As he'd done before, he climbed the outside stairs, their cantilevered steps showing dizzy slices of the parking lot below. He walked along the outside corridor, under dim fixtures splotched with flies and moths, past drawn curtains backlit with the sickly glow of televisions. At length he came to his old lover's door. He knocked before his agitation could catch up with him.
Keith McCullough, on stakeout since breakfast, was fast asleep. But he woke up quickly at the knock. "Who's there?"
"It's Michael. We have to talk."
There was a pause, a clear reluctance, and Michael knew precisely what it was about; it was about the dumper not wanting to be bothered with the heartache and recriminations of the dumped. But after a moment a bedside lamp came on, it glowed weakly through the window. Footsteps padded to the door, and Keith McCullough, his hair mussed and his eyelids heavy, undid the locks and stood there in a towel.
Michael could not help saying, "Hello, David."
McCullough, put upon, slumped his shoulders, said, "Michael, listen, I'm sorry for what happened, but this isn't a good—"
"I'm over it," Michael cut him off. "I'm here on business. Invite me in?"
The agent hesitated, then stood aside. Michael entered. He saw the little .25 revolver on the night table, gleaming softly in the light of the lamp. Shaking his head, he said, "A cop. A cop is really what you are."
McCullough closed the door, sat down heavily in a vinyl chair, snugged the towel across his thighs. "What's the business, Michael? Ziggy?"
Michael sat on the edge of the bed, said, "He wanted me to tell you he hates your guts but he might be ready to deal."
"What's he got on Paul Amaro?"
"The same thing he has on Tommy Lucca."
"Which is what?"
The ambassador looked around the dimly lighted room, the jerky paintings, the crummy carpet. "This is one tacky place you have. How did I ever get excited here?"
"Michael, don't be coy with me."
He toyed with his earrings, looked daggers at McCullough. "Nah, no matter what, let's not be coy."
"What's he got on Paul Amaro?" the agent said again.
Michael was staring at the bedside table. "Can I touch your gun?" he said. "Such a small gun for a cop."
McCullough, wide awake now, said, "Leave the gun alone. This information Ziggy's peddling—"
"You paying in trade this time?"
McCullough squirmed, rearranged his towel. He said, "Michael, don't flirt." But having said it, he wasn't quite sure he meant it. Things were breaking fast now, come what may, his posting to Key West was nearly over. He thought with guilty abashedness about his little house on a discreet cul-de-sac in Fort Lauderdale. The PTA meetings. The toys with plastic wheels in the driveway. His wife in bed with face cream on.
Michael said briskly, "You should get some people here tomorrow. Half a dozen, Ziggy says. Ready for outdoor work. Exact time and place, we'll have to let you know."
McCullough shook his head. "I need details, assurance. What if he's jerking me around?"
"Terrible thing," said Michael. "To jerk someone around."
The agent frowned, fiddled with his towel, felt in his loins the shortness of time and the opportuneness of the hour. "Michael," he said. "Michael. I have my job to do. That doesn't mean I'm not genuinely fond of you."
Angelina's friend smiled at that, seemed to relax, leaned back on his elbows so that his shirt stretched taut across his ripply stomach and his jeans pulled snug along his thighs. Turning green eyes on McCullough, he sweetly said, "Do you even know when you're being a conniving scumbag?"
The agent wanted to believe the banter was part of the seduction; he managed an uneasy laugh.
His mouth was still twisted from it as Michael rose and headed for the door. "About tomorrow," he said as he left. "Someone'll be in touch."
44
At Coral Shores, the next day went as slowly as a boat becalmed. Time flattened out like water stained with oil, the sun labored across the sky as if pulling an enormous train behind it.
The rituals of the guest house moved with a deliberateness almost Japanese. Carefully, the breakfast buffet was trundled into place; unhurriedly it was removed again. Men who'd been out very late settled, yawning, onto lounges, finishing up their short night's sleep in sunshine. A few people swam languorous laps; their arms rose and fell in a mesmerizing pattern like a dream of cresting dolphins.
But beneath the uneventful calm, everything was changing for the hostages. For good and for ill, old patterns were crumbling, old habits of the body and the heart seemed quite suddenly archaic.
Uncle Louie no longer got up before the sun. His eyes sprang open early, but now he lingered near his sleeping wife, savored the familiar smells of hair spray and old cigarettes. When he finally arose, it was to bring juice and coffee back to the room. Wife and husband plumped each other's pillows, then talked with the earnestness of newlyweds about what their life together should be like.