Watch Your Back! d-13 Read online

  They looked at one another. The one who hadn't spoken yet, a huge man similar to several Raphael had seen during the Super Bowl — JXQVIII? — with a head like a Darth Vader lunchbox, said, not to Raphael but to the others, "He wants to know did Mikey send us."

  "I heard that," the sharp-nosed one said, and nodded, and in a very pleasant way said to Raphael, "Why would Mikey send us? What would Mikey want to send us here for?"

  "I dunno," Raphael said. "I just thought."

  The one with the Darth Vader head extended his right hand. Even though his middle finger was bent, with his thumb-tip pressed against that finger's nail, Raphael had no idea what he planned to do until all at once, like somebody flicking an ant off a picnic table, he pinged the left side of Raphael's skull above the ear. Just, in fact, above the part that had been covered by the earphone.

  "Ouch!"

  Interesting reverb. How to get that on disc? Not by getting yourself pinged in the head a lot. As Raphael rubbed the now-burning part on the side of his head, the big man with the pinging finger remained in a loomed position above him, saying, "Pay attention to us."

  "I am paying attention."

  "You own the O.J."

  "I already said so."

  "So since you're the owner of the O.J.," the looming man went on, "we come to talk to you about the O.J."

  "Oh, come on," Raphael said, grinning, forgetting the sting in his skull to look in surprise at the big man. "That's just a joke," he said. "Everybody knows that's just a joke."

  They exchanged another enigmatic look. The big man stepped back a pace, and the sharp-nosed one, whose manner was much more pleasant, took his place. "Just a joke, Raphael?" he asked. "Didn't your uncle sign the place over to you?" Turning his head, he said to the gloomy one, "How long ago?"

  "Four months."

  "But that doesn't mean anything," Raphael said. "I mean, Uncle Otto gets all the money. Don't you know the deal?"

  "Tell us the deal, Raphael," suggested the sharp-nosed one.

  "Uncle Otto is old," Raphael explained. "I mean really, really old. He had to get to Florida before it was too late, but nobody wanted to buy the bar because the neighborhood changed."

  "Wait," said the big man, holding up his pinger hand. "You're gonna talk for a week, we need a place to sit down. You got a living room?"

  "This is my living room," Raphael told him.

  They all swiveled their heads around to study his living room, and he supposed it did look different from most living rooms. Most living rooms had chairs and sofas and things, but he had only this one chair that he was sitting in, that he could swing around to watch the television over there, if he wanted to watch television. Otherwise, the room was mostly electronic equipment on tables, and lots of open storage cabinets around the walls, so that what it mostly looked like was a recording studio. Which, in addition to being his living room, it was.

  The gloomy one now said, "We don't have to sit. You say nobody wanted to buy the bar."

  "It's too down-something," Raphael said. "The lawyer told me. Market!"

  "So," the gloomy one prompted, "the uncle sold it to you.

  "Well, I signed for it — the family made me do that — but I pay him a mortgage, which is just about everything the place makes, so I basically ignore it."

  The sharp-nosed one said, "Who are those guys in there, running it? Not Rollo, the new ones. Friends of yours?"

  "Maybe friends of Mikey's," Raphael said. "I don't know, I only ever saw the place just that one time."

  "Maybe," the gloomy one said, "it would help if we knew who this Mikey was."

  "I met him when I was on probation," Raphael explained. "He was on probation, too."

  The big pinger man said, "What were you on probation for?" as though he couldn't believe it.

  "Well, downloading," Raphael said, and gestured at his equipment.

  They frowned at him. They were all very blank. Raphael saw the pinger finger twitch, and hurriedly said, "Taking music off the Web. You know, sharing files. Some big German record company came after me, me and a bunch of other people, even some kids, and said we were doing felonies."

  The sharp-nosed one said, "You were on probation because you were listening to music? This is a crime?"

  "They said so," Raphael said, "so I guess it is."

  The gloomy one said, "Was Mikey downloading music, too?"

  "No, I don't know what he did," Raphael admitted. "I think maybe he knows some real criminals."

  "You mean," the edgy, carrot-haired man said, "people even more dangerous than music bandits."

  "Uh huh. I know his father has a bunch of restaurants and bars in New Jersey and Long Island," Raphael explained, "so when my family made me take over the bar so Uncle Otto could go to Florida and die in the warm instead of up here in the cold, I told Mikey about it, and he said he'd take care of everything, he could use the practice for when someday he'd go into his father's business. So I signed a paper that says he's running it, and now I don't have to worry about anything any more."

  They all sighed, all four of them. The big man turned to the others and said, "You know what I want to say to this nephew?"

  "You want to say good-bye," the gloomy one suggested.

  "I do." The big man nodded at Raphael. "Good-bye," he said, and they all left.

  Gee, Raphael thought, I wonder what that was all about. I hope Mikey isn't making trouble up there in the city.

  Well, what did it matter? The important thing was "Phaze," the piece he was constructing here. This was where he made his money, not some bar, now that he understood you could charge for music on the Net. Put it out there, avant garde fusion, let them sample, but before they download they have to pay, all major credit cards accepted. He had more customers in Japan and Norway than in the United States, but all currencies are good on the Net.

  The O.J. Bar Grill. Who cared? That was so yesterday, back when people used to leave their houses.

  19

  "HOW CAN YOU KNOW nothing?" Tiny demanded, spread over much of the backseat of the Cadillac Conquistadore Kelp had borrowed for this journey to the Middle Earth section of Queens. "That guy didn't know nothing. I never seen anybody know such a total goddamn nothing."

  Kelp, in the remaining portion of the seat beside Tiny, sounded a bit strangled as he said, "He was different, I'll give him that."

  Stan, at the wheel of this monster machine, frowned out at the low buildings and broken sidewalks and stunted trees of this landscape he maneuvered through, which looked as though it had never received good nutrition in its formative years, and said, "What gets me about him is, he don't react. Four guys walk into his house, Tiny bings him on the head, what does he do? Does he yell, does he call the cops, does he make a run for it, does he tough it out, does he beg for mercy, does he say, 'No, you want Medrick the Meshugah next door'? No. He does nothing."

  "He does nothing," Tiny agreed. "And he knows nothing."

  They were all silent as they considered Raphael Medrick, who continued to recede uselessly behind them in his rickety little hovel beside the bay. It was probably the first time an automobile of this magnificence had ever driven down that dead-end street — dead-end in more ways than one — but what a waste of time.

  It was a nice car, though. Kelp had picked it out, in the staff parking area of an East Side hospital — a very big vehicle to accommodate Tiny, MD plates to accord with Kelp's belief that doctors, living as they did on the cusp between pleasure and pain, could be relied on in their choice of transportation, and a green the color of money for that homey look.

  "What I think it is," the diminished Kelp said after a couple of silent blocks, "I think he's one of those artists."

  The others considered that idea. With a glance at the rearview mirror, Stan said, "One of what artists?"

  "You know," Kelp said, "the artistic kind of artists, unworldly, all he knows is his art."

  Stan said, "I thought they wore berets."

  "Maybe not in the
summer," Kelp suggested.

  Tiny said, "I didn't see any pictures."

  "I think," Kelp said, "he was doing music art in there. In the earphones and stuff."

  "Oh, that crap," Stan said. "Every once in a while, I get in a car, it's tuned to a station like that, I gotta pull over, switch it around. You can't drive to that stuff, believe me."

  Until this point, Dortmunder, in the front passenger seat, had been silent, brooding out at the undernourished neighborhood, but now he said, "I'm thinking about the O.J. He's gonna be no help on the O.J."

  "None," Kelp agreed.

  Tiny said, "Now more than ever, Dortmunder, the O.J. is history."

  "Don't say that," Dortmunder asked.

  "Raphael Medrick is not gonna be of any use," Tiny told him, "and Mikey and his friends are not gonna change their minds for nostalgia."

  "This Mikey," Kelp said, "he's the son of a mob guy, which is even worse than a mob guy. He came up soft, and he thinks he's hard."

  "So it's over," Tiny said.

  Dortmunder, frowning mightily at the windshield, said, "I don't want it to be over."

  Kelp, as he made minor adjustments in his body in a vain attempt to become comfortable back there with Tiny, said, "Then you know what you have to do, John."

  Silence.

  "John? You wanna give up the O.J.?"

  "No."

  "Then you know what you gotta do."

  More silence. Finally, Dortmunder sighed and nodded at the outside world and said, "I think it looks a lot like this."

  "I understand there's some nice parts," Stan said.

  Dortmunder shook his head. "Otto Medrick won't be in one of them," he said. Then he cleared his throat and, as though casually, said, "Will you guys come along?"

  "No, John," Kelp said.

  "I'll drive you to the airport," Stan offered.

  "What the heck," Dortmunder said. "Florida can't be that bad."

  "Why not?" Tiny asked.

  "In August?" Stan asked.

  "It's just, you know," Dortmunder said, "it's better if I don't go alone. More intimidating."

  "No, John," Kelp said, "Some things you got to do by yourself."

  "If you even gotta do them," Tiny pointed out. "You know, what we're supposed to be thinking about right now, we're supposed to be thinking about that apartment we're gonna take down."

  "That can wait," Dortmunder said. "The O.J. is right now, but that apartment is empty. It'll wait for us."

  20

  AFTER THE CHARTER FLIGHT from Philadelphia, after the greeting in the main recreation hall with a bouncy song from the resort staff and a mimosa Roselle didn't drink, after the receipt of the beads the guests would use here in lieu of money, after a bellgirl had escorted her to her room and she'd unpacked her wheelie and taken her after-travel shower, Roselle stood in the airy if impersonal room in front of the drapes closed over the view — both hers out and others' in — and from her store of bikinis, each in its own Ziploc bag, she selected the pale beige number barely two shades from her own body color. It was a powerful marketing tool, as she well knew.

  Before leaving the room, she put the wheelie on its back on the bed and opened the Velcro secret compartment to take out the manila envelope and shake from it the photos of Preston Fareweather, wanting to be certain she would close with the right man. These well-fed, self-indulgent rich men of a certain age tended to a type — round, jowly heads and round, flabby bodies, more so in bankers, a little less so in movie producers — so she wanted to be absolutely certain to dock onto nobody but her own Tweedledee among all the Tweedledums patrolling the sands here in this paradise of no consequences. There had been a number of those among the previous week's holdovers, eyeballing the new arrivals as they moved from airport van to recreation hall to reception to the meandering paths to their rooms, but she hadn't risked meeting anybody's eye, hadn't tried yet to make contact, preferring the first strike to be the finisher, like the zap the cow gets as she enters the slaughterhouse.

  Yes, here he was, Preston Fareweather, with the usual deficit of hair and surplus of flesh. Even with nothing to gloat at but a camera, he still bore on his lips — virtually the only thin part of him — the hint of that sardonic smile that says, "I'm rich, and you aren't."

  In the same manila folder was the thumbnail bio of Fareweather, but she already knew that cold. Venture capitalist from a wealthy family, all the right schools, all the wrong education, fingers in pies all across the economy from New York City real estate to second-wave California Web startups. And now here, hiding in broad sunlight.

  Not from me, Roselle thought, smiling back at that smirk. Returning the photos to the envelope and the envelope to the secret compartment, off she went in her bikini, her ballet slippers, her wide-brimmed white straw hat, and her huge dark Jackie O sunglasses. On the prowl.

  And there he was, eventually, after nearly an hour of strolling the paths and the beach and the resort's central square. But there he was, sprawled on a chaise longue on the little ground-floor balcony outside what must be his room. That was Preston Fareweather, all right, garbed in nothing but the briefest possible bright red swimsuit; not so much a fashion statement as a provocation.

  Protected by her sunglasses, Roselle observed Fareweather sidelong as she sashayed by. She knew he was eying her; how could he not?

  Unfortunately, though, Fareweather was not alone on that porch, so she couldn't permit connection just yet. Seated beside her man was a younger, thinner man, a narrow-headed ascetic sort that Roselle had never found of any use at all. He and Fareweather chatted together in desultory fashion — Fareweather, she knew, was saying something to him about her at that very second — and they seemed totally at ease in each other's company.

  What was that fellow there for? Fareweather couldn't be a queen, could he? No, not with that many ex-wives. Not unless he was a demon of overcompensation.

  Roselle moved on, having made, she knew, the kind of impact he would not forget. Now it was simply a matter of holding herself ready for his inevitable approach.

  How would he do it, exactly? Strolling along, enjoying the sunlight, enjoying in a smallish background way the effect she had on the other males she passed, Roselle wondered what method Fareweather would choose in this odd place to attract her attention. Usually, she knew, men of his type drew notice by strewing money around themselves, the way male lions spray their urine to lure the female, but Club Med removes cash from the guests' lives, replacing it with beads for use in the gift shop and bar and so on — a fun gimmick that makes it seem as though you're not spending actual money at all.

  How would Preston Fareweather lure the female in an environment without money?

  The arrangement in the dining room was mix-and-match, with everyone expected to combine haphazardly among the large round tables, and with guests and staff all sharing their meals together. Not the native maids and gardeners, of course — no point carrying égalité that far — but the lifeguards, sports instructors, musicians, office staff, and other socially acceptable types mingled happily with the guests, who mingled just as happily right back.

  Dining was buffet style — load your tray and take it to any table. Roselle chose a half-full table with a mix of younger and older, male and female, and a spot where she could sit with an empty chair on either side, just in case Mr. Fareweather should happen to feel the urge to introduce himself.

  But who joined her, in the chair at her right, within a minute of her taking her seat, was not Preston Fareweather himself but the thin-faced man who'd been sitting with Fareweather earlier today. "Hi," he said. "You just got here, didn't you?"

  "This afternoon."

  "I'm Alan," he said, with a smile, as he removed plates and silverware from his tray and pushed the tray to the middle of the table with the others already there.

  "Pam," Roselle said.

  "Hi, Pam. How long you staying?"

  "Two weeks, I think."

  "You think?"

 
She shrugged. "I might stay longer, if I feel like it."

  Beneath the conversation, her mind was very busy. Why wasn't Alan dining with his friend Preston? Was it Alan who hoped to pick her up? On the other hand, would it be possible to use Alan's presence as a means of meeting his friend? Remain amiable but not quite available, she told herself, and see where it goes.

  "I've been here for some time," Alan was saying, "and I must admit, I never get tired of it."

  "It's my first time."

  "You're going to love it," he assured her.

  The arrival of another person at the seat to her left brought that conversation to an end, at least for the moment, as the newcomer said, "Bonsoir, madame," forcing Roselle to swivel her head and smile upon him, a whippet-thin Frenchman in his mid-twenties whose tray was piled high with nothing but fruit and salad and sparkling water.

  "Bonsoir," she agreed.

  "You are new," he said. His teeth were very white but very small. She thought he smiled like a fox.

  "I am new here," she said.

  He chuckled; she was amusing. "I am Francois."

  "Pam."

  "I instruct in the dance."

  "Ah."

  "You perhaps," he said, with his fox smile, "already know the dance."

  "Perhaps," she said, with her own carnivore's smile, and turned away to eat a dainty morsel of her own salad, during which Alan, on her right, said, as though there'd been no break in the conversation, "You know what's the most wonderful thing about the atmosphere of this place? The absolute openness. Guests and staff eating together, for instance, everybody sharing this beautiful place. It really is one big happy family."

  "That's why I'm here," she said.

  "And the best of it," he told her, "is the lack of money. Only beads. Do you realize how democratic that is?"

  "Democratic?" She affected friendly bewilderment. "I just thought it was kind of cute."

  "Well, it is. But besides that. Everywhere else you go in the world, you can tell in one second the rich people from the rest of us. But here, everybody blends in."