“No one’s conducting a personal—”
“No? I hear from David Larkin that you went to see him, too. And that you had access to a file on a case Samalson was working for him. Now you weren’t by chance representing Mr. Larkin, too, were you?”
“No, Detective Rawles, I was not representing David Larkin.”
“Yeah, get huffy, go ahead,” Rawles said. “You just go gettin’ huffy on me.”
Matthew said nothing.
“Who else you been talking to?” Rawles asked.
Matthew did not answer him.
“Don’t talk to anyone else, you hear?” Rawles said.
Matthew still said nothing.
“Thanks for the Toronado shit,” Rawles said, and hung up.
What it was, they called him The Armadillo.
When she first heard this, she said Please, you’re making my flesh crawl. That’s like a snake, isn’t it? An armadillo? Doesn’t it have scales and everything? Like a snake?
He told her No, an armadillo was an animal ate ants.
She said Terrific. What kind of creep is this, he eats ants?
He explained that the guy’s name was Luis Amaros, his real name, and he lived in this great house on Key Biscayne, looking out over the water, a gorgeous house must’ve cost him a million, a million-two. He had a sailboat parked behind the house plus a motor cruiser, and there was a Jag and a Rolls in the garage, the guy was what a person might consider well off, believe me. There was no question that he was a pro, she was right about that, he was very definitely moving cocaine, which accounted for the solid gold fixtures in the toilet and the safe with six, seven kilos he kept for entertaining his lady friends. But that was no reason to be afraid of him. Because what they were going to do was leave Miami the minute they had the coke. Amaros wouldn’t bother coming after them, why would he? For a lousy two, three keys, whatever? Besides, how could he ever find them? This was a big state and an even bigger country.
He thought of himself as a ladies’ man, Amaros, keen eye for the ladies, wouldn’t have anything to do with hookers, which is why Jenny was perfect for the job. You don’t look anything like a hooker, he told her, which she supposed he intended as a compliment though she couldn’t see anything wrong with the way hookers looked. In LA, the hookers she knew dressed like college girls whenever they went out to turn a trick. Out there, it was the straight girls who looked like hookers. Your movie stars looked like the biggest hookers of all. They went to the Academy Awards, you’d think they were giving out prizes for who was showing the most tits and ass.
It still bothered her that she’d never made it as an actress. Whenever she watched the Academy Awards on television, it made her sad that it wasn’t her up there making an acceptance speech. Made her want to cry, watching the Academy Awards. Thank you, thank you, I’m so moved I could cry. Oh, thank you. I would also like to thank my marvelous director, and I would like to thank my wonderful co-stars and my kind and understanding producer, but most of all I would like to thank my mother, Annie Santoro. For giving me so much love and understanding. Mama?
And at this point she’d hold up the Oscar.
Mama, this is really yours.
Tears in her eyes.
Still bothered her.
And yet she was sort of pleased that he didn’t think she looked like a hooker. She guessed that meant she looked pure, you know, the girl next door, the virgin, which was what she’d played to good effect in California when she was still Mary Jane Hopkins. Little pigeon-toed stance, hands twisting the hem of her skirt, Gee, Mister, I never had one of those in my mouth before. Long time ago, that was. Mary Jane Hopkins was dead and gone now. But she was flattered that he thought she still looked pure as the driven snow.
This customer of his who’d shared the coke with Amaros was a working girl just like Jenny, only Amaros hadn’t known that. He’d known it, he wouldn’t have had anything to do with her. What happened was he’d picked her up in the Kasbah Lounge out there in Bal Harbour at the Morocco Hotel, which was his favorite hangout on the beach. Very fancy hotel up there, combo playing like supposed to be mysterious African-style music in the lounge there, all beaded curtains and waiters in red fezzes, very dimly lit, hookers cruising, but Amaros wouldn’t know a genuine hooker if she came complete with a scarlet letter on her chest. Didn’t tip to the fact that Kim — which was the name this girl went by, her real name was Annabelle — was a hooker, began moving on her the way he would a straight girl, what kind of work you do, you been in Miami long, where you from originally, like that.
Kim was getting a big kick out of it, to tell the truth, this pudgy little guy with the Spanish accent and the big diamond ring on his pinky and the Bugs Bunny grin never suspecting for a minute that she got a hundred bucks an hour for her time. When he asked if she did cocaine, she began to get really interested. Because sometimes, you found a guy had great coke it was worth more than the C-note to spend some time with him. So she went along with it, all big-eyed and innocent, Oh gee, Mr. Amaros, I’m just a little girl from the state of Minnesota, I wouldn’t know about cocaine and all those bad things, him holding her hand while the waiter in the fez brought lavender-colored drinks.
So finally Amaros convinced her to come take a look at his big house out on Key Biscayne, which really knocked Kim’s eyes out, I mean this was some house. And he opens the safe, and takes out a big plastic bag looks like sugar and he puts it on the dresser and opens it, and she dips her finger in it and oh, yes, daddy, it is cocaine of the nicest sort. He does a trick with some chemical, it makes a sample turn blue, and he tells her the brighter the blue, the better the girl, but she’s already snorting through a rolled-up twenty dollar bill, and she doesn’t need him to tell her how good this stuff is.
In the safe, she spots six more bags.
He tells her he just keeps it around to entertain his friends.
She is very happy he is such a fine entertainer. She tells him he ought to go into the catering business.
He is having a jolly old time, Amaros, introducing this nice little girl from Minnesota to all the wicked, wicked ways of the big bad world. He shows her a movie starring Johnny Holmes, the porn star with the enormous cock, and asks Kim who’s bigger, him or Johnny Holmes. She says Oh, you, my dear, without question, which isn’t really a lie because he is in fact rather well hung for such a short guy.
So the idea is for Jenny to go to this same Kasbah Lounge and sit at the bar there drinking something purple or pink, waiting for her dream boy to walk in one night, after which she will catch his eye and play the innocent little girl from Dubuque, Iowa. He will whisk her away to his castle on Key Biscayne, and he will open the safe and take out a bag of coke and do his Brighter-the-Blue trick and show her his Johnny Holmes movie and his own humongous weapon and she will put a little bit of chloral hydrate in his drink and knock him out and run off with the rest of the stuff in the safe, how does that sound to Jenny?
Jenny thinks it sounds terrific.
Because to her this is still the way out.
This was now like the last week in March when they were planning this.
8
Matthew was still steaming.
Back some time ago, before they’d got to know each other better, he’d had the same kind of confrontation with Bloom. Twice, in fact. The first time was while Bloom was investigating the murder of Vicky Miller and the kidnapping of her daughter, Allison. Bloom had told him — on the phone, in much the same way Rawles had told him on the phone — to bug off. What he’d said, actually, was: