“One day I’ll crown!” he says.
“What do you mean by ‘crown’?” I say.
“Crown means, in old criminal speak, you make a major hit. Steal something big. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Here, as you look at me, I’m planning a big hit. And I’ll crown. I’ll crown! And then I’ll say to you, ‘Here, Mafia, have two hundred dollars. Do you need more? Take three hundred!’”
“You’re a dreamer,” I say. “Drink. It’s the best you can do.”
“You’ll see!” he says. “You’ll see me around Miami — twenty gold chains around my neck with a hot blonde at my side! You’ll see me in a Cadillac Dorado! You’ll see me with a three-thousand-dollar watch and a six-hundred-dollar suit. You’ll see me, Mafia!”
“I hope you crown!” I say.
“You’ll see me.”
I stand up, I make a half turn and walk toward the women’s room. When I get there, I softly nudge the door and go inside. Frances is on her bed, putting her clothes in two paper bags. I go over to her and hug her gently around the waist. I kiss her neck.
“My angel!” she says. “Did you see that woman? Did you get the house?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow at this time, we’ll be sleeping in a clean delicious bed.”
“Oh, my God!” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God!”
“A dining room.” I say. “One bedroom. A kitchen. A bathroom. All of it clean, pretty, freshly painted. All for us.”
“My angel, my angel!” she says. “Kiss me!”
I kiss her on the mouth. I squeeze one of her breasts through her dress. She smells good. If she weighed a few more pounds and took better care of herself, she’d be pretty. I lay her down gently on the bed. I remove her shoes. I go to the door and lock it. She takes her own clothes off this time.
“Tomorrow …,” I say as I enter her slowly. “Tomorrow we’ll be doing this in our own house.”
“My angel …,” she says.
I dreamt that I was in Havana again, in a funeral parlor on Calle 23. I was surrounded by numerous friends. We were drinking coffee. All of a sudden, a white door opened and in came a casket on the shoulders of a dozen wailing women. One of my friends elbowed me in the ribs and said, “They’re bringing in Fidel Castro.”
We turned around. The old ladies placed the coffin in the middle of the room and left, weeping hysterically. Then the coffin opened. Fidel stuck a hand out first. Then the top half of his body. Finally all of him emerged. He smoothed his full-dress uniform and approached us, a smile on his face.
“Isn’t there any coffee for me?” he asked. Somebody gave him a cup.
“Well, we’re already dead,” Fidel said. “Now you’ll see that doesn’t solve anything, either.”
I wake up. It’s morning already. It’s the big day. In three hours the social security checks will arrive and Frances and I will leave the halfway house. I jump out of bed. I grab the filthy towel and a sliver of soap and head for the bathroom. I wash up. I urinate. I leave the towel and the soap in the bathroom knowing that I won’t need them anymore. I head for the living room. The nuts are having breakfast, but Frances is there, sitting in a corner next to the TV.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”
“We have to wait,” I say. “The checks are coming at ten.”
“I’m scared,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”
“Calm down,” I say. “Calm down. Did you already get your things together?”
“Yes.”
“Then calm down,” I say, kissing the top of her head.
I look at her. Just thinking that this afternoon I will be making love to her in a clean soft bed makes me hard.
“Calm down,” I say, sticking my hand down her dress and gently squeezing a breast. “Calm down.”
I let go. I stick my hand in my pockets and find that I have two quarters left. Great. I’ll drink some coffee. I’ll buy a newspaper and I’ll spend the next two hours, until the checks arrive, sitting on some bench. I kiss her on the mouth. I head out to the corner diner.
It’s a beautiful morning. For the first time in a long time I look at the blue sky, the birds, the clouds. Drinking coffee — lighting up a cigarette — flipping through today’s newspaper: all suddenly become delicious things to do. For the first time in a long time I feel the weight is falling off my shoulders. Like my legs can run. Like my arms could test their strength. I take a rock from the street and throw it a long way, toward a barren field. I remember that when I was a kid, I was a good baseball player. I stop. I inhale the morning’s fresh air. My eyes fill with tears of happiness. I get to the diner and order coffee.
“Make it good,” I tell the woman.
The woman makes it with a smile on her face.
“Special, for you,” she says, filling the cup.
I drink it in three sips. It’s good. I ask for a newspaper, too. The woman brings it. I pay. I turn around, looking for a clean quiet spot. My eyes settle on a white wall, by the shade of a tree. I go and sit there. I open the newspaper and start to read. A feeling of peace washes over me.
SPURNED EX-BOYFRIEND KIDNAPS, GAGS AND KILLS HER.
DEATH THREATENS DARING HELICOPTER PILOTS IN THE DARK.
RUSSIAN LEADER PROPOSES A FAREWELL TO ARMS.
Someone stands over me. I raise my head. It’s Frances. She followed me. She sits next to me. She takes me by the arm. She buries her head in my chest and stays still for a few seconds.
“The mailman arrived,” she murmurs finally.
“Do you know if he brought the checks?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “That man … Curbelo, he grabbed the envelopes.”
“Let’s go!” I say.
I leave the newspaper on the wall and stand up. I lift her gently by the arm. She’s shaking.
Looking up at the sky, she says, “Oh, my God!”
“Calm down …,” I’m dragging her gently.
“Is the house beautiful, my angel?”
“It’s perfect,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “It has a living and dining room, a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a full-size bed, a sideboard, three chairs …”
We walk toward the halfway house.
When we get to the home, she goes to her room to pick up the last of her belongings and I go to my room to get my suitcase. When I pass Curbelo’s desk, I see that, sure enough, he’s there opening the envelopes with the social security checks. One-eyed Reyes goes up to him and asks for a cigarette.
“Get away!” Curbelo says. “Can’t you see that I’m working?”
I smile. I go on to my room. I grab the suitcase and stick two or three shirts in it, my books, a jacket and a pair of shoes. I close it. My books, more than fifty of them, make it pretty heavy. I take out the book of English Romantic poets and stick it in my pocket. I take one last look at the room. The crazy guy who works at the pizzeria is snoring in his bed with his mouth agape. A small cockroach runs across his face. I leave. I let my suitcase drop in front of Mr. Curbelo’s desk. He looks at me questioningly.
“Give me my check,” I say. “I’m leaving.”
“That’s not the way things are done around here,” he says. “I’ll give it to you, but that’s not the way things are done. You should have given me fifteen days’ notice. Now you’re leaving me with an empty bed. That’s money that I lose.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Give me my check.”
He looks for it in the collection of envelopes. He takes it out and gives it to me.
“Get out of here!” he says, irritated.
I leave. I place the suitcase in one corner of the living room, and go to the women’s room. Frances is there with her bags ready. I show her my check.