Then he almost took a header off his barstool. The man didn't come up with a wallet, like most men would. He came up with a coiled wad of bills; he put his fingers to his mouth before he peeled one off. From the bellman's scraping little two-step, Louie understood that he'd been overtipped; suddenly he knew beyond a reasonable doubt what he couldn't help suspecting from the start: his big-shot brother was in town.
He blinked, made sure he was hidden by tendrils of hanging thatch. He was utterly befuddled but at least he was no longer bored. He watched his relative slip into his room, then abruptly, his drink unfinished, he called for his tab.
"Hey, where ya goin'?" said the man from Minneapolis, who wanted to keep gloating about the frozen lakes back home.
"Things to do," said Louie. "Lotta things to do."
Once again he had a purpose. He had to warn his niece.
29
"Ziggy, look at me," said Angelina.
"I am looking at you," he replied.
"My eyes, Ziggy. Look at my eyes. Look me in the eyes and tell me you really believe I put my father onto you."
He was standing over her at the foot of the bed. His hair was awry, he had green stains on the knees of his pants, broken bits of leaf were sticking to his shirt. His stare was wild and his voice was tight and scared. "Then why the hell's he here?"
"How should I know why he's here?" said Angelina. She was propped on Ziggy's unfresh pillows. She held the sheet up snug beneath her chin, but still the soft cloth traced out the curves of her legs and hips and tummy. Her body was confusing her. One second she wished that Ziggy was naked with her in the bed and the next second she wished that she was dressed and on a plane. "Why's he say he's here?"
Ziggy's reply was dismissive. "Some business thing. Some thing with Cuba."
Angelina said, "All right, then. There's your answer."
The answer didn't mollify his paranoia. He paced the width of the bed, dragged his hand over the dusty dresser top. "Fuck's the difference why he's here? He's here. He's in my face."
"You said he didn't recognize you."
"Yeah, today. But what's it take to recognize a person? A word? A look? Christ, you recognized me by my goddam finger."
"That's different," Angelina said. "I'm in love with you."
Ziggy's hands hardened into fists, veins stood out along his neck. His face got red, his eyes narrowed down, he looked like he would scream or cry. Instead, he squeezed out, "And right there is the mystery of the fuckin' ages."
Angelina looked at him, shook her head in its nest of wrinkled pillows. "On that I have to agree."
He turned away from her and faced the wall. She watched his back heave as he battled the air to grab each breath.
After a moment she said, "I came here to make love with you. You know that, right?"
"Oh really?" he said without turning around. "I thought you just stopped by to get naked and take a nap."
She watched flecks of silver dust swim through the bright stripes near the shutters. "It was a pretty dumb idea," she said. "I admit it."
He stayed in his chosen exile at the foot of the bed, staring at the void and dirty corner of the room. "So what'll you do now?" she asked at last.
"Go far away," he said.
She thought about that, said, "This is far away."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, "you came here because you thought no one would find you, it would be safe."
"It was" he interrupted.
"But everybody found you," she went right on. "Everybody. And that could happen anywhere. The world just isn't that big."
Finally he turned to face her. "Ange," he said, "you have no idea how big the world is. You think— what?—the world is Pelham Manor, New York, and Florida?"
"It makes you feel better to insult me, Ziggy?" Then her voice changed and she added, "It's been ten years since you called me Ange."
He stood with his hands on his hips, sucking wretched, labored breaths.
After a moment she went on, "Besides, you have a life here."
This was news to Ziggy. A life? He had a so-so job and some second-rate action that was never going to make him rich. He had a nothing place to live and occasionally he got laid. Was this a life? Was this what other people had in mind when they talked about a life? Fact was, Ziggy was pretty clueless about what a life consisted of, still less how to get one.
This lack flooded over him now, enraged him, made his movements violent, jerky. He tore open a dresser drawer, reached in deep for his passport and his stash of funds beneath a heap of socks. Stuffing money in his pants, he wheeled back toward the naked woman in his bed, said, "Sorry things didn't go better, Angelina. I'm outa here."