Cutting Loose, page 3
He was almost handsome: something about the profile, a lack of definition perhaps, spoiled the effect. The eyes were blue-gray and jumping with life; the face, until she got to know him better, had seemed relaxed and good-humored. He had never lacked for girl-friends; they came and went through a revolving door in the apartment in California he shared with Sol, where the aroma of pot hung constantly in the air.
Sol himself liked a hit on a bong as much as the next guy, but he had not signed up to the wild life quite as whole-heartedly as Max. Carey sometimes thought that Max had adopted the counter-culture as an off-the-peg identity to hide whatever might lie beneath. Was there any depth behind those blue-gray eyes, or was he just another redneck with the cheesy belief in the virtue of having a cock and with just enough intelligence to disguise that opinion?
The talk was certainly there—the Haight-Ashbury bromides, the contempt for the established order, and the belief in self as the origin of authenticity—but she doubted the extent to which it had any basis in his thinking. His shelves were bare of any writing by the likes of Foucault. Appearance and swagger, she suspected, made up the balance.
Just as Sol’s inner composure kept Max at bay, so her unyielding manner toward him—her refusal to play second fiddle—meant he avoided the possibility of rejection by treating her with a caution that, she knew, could be dispensed with in a heartbeat. The three of them were forever involved in maneuvers of evasion, and Carey had no doubt it was Max who was the iceberg.
Before she met him that first time, Billy had been wary.
“Max, he’s okay. . . . He’s there politically, know what I’m saying? The connections he’s got with the black community you wouldn’t believe, and by community I’m not talking ladies with big hats in church. Thing is, he’s got a way with him that don’t suit all tastes. Hear me? Like, there was this time he did this thing in Oakland, him and two others, a bookie’s place—they cleared five thou. See, way it happened, this guy Eddie—stand-up guy, my opinion, there with the team that did the job—he had an issue with Max that, like, Max hadn’t been straight ’bout how they make the divide. Way Max has it, he gets the thick end, seeing as he’s done the prep. You can see it that way—I mean, that’s okay—but it’s got to be spelled out up front. Cain’t sic it on you after the fact. Hear me? What I’m saying, Eddie ain’t around no more. Maybe gone straight, working in a factory? No, would be my opinion. All I’m saying, watch your ass. It ain’t all clear and easy. Making sense here?”
“I get the picture.”
“All right then, honey. It’s on you.”
To Carey, robbing a bookie did not sound political: if the proletariat could not lay a bet on a horse, what was the world coming to? For all that, she needed to meet him: he was an entrée to that other world.
So, there was Billy, saying, “This is Carey.”
He turned to greet her, his eyes immediately moving up and down. To Carey, that open assessment was crass. The well-bred part of her told her this guy was a jerk who did not know how to behave, but the other part told another story: that he was happy not to belong to her stuffy world; she could not have it both ways.
Max nodded. “Do I get an intro?”
“She knows who you are,” said Billy.
“Is that right? My reputation precedes me.”
That ironic precision of speech told her he was responding to what he had heard of her background. In anyone less male, it would have sounded effete. When he noted her cool manner—a reaction he had not expected—he shifted gear into good humor and openness, fixing her Jack Daniel’s on ice, and telling her about a trip to the lava-tube caves of Tuelake.
“So they erode?”
“Right. Leaving these passageways.”
“Huh. Cool,” she said, sipping her whiskey. “So you’re walking along the magma flow.”
“Right. And they got a burger van outside, so you keep a sense of perspective.”
She laughed. “Yeah. The things that are really permanent.”
“Yeah. Plus, there’s this sign I see down the road some. Bank advertisement: ‘invest in the future.’”
“The long view.”
“What I’m saying.”
He gave a sly smile and hung fire for a moment, just watching her. She guessed it was a ploy from his repertoire: a suggestion that he possessed insight. Her response to that was her easy, calm gaze, which, she knew, could disconcert. For a second time, she had not followed his script, and she noted the trace of a response—a moment, no more—that told her she had to decide what she wanted: to put this jackass in his place or to use him. She had a certain pose—left foot pointed at an angle, right hip cocked—that she thought of as her wild-gal look. That was a good time to deploy it.
“Max—got any work coming up?”
That startled him. He laughed then, throwing his head back.
“Hear this gal? She’s hardly in the door.”
Billy, who had introduced them, smiled proprietorially. “Like I said, Max. She’s something.”
Max, ignoring him, said, “Let’s not get ahead of yourselves,” but he was relaxed. “So—Carey, huh?”
“Right.”
“Like, forget the girly names? Okay.” He shrugged. “Listen—chill. Let’s get to know you. Kick back some, have a few beers. Take it from there.”
“Okay.”
“Got a place?”
“Yeah, I’m set up.”
“Uh huh. Slow and easy, Carey. That’s the way we do it.”
In the days that followed, she slid into Max’s milieu so smoothly it was as though they had always known her. Max behaved himself around her after a fashion. He would address other girls with tacky endearments—‘Sweetstuff’ or ‘Peaches’—but Carey was always ‘Carey.’ Sometimes she would stay away for several days, so as not to appear eager, and would then relax with the gang of four or five of his friends who would drift in and out of his apartment at odd times. Evenings, she would head for the door when the partying got serious.
“Carey can’t take the pace,” he would say.
She would smile and keep going, knowing that her self-possessed manner intrigued him.
The pace of life was, certainly, slow and easy. Max was sure he had not yet been identified, and three months had elapsed since he had robbed the bookie. He would sleep till late, lunch on whiskey and raw eggs, and play cards and smoke weed in the afternoon until playtime started when the sun went down. At the time, all three of them had yet to make the move up the coast to Carmel and Monterey, and they were living in San Luis Obispo, in a part of town where people minded their own business. Max had all the time in the world to chase girls, and he did so with dogged single-mindedness.
Carey could see that he was drawn to a certain type of girl: they all had long legs, dark, straight hair and brown eyes canted at a slight angle, as though there was some exotic admixture. She herself, with her blonde hair and waspy features, was a mile away from that look, and that was the way she liked it: it kept that necessary space between them. His favorite girl, who never cared that he had a remuda of other girls, and who had a nonchalant air that Carey liked, was named Lara, and she would sometimes come over to Carey’s apartment to talk, watch TV, and now and then cook dinner. Carey thought of her as a half-way person—half wild, half straight: her life could go either way. Still, that was Carey’s situation also, and maybe that gave them their sense of kinship. Carey could see, behind that wildness, a lost look in her eyes: at a certain point in a conversation, her eyes would slip away, and she would be in some other place with her recollections. Once, she had been away for a month, and when she returned, she came to see Carey first, running up the stairs like a kid.
“Okay, Lara?” Carey said, when they had hugged.
“Me? Sure. . . .”
She did not say where she had been, and Carey did not ask. They cooked pecan pie later and watched soaps on TV. Lara had a light tan that became her and she always looked good in her clothes; Carey could see why men took that second look on the street.
She herself had woken up next to some guys who appalled her, looking back—and maybe at the time, too–but she hoped Lara would cut free from Max. There was a subterranean quality about him that was both the source of his power and of the hint of foreboding she felt in his company.
Two weeks after Carey met Max, he took her into the desert off the 101 heading north-east and gave her a three-hour tutorial on handling firearms. A week later, they went again. He was polite and thorough, never irritated, always patient, but insisting that she understand. It was a shock when, later, she found he would be high on adrenaline when working, and that he lacked her calmness in the cauldron of the moment; but, for all that, he taught her well, and she was grateful.
One day, Lara simply left, without leaving word. Carey made some phone calls, but no one knew where she was. Carey had her address but had never been to her apartment. Finally she drove there and buzzed until someone let her into the block. A Hispanic family was moving its belongings into Lara’s place and they shook their heads uncomprehendingly when Carey questioned them. Neither Max nor Sol knew where she was, and Carey eventually had to trust that all was well; Lara was a gypsy, and explained herself to no one.
Carey guessed the time was approaching when Max and Sol would need to plan another job; she could see that their money was running out, and Max was getting fidgety. Sol, as always, was calm but he told Carey they would be moving soon.
“We?”
“Yeah. You’re in.”
“Okay.”
The Monday after that brief conversation, Max left for a few days, and she took the opportunity to drive along the coast, being a tourist and staying in cheap motels. She dropped a few dollars in casinos, sunbathed in solitary coves, and relaxed evenings with a couple of cocktails. When she returned, rested, she took a call from Sol asking her to come over. Max’s rusting Ford Galaxie was parked outside.
“Hi,” said Sol, letting her in. “Come on through.”
Beyond an open door, she saw Max looking down at drawings spread out on his kitchen table, and slowly walked forward.
“Yeah,” said Max. “Carey . . . We got something.”
“Uh huh?”
“Believe so.”
She glanced at Sol, who was expressionless.
Max pointed at the papers.
“Well’s Fargo, Bakersfield,” he said, with that slow smile, and she felt suddenly light-headed as the logic of her previous life was crystalized into that single moment. As though seeing herself from above, Carey Astaire, twenty five years old, wearing Capri pants and a blue check shirt, was staring at the carefully-prepared plans.
The bedroom door opened and the doctor came out, closing his bag. “Who’s gonna see he gets his pills?”
“Yeah,” said Carey. “Okay, I guess.”
“Uh huh. I got some here. The rest I’ll bring by later.”
“Make it soon, Doc,” said Max.
“Sure. Two hours?”
“Fine.”
Max took a wad of bills from his pants.
“Three hundred. Plus fifty for these and the rest,” said the doctor, handing a box to Carey. “Instructions on the packet.”
“What are we looking at?” said Max.
“He’s floating on a cloud right now. He’ll have a couple of rough days when he surfaces.”
“After that?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Max paid, and the doctor nodded.
“Good to do business with you.”
“Sure,” said Max, and they watched him walk out.
By the next day, Sol was less feverish, though still weak. Carey, closing Sol’s door after checking his pulse some time later, said, “Max—tomorrow, we need to go, whatever shape he’s in.”
“Yeah.”
“So . . .”
“The heat. We need some downtime. Off the radar.”
“That means Mexico.”
Max nodded. “Yeah.”
“So . . . okay? It’s Mexico?”
“Yeah.”
Soon after that conversation, Max left the duplex by the back door to shop for provisions for the journey, and she watched cartoons on TV. Mid-morning, there was a knock at the door, and Carey, putting a Colt Cobra .38 in the back of her belt, looked through the net curtains at an angle to see the front door. Gary, the realtor, hands on hips, was waiting there. She swore to herself and waited. He took his time, pressed the bell again, then walked away, and she went back to the TV.
A couple of minutes later, she heard a key in the lock, and, before she could get up, Gary was opening the door. She flipped a newspaper over the Colt and stood. The two of them, frozen, stared at each other.
“Gary? What the fuck?”
His mouth hung open, then he said, “I thought I’d drop by, see how you were doing.”
“Gary, hon, you don’t come in unless you’re invited.”
“Yeah. . . . I thought there was a problem.”
“Yeah? Like what?” she said, playing the honest tenant protecting her privacy, a hint of outrage on her face.
“You’re right, you’re right. I just . . . Look, I was hoping everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, Gary. Everything’s okay.”
She followed his gaze and saw medicines on a side table.
“Just a bug I caught.”
“Oh no.”
“It came, it went.” She shrugged.
“Great.”
His eyes jumped around. Sol’s door was closed, but a jacket of Max’s, which could pass as hers, lay over the back of a sofa.
“Okay, I was out of line,” said Gary. “I apologize.”
He had obviously thought she was out, so he was not there in the vain hope of having sex.
“I just wanted to do a routine check.”
“All right, Gary. That’s not the way it’s done. Bad move. But let’s forget it.”
“Hey. Thanks. So—everything’s okay?”
“Yeah, Gary, like I said.”
“Anything you need, let me know.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to.”
Again, a key turned in a lock, but this time it was in the back door.
“So long, Gary.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, mesmerized, not moving.
A moment later, Max walked in, his expression unchanged as he saw Gary.
“Uh, yeah,” said Carey. “This is . . . Gary, the realtor.”
“That right? Get you some coffee?”
“I’m okay.”
“Uh huh.”
“I was passing. Thought I’d . . .”
“Sure.”
Max went to the net curtains at the front and looked down the road. “So, Gary, how’s the rental market right now?”
“It’s kind of buoyant.”
“That’s good.”
“I was reading how there was a slow-down.”
“That was a while back. Now . . .”
“Yeah. Buoyant.” Max smiled. “So you’ve come visiting. Or was it that teensy-weensy skirt working its magic?”
Gary tried to clear his throat.
“You come around to get into Carey’s pants, Gary?”
“Whu— That’s . . .”
Max nodded and turned to Carey. “I just put it together. Plain-wrap cop car down the road.”
“Yeah?” said Carey.
“Cops sent Gary the asshole along to scope it out.”
“Shit.”
“Sir,” said Gary. “What is this? I’m here to do a check.”
“Shut the fuck up, Gary.”
Carey took the Colt from under the paper.
“Oh—no,” said Gary. “Look—”
“What did I just say, Gary?” said Max.
“They wouldn’t have sent him along,” said Carey, “if they thought we were all here.”
“Good point. So they think it’s just you. Sounds like local police.”
He turned to Gary. “That right, Gary? Cops think it’s just Carey?”
Gary licked his dry lips. “Sir, you’ve got this all wrong.”
Max drew a 9mm Colt and racked the slide.
“Sir—”
“That’s okay, Gary. You can go back to shutting the fuck up.”
“It’ll have to be the back way out,” said Carey.
“Get Sol up and dressed. We’ve still got time if they think Gary’s shooting the breeze with you. But we got to go before the Feds get here. My Galaxie’s close to the back door.”
Sol had heard some of the conversation and was starting to get out of bed.
“Cops down the road,” said Carey, opening his door. “Let me give you a hand.”
“Throw me my pants.”
All they needed to do was grab their emergency bags and go. Sol dressed himself fast, fuelled by adrenalin, his head clearing, and took a second bag from a closet, a green one. He leaned against a dresser to steady himself and looked inside it, though he knew full well what was there.
Special Agent Esposito picked up the phone, said his name, and listened. “Yeah? Put him through.”
“Sheriff Al Forbush here, Delaney PD, Texas.”
“Hi, Al. What can I do for you?”
“I believe we’ve got that chick Carey Astaire just down the road from where I’m standing. Saw the fliers.”
“Al, great work. How good is the ID?”
“Not certain. Realtor saw her picture on TV. She’s in a duplex, ground floor. Upper floor’s empty right now.”
“That’s good, Al. So, where we at?”
“I’ve put a cordon round the area. And I’ve sent the realtor in to check her out, take a second look. If it’s her, she’s changed her hair color.”
“Uh—Al, what makes you think she’s alone?”
“She went into the realtor’s alone.”
“Yeah? Al—there’s three of them. If they’re all there, you might have yourself a little problem with that guy getting out again.”
“You think?”
“Al, give me five while I call my people out there to assist—if that’s okay.”
Esposito did not need to ask: bank robbery came under Federal jurisdiction, and Forbush knew it. Subdued, he said, “Yeah, sure.”
