Mary slipped through the girls crowding in, walked over to the front desk. She watched from here, standing with a travel group of Chinese from Taiwan who nudged each other, staring. Mary said, “It’s George Moran, the American film star,” and some of them raised their cameras and began taking pictures.
She watched Moran in a much different role now, but the same Moran, surrounded by girls with silky dark hair and woolly Afros, girls in dresses and girls in tight jeans, girls with imploring eyes trying to make themselves heard in both Spanish and English-Moran in the middle, hands raised close to his body, trying not to touch them. He was working his way out of the pack now toward the front desk, his eyes with a helpless look finding Mary. She smiled at him.
Reaching her he said, “What do I do?” And looked at the desk clerk who stood composed, almost indifferent.
“Will you tell them I’m not the one?”
The desk clerk raised his eyebrows. “You are Captain Morón.”
“I’m not a captain. I never was.”
“I don’t believe they care you aren’t an officer. You are Mr. Jorge Morón, are you not?”
“They’re not old enough,” Moran said.
The desk clerk seemed surprised. “You like them to be older?”
“They’re not old enough to be Luci Palma. It was sixteen years ago. There isn’t one of them over thirty.”
“Take a good look,” Mary said. “There isn’t one of them over twenty-five.”
Moran said to the girls, “Wait, stand still. Be tranquilo, okay? I’ll ask each of you one question, una pregunta, all right?”
“I’ll be in the bar,” Mary said.
“Wait. Help me, will you?”
“You’re doing fine, George. Ask your pregunta.”
Walking away, working through the girls pressing in, Mary heard him say, “All right, I’m gonna ask you how old you are. Comprende? Quantos años tiene? … You first. Hi, how’re you doing?”
She was aware of the tender feeling again: a comfortable feeling, even as she realized there was much more to Moran than a natural, easygoing manner. At times he seemed almost naive; yet he continued to surprise her.
She chose a table on the far side of the lounge, away from the entrance and the ballplayers at the bar, and ordered a scotch. The chair felt good; it was low, with soft cushions and casters; she crept it closer to another chair at the table and put her feet up, stretching her legs, brushing at the wrinkles in her beige slacks. When the waitress brought her drink she looked up to thank her. The waitress moved off and a man was standing at the table.
“If you’ll permit me…”
“To do what?” Mary said.
“Speak with you, please.” His manner was pleasant, unhurried. “You’re the friend, I believe, of the Marine.”
Mary nodded. “We’re buddies.”
The man’s dark eyes relaxed in warm creases. He looked to be in his early thirties with a trimmed mustache and hair styled by a hotel barber, swept straight back from a high forehead: the look of light-skinned Dominican aristocracy, Mary judged. He wore a tailored white cotton shirt that hung free of his trousers like a light jacket, open enough to show some of his chest hair.
He said, “I like to have a woman who is a buddy. I didn’t know it was possible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I suppose the way we are, men and women, uh? The difference between us.”
“How do you know the Marine and I aren’t married?”
“I find out those things.” He smiled.
More than pleasant, his manner was instantly familiar, confident, the Latin lover come-on. Mary sipped her drink; she’d been there several times.
“Excuse me. My name is Rafael Amado.” He paused, giving Mary a chance to introduce herself, but she passed. “I think your friend should know that none of those girls could be Luci Palma.”
“He knows,” Mary said. “He’s just having a little fun.”
“Yes, that’s good… My name is Rafael, but by most people I’m known as Rafi.”
“That’s cute,” Mary said.
The Dominican smiled. “You like it? Good. I wonder if I may join you.” He brought over a chair without waiting for permission and eased into it, careful of the press in his black trousers. “Thank you. May I buy you a drink?”
Mary raised her glass. “I’m fine.”
He looked up, snapped his fingers and said something in Spanish that was abrupt, without the pleasant manner, though it returned instantly as he said to Mary, “If I may have one with you.”
She wished Moran would hurry up. She wanted to see the look on his face, coming in and finding her taken care of. It might tell her something. Then immediately doubted it. Moran wouldn’t make assumptions, waste time being jealous. If he were to hesitate, appear to be just a little awkward, that would be good enough.
Rafi said, “When I heard on the radio about the return of the Marine I thought, Could it be? Then in Listin Diario I see the message, Cat Chaser is looking for the girl… and I thought, It is, it’s the same one.”
“The message,” Mary said, “I haven’t seen it yet.”
“In the newspaper personal column,” Rafi told her. “Cat Chaser is looking for the girl who ran over the roofs of buildings and tried to kill him. Call this hotel. It’s very clever the way it’s said.”
“The girl named Luci tried to kill him?” Mary straightened in her chair, bringing her legs down.
“Well, she try different tricks, you know, to lure him.”
Mary wanted to be sure. She said, “To lure him?”
“To bring the Marines where they shouldn’t be. Trick them. But that was a long time ago. It was the war.”
“You said you were sure then he was the one. What one?”
The waitress appeared with Rafi’s drink. He took it from her without a word, then leaned toward Mary, his expression grave.
“I was with Luci Palma. In the group of partisans with her. I was on the roof with her.” He continued to stare at Mary before easing back in the chair. “He didn’t tell you? The Marine?”
“What? I’m not sure.”
Rafi placed his hands on his chest, fingers spread, an amber stone with a dull gleam on his little finger.
“On the roof,” Rafi said, his expression still grave, “I’m the one he shot and almost killed.”
ALL THOSE WHITE TEETH flashing at him, different scents of perfume, a couple of the Luci Palmas taking his arm and rubbing against him. At some other time in his life, not too long ago, Moran would have asked them more than how old they were, might have staged a mini-Miss D.R. pageant and chosen a winner.
Going into the lounge he was thinking of something to tell Mary-that he was getting out of the motel business to become a movie producer; at least a casting director. He saw Mary’s hair and a guy in a white Dominican dress-up shirt and took it a little easier going over to the table. The Dominican guy saw him now and was getting up.
Mary said, pleasantly enough, “How did it go?”
“Well, it was different.”
“If you’re through casting…”
It amazed him, how well she knew him already.
“… this is Rafi. I’m sorry I didn’t hear your last name.”
“Rafi Amado. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Extending his hand across the table. “I’m honored.”
Mary was looking up at him. “Really?… And this is Jorge Morón, Rafi. The infamous Marine.”
Moran glanced at her, taking the Dominican’s slender hand, the grip not too firm.
“What did I do?”
“On your last trip it seems you shot somebody on the roof of a building,” Mary said. “Well, Rafi’s the one you shot.”
Moran stared at him now, not sure what to say, the Dominican giving him sort of a guarded look, like he wasn’t sure what to expect.
Moran said, “You’re the one?” He seemed awed now.
“I believe so,” Rafi said. “A house on Padre Billini near Carreras? Up on the roof? I was with Luci Palma.”