Chablis, and Rita had a small glass. It tasted so tangy that she filled a thermos to take up to the terrace.
'Still having trouble with the phones?' she asked.
'Is worse,' Blanche said. 'So much noise!'
'I told Mr. Rathbone,' Theodore said. 'He called the phone company, and they're sending a man out to check the lines.'
Rita carried her thermos upstairs and undressed slowly. Then she collected beach towel, sunglasses, oil, radio, and went out onto the terrace. The westering sun was unseasonably florid, and heat bounced off the tiles. If it hadn't been for that lovely breeze, she would have been lying in a sauna.
She oiled herself, wishing David were there to do her back, and then rolled naked onto the towel-covered chaise. She lay prone, lifting her long, thick hair away from the nape of her neck.
Whenever she tried to concentrate on the decisions facing her, that passionate sun made her muzzy and melted her resolve. She found her thoughts drifting, just sliding away, until her mind was a fog, and all she could do was groan with content and let the sun have her. But this time, determined not to become muddled, she sat up again, feet on the hot tiles. She turned off the radio and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and reviewed her options as rationally as she could.
She had no doubt that Tony Harker was speaking the truth when he said he loved her and wanted to marry her. That dear, sweet man could cleverly deceive the black hats he was hounding, but she was convinced that his dealings with her were frank, honest, open.
No question about it: The guy would be a great husband. He'd work at it and do his damnedest to make a marriage succeed. He could be stuffy at times, but he wanted to change and was changing. Rita took some credit for that, but mostly it was Tony's own efforts that were making him less uptight. More human.
But despite the thaw, he still represented Duty, with a capital D. He was a straight arrow and would never be anything else. If a conflict ever arose between his personal pleasure and the demands of his job, Rita knew which path he'd take.
If Tony was good malt brew, David was champagne. It made Rita smile just to reflect on what a rogue he was. She knew all his faults, but she knew his virtues, too. He was generous, eternally optimistic, attentive to her needs, and loving. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever known, and that counted for something.
She admitted he was a swindler, but did not agree with Harker's harsh condemnation of Rathbone as a sleazy crook, a shark, and possibly a drug dealer and counterfeiter. Those were heavy crimes and, Rita decided, totally out of character for David.
It was also out of character for him to propose; she knew marriage played no part in his plans. The guy lived by his wits and had the typical con man's aversion to commitments. After his divorce, he was free, unencumbered by legal responsibilities, and he intended to stay that way.
Both men were good in bed, but in different ways. Tony was all male. He was always there, solid and satisfying, if predictable. With David, she didn't know what to expect. Kinkiness was the norm with him and sometimes, during their lovemaking, he feverishly sought role reversal as if he needed desperately to surrender and be used. Punished?
Rita lay back upon the chaise. She had sense enough to admit that neither man was totally or even mainly fascinated by her mental prowess or scintillating personality. She propped herself on her elbows, looked down at her tight, tawny body, at the sleek, black triangle, and wondered how long she could depend on that.
43
Termite Tommy climbed into the Bentley and put a battered briefcase on the floor.
'Thirty grand in fifties,' he said. 'Queerest of the queer. Want to count it?'
'Of course not,' Rathbone said. 'I trust you.'
'Going to stick it in banks?'
'I've already opened four different accounts,' David said. 'I've got to keep each deposit under ten thousand. By the way, I had to make initial deposits of my own money to cover the minimum on checking accounts. My expenses come off the top. Okay?'
'Sure. David, I think you better get this stuff in the banks as soon as possible. That nutsy German can't swear to how stable this batch of paper is.'
'How long do I have?'
'Better figure two days tops.'
'All right, I'll deposit it first thing tomorrow morning.'
Termite Tommy lighted a cigarette. 'How soon do you plan to cash in?'
Rathbone shrugged and opened the windows. 'A week or two.'
'That long?'
'Tommy, I can't put money in one day and draw it out the next. Even a brainless banker would wonder what the hell was going on.'
'The problem is I need cash in a hurry. Legit cash. There's a payment due on that color laser copier, and the German and I have the shorts.'
'How much do you need?'
'Ten grand.'
'By when?'
'Yesterday. We've been stalling the guy who sold us the machine, but now he's threatening to repossess.'
'Ten thousand?' Rathbone repeated. 'I'd advance it out of my own pocket if I had it, but right now I'm in a squeeze. Look, let me see if I can hit a couple of friends. If I can raise the ten, I'll give you a shout and you come down and pick it up.'
'I'd appreciate it,' Tommy said. 'I hate to put you in a bind, but I don't want to lose that copier.'
'Neither do I,' David said. 'Leave it to me; I'll raise the loot somehow.'
'Soon,' the other man said, climbing out of the car. 'The sooner the better.'
Rathbone watched him get into his pickup truck and drive away. Then he opened the briefcase and inspected the money. Tommy and Herman Weisrotte had done a good job weathering the bills, and none of the serial numbers were in sequence.
He drove to the home of James Bartlett on Bayview. Jimmy opened the door wearing a lime-green golf shirt, lavender slacks, pink socks, white Reeboks.
'You're a veritable rainbow,' David said and held up the briefcase.
'Got it?' Bartlett said. 'Good. Let's go out to the pool. I have a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a bottle of port. Ever try port in lemonade?'
'Never have.'
'Refreshing, and it's practically impossible to get stoned.'
They sat at an umbrella table, the briefcase on the tiles. Bartlett mixed them drinks in tall green glasses.
Rathbone took a sip. 'Nice,' he said. 'A little sweetish for me, but I like it.'
Jimmy kicked the scarred briefcase gently. 'All there?' he asked.
'I didn't count it, but I don't think they're playing games. The bills look good to me, but Tommy says the Kraut isn't sure how long the paper will last. He gives it two days.'
'No problem,' Bartlett said. 'My deposit at the Crescent in Boca is scheduled for tomorrow morning. After it's in the bank, I don't care what happens to it.'
They sat comfortably, sipping their drinks, watching sunlight dance over the surface of the pool. They could hear the drone of a nearby mower, and once a V of pelicans wheeled overhead.
'By the way,' Bartlett said, 'the Corcoran brothers are back in town. They're ready.'
'Price still ten thousand?'
Jimmy nodded. 'They'll make it look good. Guy gets drunk, ends up in a canal. But we've got to figure a way to get him down here from Lakeland and finger him for the Corcorans.'
