Rum Punch

aisles of empty cars in late sunlight. Shit, but then he couldn’t remember where they’d parked. Melanie would pick up on it any second now. It wasn’t this aisle right in front of the entrance, it was two or three over, he was pretty sure. To the left. When they came in the mall Louis was thinking of why they were here, not memorizing where they’d parked. Come out the wrong door you were in trouble. People lost their cars at malls all the time. It was why they had security guys driving around in those white utility cars, GMC Jimmys, to help you out. He could wait for Melanie to walk off.

But she didn’t, she was waiting for him. She said, “You have no idea where we parked, do you? Jesus, but if you two aren’t the biggest fuckups I’ve ever met in my life . . . How did you ever rob a bank? You come out and have to look for your car? You better give me the bag, Louis, before you lose it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I’ll hold it and you go get the car.” She said, “No, that won’t work. You don’t know where it is.”

He thought of hitting her.

“Or I get the car,” Melanie said, running the words together, “we drive off, split the money, and each go our separate way. Fuck Ordell.”

Punch her right in the mouth.

She said, “Okay, come on. It’s this way, Louis. Here, give me your hand.”

She stuck hers out, waiting. When he didn’t take it she walked off and he followed after her, over to the second aisle and then cut between cars to the next one. She walked along the parked cars a little way and stopped.

“Is it in this aisle?”

“Yeah, down the end.”

“You sure?”

He started off that way.

She said, “Lou-is,” turned, and cut between cars to the next aisle.

He followed her. Sometimes when he was living in South Beach and drinking a lot he’d forget where he parked and have to roam up and down the streets. He’d had a few pops this afternoon before he picked her up. Melanie stopped.

She said, “Louis, I feel sorry for you, I really do.” She said, “You need somebody to take care of you,” and walked off swinging her can at him in that tight white tube skirt. She stopped, about to cut between the cars again, and turned to look at him.

“Is it this aisle or the next one over?”

He said, “This one,” not caring if it was or not. He wasn’t taking any more of this.

She said, “You sure?”

He said, “Don’t say anything else, okay? I’m telling you, keep your mouth shut.”

She seemed surprised, but then got her smirky look back, was about to speak, and Louis put his hand up, quick.

“I mean it. Don’t say one fucking word.”

Melanie said, “Okay, Lou-is . . .”

And told him he’d be walking around here all night looking for his car—got to say all that while he was reaching inside his jacket for the Beretta Ordell had given him. Once she saw it she shut up. Her face went blank. But then, Christ, she started talking again. Louis didn’t hear what she said because right then he shot her. Bam. And saw her bounce off one of the cars. Bam. Shot her again to make sure and because it felt good. And that was that. He went down the aisle to his Toyota, where he’d said it was, got in with the shopping bag, and drove back this way. Coming to Melanie’s tan legs sticking out from between the cars, Louis rolled his window down. He said to her, “Hey, look, I found it,” and got out of there. One of those white Jimmys was coming up the next aisle.

Jackie hurried along the mall’s upper level, breathless for the benefit of surveillance. (In actual fact anxious to put it on Melanie. That change in the plan, Melanie for Simone, was working out better than she’d expected.) Jackie headed straight for Barnie’s Coffee & Tea Company on the edge of the cafe area, where Nicolet had hung out the time before.

He wasn’t there.

She came out and two mall security guys in their green blazers almost ran her down, both with hand radios, dodged around her, and kept going. Coming away from Macy’s she had noticed another security guy running toward Burdine’s.

Jackie imagined Nicolet and his people, in contact by radio, were passing her along, telling one another: Standing in front of Barnie’s looking around. Moving into the table area now, she’s all yours. Ten four, over and out. Or whatever they said on police radios. Jackie still had her concerned look in place, a puzzled frown, when her gaze came to Sheronda with a tray from Stuff ‘N Turkey and stopped.

Sheronda’s eyes, above a large-size Coca Cola, watched as Jackie came over to the table and sat down, shoving her Macy’s bag underneath.

“How’re you doing?”

Sheronda put her Coke down and sat up straight, saying she was just fine. Jackie lit a cigarette.

She said, “The last time we exchanged gifts, a woman came by after I left and you swapped with her?”

“Simone,” Sheronda said. “Nice lady, say she was Ordell’s aunty. Yeah, she took the bag you put here and gave me the one she had.”

“You know why we’re doing this?”

“He say is like a game, you get surprises. Like the other time was nice underwear.”

“The potholders are great,” Jackie said.

“I didn’t know what to get.”

“I needed them—thanks.”

“Ordell say this time we all bringing the same thing?”

“Towels,” Jackie said.

Sheronda nodded. She smiled at Jackie watching her and lowered her eyes, innocent, no idea she was being used.

“But, you might be surprised,” Jackie said and stubbed out her cigarette. “I have to go.”

“Simone coming this time?”

“I don’t know,” Jackie said, “maybe. Take your time. Have something else if you want, there’s no hurry.” She took Sheronda’s shopping bag from under the table and left.

Max came out of Macy’s lower level to the mall’s center-court pools and palm trees and headed off toward Sears, where he was parked outside. He passed the entrance to Bloomingdale’s and came to the Gallery Renee.

There she was, standing by the table with the busboy, Da-veed showing her something in a magazine. The busboy looked up, saw Max, and paused. He said something to Renee and she was looking this way now. Max shifted the Macy’s bag holding a half-million dollars to his right hand, away from the showroom window, and gave them a friendly wave as he passed. The busboy raised his hand, no finger, just a fist: a tough kid making out. Renee turned away.

The woman had no imagination.

A living mannequin stood posed in front of a ladies’ apparel shop: a young woman with blond hair in gray jeans, a sequined cowboy shirt, and white fringed boots. She seemed poised to run. Or the way her hands were raised, to fend off something coming at her; though she would never see it with that blank stare, head cocked slightly to one side. A little girl stopped to touch the mannequin’s fingers, touched, and pulled her hand back and ran to catch up to her mother.

Jackie, coming away from the cafe area, had paused to watch, waiting for the living mannequin to move. There was something familiar about the girl. Jackie, with her shopping bag, walked up to her and said, “How long do you have to do this?”

The girl didn’t answer, her gaze leveled at Jackie’s shoulder without expression, unblinking. For several moments Jackie stared at her with the feeling she was looking at herself. Blond hair and green eyes in a much younger version, but there she was, poised, ready to run or somehow defend herself. The one big difference, Jackie’s eyes were focused. She saw rough times ahead she would have to feel and talk her way through. Face