Glitz

With the straight face, the tough-shit tone talking to her own husband. She knew the guy and the guy was more than just Iris’s boyfriend. The guy was a threat, but not so much of a threat it worried her, involved her. The guy looked like a narc, yes, he did, a movie-actor narc. Jackie wondered if he should take a shot, thought about it a few moments… Why not? He looked up from the photo to the sharklady.

“He’s a cop. Right?”

It zinged her, caught her by surprise and she raised her eyebrows, stared at him.

“How do you know that?”

Even a little impressed.

“Instinct, Nancy. Experience.”

“And a wild guess.”

Jackie said, “Nancy, I appreciate everything you’ve said here today, your concern, you want to keep us on our toes. Good. But if I can’t tell when it’s time to cover my ass-if you’ll pardon the expression-I’m in the wrong fucking business.”

14

VINCENT DROVE TO LONGPORT in the rain, down-beach to the bottom of Absecon Island. Big money, big homes, but it looked barren to him; there were so few trees. He was used to the Florida coast. Here were weathered frame beach homes out of the past next to white modern ones with round corners, as different as privies and spaceships. Maybe it would have more of a seaside resort look with the sun shining. He found Donovan’s address and was surprised to see one of the old, old ones, with peaks and gables and a porch sitting on brick stilts that circled the entire house.

He recognized the maid, the same one who opened the door in Isla Verde. She recognized him too, he could tell. But he said, “Remember me?”

Dominga smiled, shy, touching her chin. “Yes, by your bear’ you have.”

“My beard,” Vincent said. “Yeah, I’m glad I kept it. It keeps my face warm. You cold?”

“Yes, I’m cole all the time I’m here.”

She asked him to come in, please, and Vincent told her he wished he was down in Puerto Rico right now. She asked him if he wanted to see Mr. Donovan.

“I’d like to.”

“You having a har’ time to see him.”

“Not home, uh? How about missus?”

Dominga shook her head. “I think you see them at the hotel today.”

It was so quiet in the house. Still, it had a comfortable, lived-in look, bright colors in the living room, a gallery of paintings, a Taino Indian jar on the mantel. It was like an urn, or how he pictured an urn. This morning he had spoken to Linda on the phone. They had to decide what to do with Iris’s remains. Linda said, her ashes. A stainless steel urn would be thirty-nine dollars. Or they could pay up to nine hundred for solid bronze.

He said to Dominga, “I wonder if you could do me a favor,” taking a small notebook from his raincoat pocket. “Call a number for me here in Longport, Mr. Garbo’s home. You know him?”

“Mr. Garbo, yes.”

“Here’s the number. Ask for LaDo

“Yes, I see it.”

“If you could say to her, ‘Mr. Mora is coming over from Mr. Donovan’s house to talk to you.’ Just like that. You think you could?”

“I know how to speak on the phone,” Dominga said. “ ‘Mr. Mora is coming there from Mr. Donovan so he can talk to you.’ “

“Perfect,” Vincent said.

LaDo

She had told him to hang his coat on the door of the fronthall closet so it would dry, said he could take his shoes off if he wanted, she had hers off-leading him barefoot in a heavy fisherman’s sweater that almost covered white shorts that showed about an inch of each cheek, leading him into a room of summer furniture and a wall of humid glass against the weather, a wall of gloom today, the room dim, silent.

Vincent said, “Iris was the only one took her clothes off? Nobody else?”

“I didn’t go for that one bit,” LaDo

“Let me do it.”

“No, sit still.” She pushed up from the couch with an effort. “This weather, I wish I could find something to do besides watch soaps. I watch ’em with the maid but she’s off today. You like my Bloodies?”

“You make a good one.”

“Jackie taught me.”

“I think I’ll switch though, if you have scotch.”

“We have everything, crème de menthe, Southern Comfort. You like that Amaretto? It’s good.”

“Scotch’ll be fine.”

LaDo

“Were you there both nights?”

LaDo

“At the apartment.”

“Oh, you mean with Be

“Tommy didn’t say too much.” Vincent watched her add tomato juice and stir. “I wasn’t sure which night he was there.”

“Who?”

“Tommy.”

“You want that on the rocks?”

“Please.”

She brought him a generous scotch, started toward the couch and stopped. “What do you mean, which night? Tommy wasn’t there either time.” She frowned, “Or was he? Now you got me confused.”

Vincent sat in a deep, slipcovered chair, ashtray on the arm. He lighted a cigarette, watching as she sat down on the floor, careful of her drink, and leaned back against the couch.

“I think I’m safer here,” LaDo

Vincent told her he was supposed to check on everyone who was at the apartment either night, make sure they hadn’t left anything. Not even hotel matches. Tommy didn’t want it to get back to him. LaDo