These boys were a handful. She hoped her bruised tummy would turn vivid colors; she'd walk around naked so the little killer could see what he did. But she would never say a word about his punching her. Never complain, never explain. Words of wisdom from Henry Ford II.
Now they were in bed naked, propped up with pillows, Cundo, a Cuban cigar clamped in his jaw to foul his breath, Cundo swirling a snifter of cognac, Dawn, snuggled close to him, sipping a tall bourbon Collins, thirsty after the workout.
She said, "Hon, if you're not careful you're going to spill cognac all over Ricky."
It was Ricky limp, Ricardo when it had grown to its playing size. Cundo loved it that she gave his pecker a name. He said something, talking with his mouth full of cigar, maybe in English, maybe not. Dawn said, "If it burns I'll have to make it better, won't I?" He seemed in a good mood, pleased with his performance. She took a sip of her drink, put the glass on the side table and lighted a Slim.
"I want you to know," Dawn said, "I completely forgot the painting was here."
Cundo puffed on his panatela looking straight ahead. He said,
"Yes…?"
"Sweetheart, I've been living in the other house. The only time I came up to this room was to hang that painting. I didn't expect what's his name, Foley, coming and… I forgot it was here. Jimmy wanted to take his work to the beach and sell it, he said for a lot of money. I said, "Are you out of your fucking mind? This is for my darling. I said it's why you did the painting, don't you remember?
I told Jimmy I wanted to surprise you. Then what's his name, Fo-ley, almost gave it away, telling you about it. He wanted to have Jimmy paint a bathing suit on me."
"What did he say when he saw you naked?"
"Foley? The first thing he said was, 'Is that you?' I said of course not. But I could tell he didn't believe me. He said, 'I thought that might be my neighbor in the bed.' I wanted to take the painting down, store it away until you came home. Foley said I might as well leave it, it'll only be a few more days. He said, 'Even if it isn't you, I know Cundo will love it.'»
Cundo turned his head to Dawn, the cigar pointing at her now. "He said that, Jack Foley?"
"He knew it was for you-who else? I mean even before I told him. I did not leave it here to turn him on, I swear. He's your friend," Dawn said, "he'd never do anything to hurt you."
"Make me look foolish," Cundo said. "Well, I already forgive you. I like your dark hair too, the natural shade for Navarro, yes? You not some blonde. What else you want?"
"You," Dawn said. "I want you to love me and trust me." She thought of saying if he didn't believe her and kicked her out-well, there'd be nothing left for her to do but swim out in the ocean as far as she could, and not come back. Except the little bugger might say, "Oh, you want to go swimming?" And she'd have to melt all over him with love. It was work.
He was swirling his cognac again, tilting the glass over his sucked-in loins. Dawn said with her sly smile, "You're trying to spill some on little Ricky, aren't you? I hope it doesn't burn."
"It does," Cundo said, "you can make it better, uh?"
Dawn stubbed her Slim in the ashtray and turned to Cundo again with her sly smile.
"I can," Dawn said, her lines committed to memory, "but we'll be telling little Ricky so long, see you later, buddy."
She had Cundo grinning at her, eating it up. "Then wha' happens?"
Dawn said, "You don't know?" her eyes open wide to show surprise. Times like these she felt like an idiot, but managed to keep her chin up.
"I like you to tell me," Cundo said.
"Well, then, before we know it," Dawn said, getting ready to go to work, "we'll be saying hi to your one-eyed buddy Ricardo." "You kill me," Cundo said.
If it were only that easy. Jesus, keeping the little guy entertained while dying to know what Foley was up to.
Foley was in Cundo's house across the canal, the pink one. He wasn't familiar with the layout, the rooms, he hadn't poked around yet or been upstairs. He had Mike Nesi on his back, the baldheaded hard-on sitting in the living room with him, not a bad-looking room, brown walls and the chairs and sofa in soft colors, Foley in a big pale yellow chair across from Mike Nesi on the sofa, drinking beer from a clear bottle, the glass-top coffee table between them, Foley listening to Mike Nesi telling him it was a good life if you didn't weaken and start taking shit from people trying to tell you what to do, was his drift. He was on his fourth beer.
Foley had had a couple of shots of Jack Daniel's. There would be a silence. Foley couldn't think of anything to say to this dumbbell, but could listen to him and at the same time wonder what he was doing here and how long he'd stay and if he owed-not owed, if he should think of Dawn if he got ready to do something different. Find out where he was in his life. If he was still any good.
He liked where he was ten years ago, before the two falls. But then thought, No, you don't go back, you go straight ahead. He was still the same person. Age had nothing to do with it; he was fine. And Cundo was Cundo. But it was different now. He should wait for Dawn, talk to her.
Mike Nesi had his feet resting on the oval edge of the coffee table. Foley saw he was wearing work boots with metal toes, before he said, "Mike, would you take your feet off the table?" He almost said «please» but changed his mind in time.
Mike Nesi said, "The fuck you care, it ain't yours."
"It belongs to the guy who's paying you."
See if that moved him.
"Cundo don't care where I put my feet."
"Yeah, but I do," Foley said. "I'd like you to take your feet off the table." Then waited as Nesi took a swig of his beer and Foley said, "What're you wearing the shitkickers for?" knowing they were a skinhead weapon.
Nesi said, "My feet feel at home in 'em."
"Would you mind taking them off the table?"
"I don't, what're you gonna do, hit me with something?" He looked around. "There's a brass candleholder over there. Let's see if you can get to it."
"Why would you and I," Foley said, "want to have a fistfight?"
"Hell, knives, baseball bats, you name it."
"I'm asking why," Foley said. "I'm not gonna get in an argument with you, it would be the same as banging my head against the wall. You and I hold different views of life's fundamental truths. I don't want to argue or fight with you. I still want you to get your feet off the fucking coffee table."
"I don't know where your head's at," Mike Nesi said, "but soon as you stand up I'm gonna knock you on your ass and show you what my shitkickers are for."
"Or," Foley said, "we could go down to the beach and shoot some hoops. Even play for money."
They drove to the courts in Mike Nesi's pickup, the skinhead saying it was getting dark till they came to the beach and saw the wash of light out on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Foley, his basketball resting in his lap, said no, there was plenty of time. He said, "How about taking the ball out at midcourt and show what you've got, shoot a jumper or drive to the basket." He said, "Not having a ref doesn't mean you're gonna foul me every chance you get, does it?" Foley showing Mike Nesi a grin, maybe kidding, maybe not.
Mike Nesi said, "You mean they's rules? Like I can't hang on to your shirt or stomp on your tennis shoes I get the chance? As I understand the way the game is played, you want to put the ball through the hoop and I want to stop you from scoring, right? That's the game of basketball. But if they's no ref, we don't have to worry about rules, do we? We put up a hunnert each and play to twenty-one. How's that sound? First one to score that many points takes the pot." Foley asked if he'd ever played with black guys. Mike Nesi said it wasn't ever done in his recollection. "The niggers play their show-off, shoot-from-anywhere game, while us white folks like to take the ball directly to the basket."