Chameleon

Christophe downtown, grab one of these runty little dogs always yapping in the street, and I rent a half-dozen fishing boats and we fill ‘em with stock from the bar and we wrestled the piano on Duprey’s big charter boat and took everybody in the hotel out beyond the South Spike and we laid the dog at his feet and I burned that goddamn fishing boat. I mean Gus, the dog, the boat, every-fuckin’-thing. And I played the damn piano and everybody got drunker than Chinese-fuckin’-New Year. It was beautiful. I’m sure Gus was cryin’, wherever he was. Everybody else was.

‘A thirty-thousand-dollar Chris-Craft, Sailor, and we burned that fucker right to the water line. Well, why the hell not? I’m still running down numbered accounts on every island in the fuckin’ Caribbean. So far I’ve turned up more than three hundred thousand bucks, and I ain’t even been to Switzerland yet.’ The Magician leaned over and winked. ‘God knows what the hell’s in that account, over there.’ He leaned back and took another sip of brandy. ‘So, anyway, you’re lookin’ at the owner of the damn place. If you’re not nice to me, I’ll lose your reservation.’

‘It’s all gonna change, Michael. The chains have discovered St Lucy.’

‘Yes,’ said Joli. ‘Bonjour paradise.’

‘Hell, they never come here. The tourists, I mean. That’s Joli’s job, discouraging visitors. But just before the new hotels opened up, these three guys show up one day. I mean, Sailor, these guys look like they eat nails for breakfast, leaning across the desk there and telling me how we are — we are, right! — gonna convert the lobby and bar and restaurant into a casino and they’re gonna run it for me and I’m gonna get all of ten percent. Ten-fuckin’-percent, can you beat that? So I looks this one bent-nose asshole in the eye and says — shit, O’Hara, you’da been proud of me — I says, “No dice.’ Just like that. The guy with the bent beak kinda rears back, looks at the other two jokers, they look back at me and they flash those this-looks- like - a- smile- but-actually it- means - we’re -gonna-cut- your- heart-out grins and Bent Nose says, “No dice?” Incredulously. And I says, “You heard it, chubby, no dice. D-i-c-e”—spelled it out, kinda rubbing their noses in it. It got tense for a minute, okay, I can tell you it did get tense. Then I tore it. I says, “This place is a CIA front. You wanna start a gang war with the Feds, start shootin’. But no gambling. Period. Everybody got it? And bon-fuckin’-soir to all of ya.”

‘And?’

‘They look at each other, they look at me, they tip their hats, and kinda tiptoe out. That’s a year and a half ago. No problems since. Tell you what, Sailor, why don’t ya quit, come down here, be my partner. I need somebody to help me run this place. I’m a lousy businessman. What saves my ass is, so is everybody else on this crazy knoll.’

‘0th, he needs help,’ said Joli.

‘If I went into business with you, we’d be broke in a week. I have to take off my shoes to count to eleven. Let’s talk about Falmouth. Okay?’

‘You been here ten minutes, ten lousy minutes and you want to get to business already.’

‘I don’t have much time left.’

‘Christ, you haven’t even met Isidore yet.’

‘Who’s Isidore?’

‘Ah! Who is Isadore indeed!’ Joli said.

‘Izzy is my new partner. He lives right over there through that door.’

‘Michael...’

‘Un moment, my friend,’ he said and took out his keys and unlocked the door.

Isidore?

Actually, Rothschild had achieved his unique position in the intelligence community by accident. lie just happened to be in the right place at the right time: an unimpressive little piano bar called Senor Collada’s in Montego Bay, Jamaica. A CIA agent named Jerome Oscarfield was the unwitting catalyst of the gambit.

Oscarfield needed a drop. And there was happy old Six Fingers, the Magician of the Keyboard plinking out tunes night after night, month after month. The perfect drop. One night Oscarfield slipped Rothschild a small envelope, well sealed.

‘Are you a patriot?’ Oscarfield asked in a whisper.

‘American or world?’ asked Rothschild.

‘American!’ Oscarfield responded, a bit alarmed.

‘Just joking,’ said Rothschild. ‘I’m red, white and blue, all the way through.’

Oscarfield was obviously relieved.

‘Now listen carefully. A man who’ll call himself Bob will introduce himself. He’ll ask you to play “Moon Over Miami,” that’s how you’ll know it’s really Bob.

‘I don’t do requests,’ Rothschild said.

‘You don’t have to play the song,’ Oscarfield said, his patience wearing a bit thin. ‘It’s like a code, so you’ll know it’s really him, Just pick a discreet moment and give him the envelope.’

‘Somebody else could ask me to play “Moon Over Miami.” It’s very popular. I’ll tell you a song nobody ever asks for—’

‘The song doesn’t make any difference,’ Oscarfield said, cutting Rothschild off, his voice beginning to rise. ‘You don’t have to play the song. It’s the combination. He’ll say, “Good evening, my name is Bob, will you please play ‘Moon Over Miami.’” You can tell him to go fly a kite, for all I care, just give him the goddamn envelope. There’s two hundred bucks in it for you.’

‘Ah!’ said Rothschild. ‘For two bills I’ll be glad to play “Moon Over Miami.”

Oscarfield lowered his voice again.. He smiled with difficulty. ‘You don’t have to play the song. Tell him you don’t know it. Forget the fucking song. Just remember Bob and “Moon Over Miami.” That’s all you have to do.’

‘Done,’ Rothschild said. ‘What’s this Bob look like?’