate, revenge, a
pathetic need to be respected—were reserved for one another. With
lack of regard came an insulting form of safety; she knew that she
could simply disappear. And she knew she wouldn't do it.

She rode up to the top guest floor,
approached the suite she'd shared with Big Al Marracotta. She tried
to practice what she would say to him, but no words would come;
there was nothing to rehearse. He would want to touch her, of
course, reassert his claim. She shivered at the thought. She paused
a moment at the door, then knocked.

There was no answer. She knocked again.
Hearing silence in return, she bit her lip and pictured him at the
rooftop bar. Pictured him with such intensity as to put him there,
because, if he wasn't, there was no way she'd find him in an hour.
She went back to the elevator.

It was crowded on the rooftop. Smoke swirled.
A piano player labored bravely against the giggling and the clank
of ice and the whirring of the blenders. Katy, a woman alone in
pink shorts and heels, pushed through the clustered bodies at the
bar; a hand brushed against her buttocks. She broke through to the
rank of small tables that edged the room, that owned the pricey
windows. Waitresses careened with endless trays of fritters.
Couples drank from salted glasses. And there, at a dim table in the
corner, a sweating silver bucket poised in front of him, sat Big Al
Marracotta by himself.

Katy, unseen, studied him a moment before she
approached. He looked not just small but diminished, shrunken, like
something revisited from childhood. His helmet of hair seemed
unnatural, puppetlike. There was a hint of the primitive and stupid
in the sensual looseness of his mouth. She braced herself and moved
toward him.

He looked up from his glass and saw her when
she was several steps away. The distance gave him time to select a
pose. He was beaten down, defeated, and if he let it show he might
know the sweetness of being comforted. But no way would he let it
show. He stretched his neck inside his collar, stuck out his stubby
chin.

"'Lo, Al," Katy said.

He turned his head way up to look at her.
"You're back." He was surprised and yet it sounded smug.

"Ask me to sit down?"

He gestured toward a chair. "Where ya
been?"

Sitting, she said, "Needed some time alone.
You shouldn't have hit me, Al."

He might have said he was sorry. He was
sorry. He said, "Didja come here to start another argument?"

She glanced at the champagne bottle. Big Al
gestured for a waitress to bring another glass.

"I came," she said, "to see if maybe we
should try again." She crossed her long legs. The edge of the
tablecloth touched her skin just above the knee.

Al felt a twinge in his pants. He looked away
like he was giving the proposition careful thought. He'd told
himself he was through with Katy, especially when it seemed that
she was through with him. Besides, without the market, who knew if
he could even afford her anymore? But in the meantime she was tall,
she was young, she was here.

The waitress brought a glass and poured for
both of them. To Katy's relief, that drained the bottle.

She let Big Al play hard to get. She put her
hand on his wrist. "I have an idea," she said. "Let's go someplace
new, forget about what happened here, start fresh. A couple days in
South Beach, maybe. Whaddya say?"

Big Al pursed his lips. He was struggling up
from dismal depths, and the only way he knew to climb was to step
on someone else. He said, "So ya realized when ya had it good."

Katy tried hard not to wince, used her glass
to hide her face. "Yeah, Al. I realized."

He tipped his flute up to his sloppy lips,
tapped out a final drop, pretended that he'd come to a decision.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go downstairs."

She pictured the giant bed, smelled again the
rank sheets and sour pillows. She turned coy to mask a sudden
panic. "Okay," she said, "but just to pack."

"Right. Whatever. Sure."

"I mean it, Al. I don't wanna be here
anymore."

He gestured for his tab and signed it. They
rose and moved through the crowd toward the elevator. People looked
at them—the slick and cocksure guy with the tall and chesty
babe—and Big Al Marracotta felt almost back on top again.

*

Downstairs in the stifling and hellishly lit
garage, Nicky Scotto plucked his sleeve and checked his watch.
"Three quarters of an hour gone," he said. "The bitch ain't comin'
back."

In the rear seat of the Jag, Squid Berman
swiveled toward Al Tuschman. "Guess you didn't impress her
much."

Al said nothing, petted his dog. He was very
afraid but as time wore on and adrenaline subsided, his fear lost
its jagged edge and became a smooth, round weight that was simply
there, a background noise. Tentatively resigned, he found himself
thinking almost calmly of morbid, dreadful things. What would
become of Fifi if he got killed? Would she end up in some adoption
agency full of horny, uncouth mutts in cages floored with filthy
shredded newsprint? What about Moe Kleiman? Corny, generous old
Moe—would he somehow blame himself?

And while he was on guilt, he felt terribly
guilty about Katy. She'd drawn the tougher card by far. While he
just sat here quietly communing with his cowardice, she was out
there, acting, scheming in the face of her fear. Let the thugs say
what they wanted; Al didn't for an instant doubt that she was
trying her best to ransom him. That's who she was—a person who
would try her best. But what if she just couldn't pull it off? What
would a maniac like Big Al do if he realized she was trying to
betray him?

That was a question that made the background
noise of Al Tuschman's fear rise again to a hideous jangle.

Minutes passed. Making chitchat, Nicky Scotto
said to Chop, "So we ain't got Al but we got a place?"

Chop's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror
before he answered. "Perfect place," he said. "Scoped it out this
afternoon."

There was a silence.

Squid said to Nicky, "Ain't you hot, that
suit on?"

Nicky didn't answer that, just plucked at the
hated fabric and checked his watch again. "Ten minutes," he said.
"Bitch ain't comin' back."

Big Al Marracotta's hands were groping
toward Katy's breasts before the door had even closed behind
them.

She seized his wrists, labored mightily to
keep some playfulness in her voice. "Later," she said. "We're
packing. We're going. Right?"

"What's the hurry?" said Big Al. He freed his
hands and grabbed her hips and made lewd wiggles with his
tongue.

Katy realized something in that instant.
Realized that not only did he repulse her now, he'd repulsed her
from the start, and that had been part of the appeal. Crazy, but no
more.

She spun away, moved toward the stand that
held her suitcase. Her breath caught when she saw the violence Big
Al had wrought against her things, the slashed and sundered bras
and panties and stockings. "Jesus," she said. "I guess you were
pretty mad at me."

For one second he looked sheepish, then
seemed stupidly proud of himself and of his rage. "Yeah," he said.
"Pretty mad. Blind mad. Mad enough for anything."

Fright climbed up her throat with a taste of
salt and iron. She managed something like a smile, said, "Guess
you'll have to buy me some new things up in South Beach."

He liked that, as she knew he would. Made him
feel like a sport. He licked his lips as he pictured her modeling a
fresh batch of cheesy lingerie. He glanced over at the bags of sex
toys. "Got some goodies to bring along."

She tried her best to look intrigued. "Sooner
we get on the road ..."

He leered at her, and ran a hand across his
crotch, and moved off to the bathroom.

Katy lunged to the armoire, started stuffing
clothes into Big Al's luggage. Cabana sets, black shirts, expensive
shoes. Desperation made her wildly efficient. She went to the phone
and called down to the kennel. Even moved the bags of sex toys
toward the door. By the time Al Marracotta had peed and put himself
away and combed his helmet of salt-and-pepper hair, all that was
left to do was to gather up cosmetics. She swept tubes and bottles
from the counter and announced that they were ready.

"The dog?" he said.

"They're getting him."

Not one to carry his own bags or retrieve his
own car, Big Al Marracotta said, "Didja call a bellman? A
valet?"

"They're all backed up," she lied. "Like half
an hour. Come on, I'll carry stuff."

She bent to lift his suitcase. He put his
hand on her flexing ass. "Why so anxious, babe?"

She bit her lip and forced her hips to move
against his hand. "Come on, Al. Different place, different bed.
Come on."

She moved off toward the door. He followed.
It seemed to take forever for the elevator to arrive.

*

Nicky Scotto checked his watch then pointed
his gun at Alan Tuschman's chest. "Ah, shit," he said. "Looks like
we gotta kill ya."

Al stroked his dog and tried not to tremble.
He thought he'd show himself that much, at least—get through this
without quaking or crying or wetting his pants.

"Nothin' personal," Nicky went on.
"Y'unnerstand, we don't follow through, people lose respect."

Chop made a somewhat sympathetic sound. "All
over a stupid license plate. A stupid nickname."

"Wit' all the other nicknames you mighta
had," put in Squid. "Knucklehead. Limpdick ..."

Fifty yards away, the chrome doors of the
elevator opened.

The rottweiler came out first. Penned in much
too long, it strained at its leash, strained so hard it choked
itself and wheezed.

The waiting killers heard the wheezing and
the tick of paws against the oily cement floor. They looked up
through the sickly bluish light, and in a moment they saw Katy,
listing slightly on her high-heeled shoes as she balanced a fat
suitcase, and Al Marracotta, rearing back against the weight of the
leash, a pair of shopping bags sagging in his other hand.

A vindicated Nicky Scotto whispered, "Ya see?
Ya see! Little guy. Big dog. Let's go."

Low and silent, he slipped out of the Jag,
Squid Berman right behind. Squatting down between two cars, they
readied their pieces as the footsteps drew closer. They held their
breath and fixed their gazes on the vanity plate at the rear end of
the Lincoln.

Big Al finally stood next to it. He put the
shopping bags down on the cement and fished in his pocket for a
key. He fumbled with the key, then had some trouble fitting it to
the lock. He rubbed his eyes and started over. Everything seemed to
be taking an unnaturally long time. At last the trunk swung open.
He bent to put in the bags.

That's when Squid and Nicky came springing
toward his rumpled, helpless back.

"Get your fuckin' hands up, Al!" said
Scotto.

Katy dropped the suitcase, stepped aside
fast.

By reflex, not yet knowing who it was that
had the drop on him, the little mobster did as he was told. The
leash fell from his hand. The restless but simple rottweiler,
paralyzed by sudden freedom, sat down on the floor and let its
tongue hang out. Squid Berman bounded close to Al, frisked him from
his armpits to his groin.

"Now turn around," said Nicky.

Big Al pivoted, and when he saw his colleague
from New York, he was a little afraid and quite pissed off, but
mostly he was just confused. His confusion, like morning clouds,
burned off one layer at a time, and the first thing he understood
was that Katy, with her teasing talk of fresh beds, fresh lingerie,
had set him up. He looked at her. "You fucking cunt."

She felt bad for him in spite of everything.
Felt bad for his wife and kids, who probably thought he was an okay
guy. She couldn't meet his eyes.

But Big Al couldn't figure out what Nicky
Scotto wanted from him. Their little contest was over. He'd lost;
Nicky had won. He said to his enemy, "Why the fuck—?"

A long moment's mayhem stifled his
question.

Fifi had grown quiveringly alert in her
master's lap. She smelled danger and the rottweiler. In whatever
canine way she understood the battle, she was determined to do her
part. She dug her paws into Al Tuschman's crotch and, before he
could restrain her, she propelled herself out the Jaguar's open
window.

Paws skidding on the slippery cement, she
charged at Ripper, furiously yipping all the while. The
chicken-hearted rottweiler half stood up, retreating slowly,
quailing. Then it made an epic blunder and turned its back. Beneath
the russet bull's-eye of its ass, its showy testicles dangled and
swayed, the right one lower than the left. Fifi made a mighty leap
and grabbed them in her teeth.