Rafi said, “What guy?”

“I thought so,” Nolen said. “Right there in front of you and you don’t even see it. You go after Moran and his girlfriend… what about the girl-friend’s husband? He’s the guy with the prize, not Moran. Moran’s one of the good guys.”

“Wait,” Rafi said. “You have to explain this to me.”

“In time,” Nolen said. “First we got to think of a good slogan, something to get the guy squirming-he doesn’t know what’s going on, where it’s coming from, but it looks like some pretty heavy shit coming down.”

“An eslogan? …”

“Not a slogan-how do you say it?-a grito de combate. A battle cry.”

“Yes? To say what?”

“How about Muerte a de Boya?” Nolen said. “That’s got a pretty nice ring.”

Rafi had stopped touching his sore mouth. He stared at Nolen, interested but uncertain, trying to put it together in his mind.

“You asking me to kill?”

“Would you like to?”

Rafi didn’t answer.

“I want you to think about it,” Nolen said, “get a feel for the part. You’re Rafi Amado, the man from Santo Domingo, a no-shit revolutionary full of zeal, revenge, whatever revolutionaries are full of. You understand what I mean? Get in the mood and we’ll talk about it some more.”

12

JERRY WAS READING the Sun-Sentinel. He held it up as Moran came in the office.

“You see this? Right up at Hillsboro. Guy walks out of his condo, he’s taking his morning exercise, look what he finds right out in front of his place.” The headline of the newspaper read:

The photograph that ran the full width of the page and was about five inches deep showed four naked swollen bodies lying on the hard-pack sand at the edge of the surf in early morning light. A Coast Guard helicopter hovered about twenty yards offshore.

“I’m telling you,” Jerry said, “it’s getting out of hand. People up there, they invest a lot of money in their retirement homes-this’s what they got to put up with.”

“What’s the story the officials don’t believe?”

“That they came all the way from Haiti in this rickety boat, sixty-something people. If they’re not coming from Cuba it’s Haiti now, we don’t have enough Latins here, we got all this extra welfare money laying around. Oh… there was a phone call for you. You know how many Cubans they got in Miami now?”

“Who was it called?”

“Two hundred thousand. Over half the population. Some woman… she didn’t leave her name. Plus a hundred and twenty-five thousand boat people, for Christ sake, half of them out of the Havana jails and insane asylums. They send ’em here for us to take care of… Here’s the number.”

It was Mary’s.

“When’d she call?”

“Few minutes ago. We’re different, we got us a couple Dominican freeloaders. Where you going? You just got here.”

“I’ll be back.”

Moran shoved the slip of notepaper into his jeans and walked out into the sunlight, back toward his house. He was anxious.

Nolen, coming out of Number Five, stopped him.

“George, can I talk to you?”

“I got to make a phone call.”

“Just take a minute.” Nolen, his shirt open and hanging out of his pants, got to Moran at the shallow end of the pool. “I got a request. How about letting your buddy from the D.R. stay a couple more days? He’s afraid to talk to you.”

“I hope so,” Moran said.

“He’s sorry. He said he made a mistake.”

“I made the mistake,” Moran said, “ever talking to him.” He started to move away.

“George, he can’t hurt you. Let him stay a while.”

Moran stopped. “Why?”

“Why not? He’s all right, just a little fucked up. He’s an interesting type, I can study him.”

“I know what you want to study,” Moran said.

Nolen shrugged. “I think I can get a freebee, a libretito.” His hair hung oily looking, he needed a shave, he looked terrible, forlorn, standing barefoot with his hands in his pockets. “She wants me to show her Miami Beach, all the beeg ‘otels.”

“Good,” Moran said. “You take her down there we’ll probably never see her again. Look, I don’t have time right now. Tell her to clean up the kitchen before you go and tell Rafi he’d better stay away from me, not that I’m pissed off or anything.”

“I’ll keep ’em in line,” Nolen said, “no problem.” He watched Moran hurrying away. “Hey, one other thing…”

“Later,” Moran said. He ran inside his house and locked the door.

Moran waited. As soon as he heard her voice on the phone he said, “What happened?”

“He’s still here but he’s leaving. Going out on the boat.”

“Should I call back?”

“No, it’s okay, he’s outside. I can see him.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He told me this morning he doesn’t want me to drive anymore. I can’t go anywhere alone in the car. If I go out, Corky’s supposed to drive me.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows. Or he thinks he does-it’s the same thing.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said he wants me to take the goddamn limousine, but if I insist on using my own car Corky’s still going with me.”

“I mean what reason did he give?”

“Crime in the streets, the high incidence of muggings and holdups. It’s for my own safety. I told him there aren’t any muggings at Leucadendra or the Dadeland shopping mall, but you don’t argue with him. I told you, he’s a rock.”

“Can he order you like that?”

“If I get in the car, Corky gets in with me. That’s it, or stay home. What’re we gonna do?”

“You got to get out of there, that’s all.”

There was a pause. “I had sort of a talk with him.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Not much. I’ll tell you about it some other time, not now,” Mary said. “God, I’m dying to see you.”

“I’ll be over in a little while.”

“You can’t come here.”

“I’ve got an excuse. I’m gonna return something.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll be there in about an hour. Why don’t you invite me to lunch?”

“God, Moran-hurry.”

Nolen caught him again, coming out of the laundry room holding a grocery sack, the top rolled tightly closed. Moran was wearing a sport coat and good pants. Nolen looked him up and down.

“The casual Holiday Inn attire?”

“There times you can say anything you want,” Moran said. “This isn’t one of ’em. I’m in a hurry.”

“Jiggs wants to talk to you.”

“You told me.”

“Give him the courtesy-what’ve you got to lose?”

“My good name, being seen with a kneecapper. There isn’t anything he can tell me I need to know.”

“I’m not asking you to go out of your way.”

“I hope not.”

“I’m not suppose to say anything,” Nolen said, “but I’ll give you a hint. It’s got to do with freedom of choice and self-respect. Like not having to sneak in the Holiday Inn anymore.”

“What I have to say to that,” Moran said, “has to do with self-control. How I’m learning to stay calm, not pop anybody in the mouth, dump ’em in the swimming pool every time I get a little irritated. But it’s hard.”

“I know, stay out of your personal affairs,” Nolen said. “But I feel I owe you something. You’ve been a buddy to me, even after we tried to blow you away with a one-oh-six. I mean it might’ve been me, though I hate to say it.”

“Let’s let bygones be bygones,” Moran said. “Long as you pay your rent on time. I’ll see you.”

Nolen said, “Hey, George?” And waited for him to stop a few feet away and look back. “You’re a beautiful guy. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Moran said, “leave me alone.”

“Only three nights I got to recite that line,” Nolen said. “You can see why the fucker closed.”

He liked the trees in this south end of Coral Gables, the quiet gloom of the streets; the trees belonged and were more than ornamental. It was old Florida, the way he felt Florida should still look. No way for a one-time cement-finisher to think, or a man partly responsible for a half-dozen king-size condominiums with majestic names. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe he simply liked a tangle of ripe tropical vegetation. What was wrong with that? He told himself not to argue with himself; he was one of the few friends he had. He didn’t care for what he was doing right now. It was like going to the dentist when you were in love with his nurse, but it was still going to the dentist. He turned off Arvida Parkway into the drive marked 700 on a cement column and this time followed its curve up to the house.