When the Women Come out to Dance (2002) (14 page)

Two nights later they left Monaco, came out o
f that pounding sound to a sidewalk cafe an d drinks, and he became Carl Tillman, skipper of a charter deep-sea-fishing boat out of American Marina, Bahia Mar. He was single, married seven years and divorced, no children; he lived in a ground-floor two-bedroom apartment in Nort h Miami--one of the bedrooms full of fishing gear he didn't know where else to store. Carl said his boat was out of the water, getting ready to move it to Haulover Dock, closer to where he lived.

Karen liked his weathered, kind of shaggy look, the crow'sfeet when he smiled. She liked his soft brown eyes that looked right at her as he talked about making his living on the ocean , about hurricanes, the trendy scene here on South Beach , movies. He went to the movies every week and told Karen-GCo r aising his eyebrows in a vague, kind of stoned way--his favorite actor was Jack Nicholson. Karen asked him if that was his Nicholson impression or was he doing Christian Slater doing Nicholson? He told her she had a keen eye; but couldn't understand why she thought Dennis Quaid was a hunk. Tha t was okay.

He said, "You're a social worker."

Karen said, "A social worker--"

"A teacher."

"What kind of teacher?"

"You teach psychology. College level."

She shook her head.

"English lit."

"I'm not a teacher."

"Then why'd you ask what kind I thought you were?"

She said, "You want me to tell you what I do?"

"You're a lawyer. Wait. The Honda--you're a public defender." Karen shook her head and he said, "Don't tell me, I want to guess, even if it takes a while." He said, "If that's oka y with you."

Fine. Some guys, she'd tell them what she did and the
y were turned off by it. Or they'd act surprised and then selfconscious and start asking stupid questions. "But how can a girl do that?" Assholes.

That night in the bathroom brushing her teeth Kare
n stared at her reflection. She liked to look at herself in mirrors: t ouch her short blond hair, check out her fanny in profile , long legs in a straight skirt above her knees, Karen still a siz e six approaching thirty. She didn't think she looked like a social worker or a schoolteacher, even college level. A lawyer maybe, but not a public defender. Karen was low-key hig h style. She could wear her favorite Calvin Klein suit, the blac k one her dad had given her for Christmas, her SIG Sauer .380 f or evening wear snug against the small of her back, and n o one would think for a moment she was packing.

Her new boyfriend called and stopped by her house i
n Coral Gables Friday evening in a white BMW convertible.

They went to a movie and had supper and when he brough
t her home they kissed in the doorway, arms slipping aroun d each other, holding, Karen thanking God he was a goo d kisser, comfortable with him, but not quite ready to take he r clothes off. When she turned to the door he said, "I can wait.

You think it'll be long?"

Karen said, "What're you doing Sunday?"

They kissed the moment he walked in and made love i
n the afternoon, sunlight flat on the window shades, the be d stripped down to a fresh white sheet. They made love in a hurry because they couldn't wait, had at each other and la y perspiring after. When they made love again, Karen holdin g his lean body between her legs and not wanting to let go, i t lasted and lasted and got them smiling at each other, sayin g things like "Wow" and "Oh, my God," it was so good, serious business but really fun. They went out for a while, came bac k to her yellow stucco bungalow in Coral Gables and made lov e on the living-room floor.

Carl said, "We could try it again in the morning."

"I have to be dressed and out of here by six."

"You're a flight attendant."

She said, "Keep guessing."

Monday morning Karen Sisco was outside th
e federal courthouse in Miami with a pump-action shotgun o n her hip. Karen's right hand gripped the neck of the stock, th e barrel extending above her head. Several more U
. S
. deput y marshals were out here with her; while inside, three Colombian nationals were being charged in District Court with the possession of cocaine in excess of five hundred kilograms. On e of the marshals said he hoped the scudders liked Atlanta, a s they'd be doing thirty to life there pretty soon. He said, "Hey , Karen, you want to go with me, drop 'em off? I know a nic e ho-tel we could stay at."

She looked over at the good-ole-boy marshals grinning
, shuffling their feet, waiting for her reply. Karen said, "Gary , I'd go with you in a minute if it wasn't a mortal sin." The y liked that. It was funny, she'd been standing here thinkin g she'd gone to bed with four different boyfriends in her life: a n Eric at Florida Atlantic, a Bill right after she graduated, the n a Greg, three years of going to bed with Greg, and now Carl.

Only four in her whole life, but two more than the nationa
l average for women in the U
. S
. according to Time magazine , their report of a recent sex survey. The average woman ha d two partners in her lifetime, the average man six. Karen ha d thought everybody was getting laid with a lot more differen t ones than that.

She saw her boss now, Milt Dancey, an old-time marshal i
n charge of court support, come out of the building to stan d looking around, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Milt looke d this way and gave Karen a nod, but paused to light a cigarett e before coming over. A guy from the Miami FBI office wa s with him.

Milt said, "Karen, you know Daniel Burdon?"

Not Dan, not Danny, Daniel. Karen knew him, one of th
e younger black guys over there, tall and good-looking, confident, known to brag about how many women he'd had of all kinds and color. He'd flashed his smile at Karen one time, hitting on her. Karen turned him down saying, "You have two reasons you want to go out with me." Daniel, smiling, said h e knew of one reason, what was the other one? Karen said, "S
o you can tell your buddies you banged a marshal." Daniel said , "Yeah, but you could use it, too, girl. Brag on getting me i n the sack." See? That's the kind of guy he was.

Milt said, "He wants to ask you about a Carl Tillman."

No flashing smile this time, Daniel Burdon had on a serious, sort of innocent expression, saying to her, "You know the man, Karen? Guy in his forties, sandy hair, goes about fiveten, one-sixty?"

Karen said, "What's this, a test? Do I know him?"

Milt reached for her shotgun. "Here, Karen, lemme tak
e that while you're talking."

She turned a shoulder saying, "It's okay, I'm not gonn
a shoot him," her fist tight on the neck of the 12-gauge. She said to Daniel, "You have Carl under surveillance?"

"Since last Monday."

"You've seen us together--so what's this do-I-know-hi
m shit? You playing a game with me?"

"What I meant to ask, Karen, was how long have yo
u known him?"

"We met last week, Tuesday."

"And you saw him Thursday, Friday, spent Sunday wit
h him, went to the beach, came back to your place . . . What'
s he think about you being with the Marshals Service?"

"I haven't told him."

"How come?"

"He wants to guess what I do."

"Still working on it, huh? What you think, he a nice guy?

Has a sporty car, has money, huh? He a pretty big spender?"

"Look," Karen said, "why don't you quit dickin' aroun
d and tell me what this is about, okay?"

"See, Karen, the situation's so unusual," Daniel said, stil
l with the innocent expression, "I don't know how to put it , you know, delicately. Find out a U
. S
. marshal's fucking a ban k robber."

Milt Dancey thought Karen was going to swin
g at Daniel with the shotgun. He took it from her this time an d told the Bureau man to behave himself, watch his mouth if h e wanted cooperation here. Stick to the facts. This Carl Tillma n was a suspect in a bank robbery, a possible suspect in a halfdozen more, all the robberies, judging from the bank videos, W
c ommitted by the same guy. The FBI referred to him a s "Slick," having nicknames for all their perps. They had print s off a teller's counter might be the guy's, but no match in thei r files and not enough evidence on Carl Edward Tillman--th e name on his driver's license and car registration--to brin g him in. He appeared to be most recently cherry, just gettin g into a career of crime. His motivation, pissed off at banks because Florida Southern foreclosed on his note and sold his forty-eight-foot Hatteras for nonpayment.

It stopped Karen for a moment. He might've lied about hi
s boat, telling her he was moving it to Haulover; but tha t didn't make him a bank robber. She said, "What've you got, a video picture, a teller identified him?"

Daniel said, "Since you mentioned it," taking a Burea
u wanted flyer from his inside coat pocket, the sheet folded onc e down the middle. He opened it and Karen was looking at fou r photos taken from bank video cameras of robberies i n progress, the bandits framed in teller windows, three blac k guys, one white.

Karen said, "Which one?" and Daniel gave her a look before pointing to the white guy: a man with slicked-back hair, an earring, a full mustache, and dark sunglasses. She said , "That's not Carl Tillman," and felt instant relief. There was n o resemblance.

"Look at it good."

"What can I tell you? It's not him."

"Look at the nose."

"You serious?"

"That's your friend Carl's nose."

It was. Carl's slender, rather elegant nose. Or like his.

Karen said, "You're going with a nose ID, that's all you've got?"

"A witness," Daniel said, "believes she saw this man-GCo
r ight after what would be the first robbery he pulled--ru n from the bank to a strip mall up the street and drive off in a white BMW convertible. The witness got a partial on the license number and that brought us to your friend Carl."

Karen said, "You ran his name and date of birth . . ."

"Looked him up in NCIC, FCIC, and Warrant Information, drew a blank. That's why I think he's just getting his feet wet. Managed to pull off a few, two three grand each, an d found himself a new profession."

"What do you want me to do," Karen said, "get his print
s on a beer can?"

Daniel raised his eyebrows. "That would be a start. Migh
t even be all we need. What I'd like you to do, Karen, is snuggle up to the man and find out his secrets. You know what I'm saying--intimate things, like did he ever use anothe r name . . ."

"Be your snitch," Karen said, knowing it was a mistake a
s soon as the words were out of her mouth.

It got Daniel's eyebrows raised again. He said, "That wha
t it sounds like to you? I thought you were a federal agent , Karen. Maybe you're too close to him--is that it? Don't wan t the man to think ill of you?"

Milt said, "That's enough of that shit," standing up fo
r Karen as he would for any of his people, not because she was a woman; he had learned not to open doors for her. The onl y time she wanted to be first through the door was on a fugitiv e warrant, this girl who scored higher with a handgun, mor e times than not, than any other marshal in the Southern District of Florida.

Daniel was saying, "Man, I need to use her. Is she on ou
r side or not?"

Milt handed Karen her shotgun. "Here, you want to shoo
t him, go ahead."

"Look," Daniel said, "Karen can get me a close read on th
e man, where he's lived before, if he ever went by other names , if he has any identifying marks on his body, scars, maybe a gunshot wound, tattoos, things only lovely Karen would se e when the man has his clothes off."

Karen took a moment. She said, "There is one thing I
n oticed."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"He's got the letters f-u-o-n tattooed on his penis."

Daniel frowned at her. "Foo-on?"

"That's when it's, you might say, limp. When he has
a hard-on it says Fuck the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Daniel Burdon grinned at Karen. He said, "Girl, you and I
h ave to get together. I mean it."

Karen could handle "girl." Go either way. Girl
, looking at herself in a mirror applying blush-on. Woman , well, that's what she was. Though until just a few years ag o she only thought of women old enough to be her mother a s women. Women getting together to form organizations o f women, saying, Look, we're different from men. Isolatin g themselves in these groups instead of mixing it up with me n and beating them at their own men's games. Men in genera l were stronger physically than women. Some men were stronger than other men, and Karen was stronger than som e too; so what did that prove? If she had to put a man on th e ground, no matter how big or strong he was, she'd do it. On e way or another. Up front, in his face. What she couldn't se e herself playing was this sneaky role. Trying to get the stuff o n Carl, a guy she liked, a lot, would think of with tender feelings and miss him during the day and want to be with him.