Cat Chaser

“Two guys came in. Looking for the piano player.”

Nolen didn’t say anything.

“You hear what I said?”

“What time is it?”

“About ten-thirty. They came out with Prado and Anita, said they’re going to have a drink, but I don’t think so. They put ’em in a car and drove off. A red and white Cadillac.”

“There you are,” Nolen said.

“What do you mean, there you are? They took ’em somewhere.”

“Forget about it,” Nolen said. He still hadn’t moved, sitting low in the chair.

“One of them, his name’s Jiggs Scully. The other guy was Cuban-I don’t know, Latin.”

“The guy told you his name?”

“He gave me his card. Jiggs Scully.”

“You believe him?”

“He gave me his card.”

“You’re paid up,” Nolen said. “Forget about it.”

“You sound like the guy Jiggs,” Moran said. He turned around and walked out.

When he got the key to Number One Jerry wanted to go with him, but Moran told him he’d better stay in the office in case there was a call. He didn’t want Jerry along. He was afraid he’d see something in the apartment and Jerry would ask questions and he’d end up telling Jerry the woman was Andres de Boya’s sister and then Jerry would ask more questions and Moran would have to stand there saying, “I don’t know,” over and over, Jerry driving him nuts. It was true, he didn’t know what was going on. They could be good friends and the guy was kidding about kicking the door in. The woman hadn’t yelled. She could have run or at least yelled out when she saw him standing by the swimming pool.

He had a fu

It still surprised him the woman hadn’t yelled something. A woman like that, she would have demanded help if she needed it, then complained if he didn’t jump right away.

The apartment seemed in order, music playing softly on the radio. If they didn’t turn the radio or the lights off, that could mean something. Forced to leave without any fooling around. Or it could mean they didn’t worry too much about bills from Florida Power. People who owned places along the beach were always comparing their electric bills. An ashtray was full of long cigarette butts. A few Coconut Palms illustrated postcards lay on the desk. There was an empty champagne bottle in the trash can. He didn’t see the brandy bottle, the one Lula said was down a couple inches every morning when she cleaned. Lula said they tore the bed up; but both double beds were still made. A pink negligee hung in the bedroom closet. Moran wondered if he should take it; he was pretty sure he would never see them again. There didn’t seem to be anything that belonged to the piano player. Moran turned off the radio and the lights before he left.

They didn’t come back during the night. When Moran walked out to the street, early, before seven, he saw the woman’s gray Mercedes was gone. He thought, Well, that doesn’t mean anything. All of them still could be friends. They got back late and the woman decided to go home; the lovers never spent the night anyway. Maybe they’d be back at it this afternoon… Just about the time Moran would be at Miami International boarding the Eastern flight to Santo Domingo.

He waited until after nine before calling the number on the business card that bore the name Jiggs Scully and Consultant beneath it.

A woman’s voice said, “Good morning, Dorado Management.”

Moran said, “Mr. Scully, please.”

The woman’s voice said, “Mr. Scully?” As though she didn’t recognize the name. “Just a minute.” There was a silence on the line for about ten seconds. The woman’s voice came back on and said, “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no Mr. Scully with the company.”

Moran said, “I’ve got his card. Your phone number’s on it.”

The woman’s voice said, “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no one here by that name,” and hung up.

Moran didn’t see Nolen until ten-thirty. He came out to the cement wall with a beer in his hand, stringy hair blowing in the wind, and raised his face, eyes closed, to the overcast sky.

“Beautiful morning.”

Moran said, “They didn’t come back last night.”

“They never do.”

“I called the guy’s number. Scully? There’s no one there by that name.”

“He lied to you,” Nolen said, “didn’t he? But, in any event, the lovers will come back sometime or they won’t. What else can I tell you, buddy?”

Moran was ready to jump on him. “You can cut the buddy shit and tell me what’s going on. Why’d Anita and the piano player pick this place? There a thousand motels they could’ve gone to, they pick this one. Why?”

Nolen took a drink of beer without opening his eyes. “It’s halfway between them-I don’t know.”

“But you were told to come here, weren’t you? You didn’t follow them here.”

“Marshall gave me a postcard picture of the place, when it had palm trees.”

“De Boya gave it to him?”

“I guess so.”

“He tell his sister to come here? Good place to shack up? Come on…”

“Maybe she saw the postcard at her brother’s house,” Nolen said, in pain, persecuted. “She tells the piano player to meet her here ’cause it’s the only place she can think of. How’s that?”

“Something’s going on,” Moran said, “and I’m standing in the middle. Does de Boya think I know his sister? I invited ’em here?”

“I don’t know,” Nolen said, “I really don’t. I was hired to watch Anita.” He sucked in fresh ocean air, still not looking at Moran. “And sort of keep my eyes open.”

“For what?”

“See who comes to visit you.” Nolen glanced at Moran and could not have liked the way Moran was staring at him. “Marshall said-you want his exact words?-he said keep your eyes open for a broad.”

“Go on.”

“With sort of blond streaked hair, good-looking.”

“About thirty-two?”

“Yeah, he said around thirty.”

Moran kept staring at him. “What else do you do for money? Anything you’re told, huh?” He walked off toward his bungalow.

Nolen said, “George?” and waited for him to look around. Nolen raised his beer can. “You got any cold ones?”

Moran looked tired. He said, “Come on,” with a halfhearted wave of his hand.

Nolen followed him inside.

Jerry Shea watched the black Cadillac pull up in front. At first he thought Moran had called for an airport limo. But then realized this car wasn’t any ride to the Miami airport. This was the real thing, a personal limousine with no-glare windows that were almost as black as the car and a driver who wore a buttoned-up dark suit that could pass for a uniform.

Jerry Shea said, “Oh, my God,” out loud.

The driver was the Latino guy who was here last night, the one the other guy had called Corky. Now he was a chauffeur. He stood holding the handle of the rear door, ready to open it.

Now the other one, Jiggs Scully, who had given Moran his card, came out of the passenger side of the front seat. He wore a dark suit and stood pulling up his pants and sticking his shirt in, adjusting himself.

Jerry picked up the phone but didn’t dial.

The driver, Corky, was opening the rear door.

A man about sixty got out. A man with a broad, tight expanse of double-breasted gray suit that he adjusted smartly, pulling the jacket down to appear even tighter. The man was Hispanic but very light and had a certain bearing, immovable, built like the stump of an oak tree cut off at about five nine. He reminded Jerry for some reason of a labor leader, a guy high up in the Teamsters, a Latin Jimmy Hoffa. Though this guy was more polished. That word was in Jerry’s mind because the guy looked like he darkened his hair with black shoe-polish, the way it was shining in the sun, like patent leather.

The man was taking a pair of sunglasses from his inside pocket as he looked up at the Coconut Palms. He didn’t seem too impressed.