“I don’t work for the government, the FBI, the CIA, the whatever initials you come up with. Actually,” Walter said, once more with a smile, this one tinged with real irony, “I don’t work at all, anymore.”
“I heard you retired,” said Devereaux. He took a sip of his wine and adjusted the napkin protecting his lap. “You came back, I see.”
They were almost finished with the bottle of Chianti. Their food came out of the kitchen looking great, smelling wonderful and tasting as good as they’d been told it would. Walter’s grouper was moist and tender, flaky at the touch of his fork, with just the proper amount of capers on top. The linguini was al dente, perfect. Devereaux seemed to enjoy his meal too. As the two men ate, Louis Devereaux told Walter how much he knew about him, and how long he knew it. He was either an admirer or a good actor. He obviously enjoyed telling the story as much as, or more, than Walter liked hearing it. It took Walter only a few minutes to understand Louis Devereaux was CIA. Like he said, the options were limited. He had so much information about him. He knew about Vietnam. He knew about Gloria. He mentioned Walter’s daughter and her family in Kansas City. He didn’t say it, because he didn’t have to, but of course Devereaux knew Walter had gone so far underground he hadn’t filed an income tax return for almost forty years. For all practical purposes, Walter Sherman was a phantom. He didn’t offend Walter by revealing specific knowledge of his clients, but he did drop the name Leonard Martin, twice. Walter gave him no reaction either time. After dinner, they ordered coffee. Each passed on dessert. They did, however, graciously accept an after-dinner drink, compliments of the house. As they sipped their brandy, Devereaux asked, “Is there anything you need? Anything I might be able to help with?”
“Not now,” said Walter. “When I find him, what do you want me to do?”
“Not a thing,” Devereaux said with a sense of earnestness not previously part of their conversation. “I know you don’t do anything. That’s not the deal you make. And I’m not asking you to change that now. I’ll give you a number. Call it and we’ll take over from there.” Walter did not reply, not in words. He simply nodded. For Louis Devereaux, Walter could tell, that nod had only one meaning-acceptance. He said nothing to Devereaux about Conchita’s plan to hide Harry somewhere, somewhere no one would find him.
Devereaux insisted on paying the bill, but seemed to take forever to put his money down on top of the check. The waiter, patient as a saint, was helpless without it. Finally, Devereaux glanced over Walter’s shoulder, out the window toward the sidewalk, looked noticeably relieved and plunked down the cash. It was immediately scooped up and carried off to the cash register at the bar.
“Let’s go,” said Devereaux. “I don’t need any change.”
Walter got up, turned around to leave and, as he did, the small restaurant got smaller. Between him and the desk at the front door there wasn’t enough room for more than one person to walk. For Walter to exit Il Localino, he had to practically brush up against the couple that had just come in and was waiting to be seated. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in place. Devereaux waited quietly behind him.
“Walter?” said the woman facing him no more than a yard or two away. “Is that you?” It was Isobel Gitlin. She’d changed. Five years will do that to anyone. The twenty-nine-year-old girl was now a mid-thirties woman. She was heavier than he remembered her. Almost plump now, he thought. The picture of her in a black string bikini running into the surf at Cinnamon Bay, kicking up sand as she dashed across the beach, was as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Isobel’s shoulder-length, dark hair was longer now, flecked with spots of gray on the left side. She held her coat over one arm. Her hips were bigger. In that moment, he lost his breath thinking of her naked in his bed at The Mayflower in New York, the sheets pushed off, leaving the left side of her body bare as she lay sleeping on her stomach. He remembered the feel of her hip and the small of her back, the sweet scent of the pillow… and when she turned over, how he kissed her nipples…
“Walter?” she said again.
“Hello, Isobel,” he mumbled, hoping he sounded normal.
“Walter. Walter. What a treat. You look w-w-wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Another kiss pushed its way into his mind, a kiss she gave him in front of the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue in New York, years ago. He was struggling.
“Walter, I want you to meet Otto Heinrich, my husband.” Walter held his hand out. A man, standing a little behind Isobel, grabbed it with a big smile. He was a pudgy man, not very tall, shorter than Isobel, about forty maybe forty-five years old. Most of the hair on top of his head was gone.
“Nice to meet you, Walter,” he said. His handshake was strong and firm. It seemed like he was never going to let go. “Isobel has told me so much about you.”
“I have to go now,” said Walter. “I have to go now.” He eased past Isobel and her husband, out into the cool Georgia night. He did not turn around. Devereaux followed him and they walked in silence toward the valet parking pickup. Walter gave his ticket to the young attendant who ran off to get the car.
“You know her?” Devereaux asked. And just then Walter could sense inner panic. He tried, with no success, to push his instincts, to rebound, to be once more sharp as ever. It seemed to him that Devereaux already knew the answer to that question, that he’d known the answer even before Isobel walked into Il Localino.
“Yes. I do. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you.” The words came out almost involuntarily. He didn’t mean to say them.
“Not at all. I know who Isobel Gitlin is-she doesn’t use the Heinrich name. Otto plays violin for the Atlanta Symphony. They live a couple of blocks from here, on Austin Avenue, within walking distance. Il Localino is her favorite restaurant. I thought you’d like to eat here.”
Walter’s car rolled up. The valet jumped out leaving the door open. Walter did his best to stumble in behind the wheel. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking.
“I’ll be in touch, Walter,” Devereaux said. “And don’t worry about me. There’s a car waiting for me.” Walter saw the black limo with its engine running, double-parked just up the block. Sinking down in his seat, he turned the steering wheel on his own car and drove off in the other direction.
“Oh, yeah. I remember President Roosevelt,” said Ike. “Mr. Roosevelt, we called him. Seemed to me back then-I was just a young boy, you know-seemed like he was some kind of king from a faraway land, didn’t have anything to do with us, with our little island. The war grew me up,” he added. “It surely did.”
“I never paid any attention to politicians,” said Billy. “Except a couple mayors and commissioners. They’re all thieves. Every damn one of them. License to steal, that’s what a politician has. You know-you got a driver’s license-I got a bar license-they got a stealing license.” Helen looked at her man, beaming with pride.
“I remember Nixon,” she said. “That man makes Billy look like a saint.”
“Hey! What are you saying?”
“No, Billy,” she said patting his face gently and kissing him on his stubbly chin. “I didn’t mean anything about you. I meant you had them all down pat. Nixon proves that, doesn’t he? Thieves and bandits.”
“Willie Sutton,” said Walter. “There was a thief for you. He said he robbed banks because-you know why? Because that’s where the money is. Cogent analysis.”
“De Nero,” piped up Ike, striking another of his long wooden matches and sticking the exploding flame at the end of a crooked, old cigarette he slipped out of his shirt pocket. He puffed it like a cigar, smoke billowing out about him as he spoke. “Not the man himself-he’s just an actor you know-but the guy he played in Goodfellas. That was a true story-yes, it was. Stole millions from the airport in New York. Kennedy airport, I think it was. Never got caught. ’Course they killed each other over it afterwards, but I don’t count that. We’re only talking about the thieving, not the keeping, right?”
Walter had been sitting in his regular seat since about ten. The lunch crowd came and went. Helen fixed him a salmon sandwich with steamed broccoli-small portions, after all it was only lunch. He’d been thinking about his recent trip to Atlanta-Devereaux, Il Localino, Isobel, and Sadie Fagan. If not for Sadie he wouldn’t have gone at all. She had given him something, certainly she had. She talked so much, so openly about Harry. Somewhere in what she said was something important. Walter was mad at himself because he hadn’t discovered it yet. His mind was unclear, muddled. Devereaux rankled him. And Isobel-“Damn!” he berated himself, unable to get her out of his thoughts, out of his way. He had no time for her. He needed peace to put the pieces in their proper place. What was it Billy just said? The thieving, not the keeping? What thief doesn’t keep his loot?
“Robin Hood,” Walter said, smiling at Ike.
“Robin Hood? What the hell does that mean?”
“Thieves who don’t keep it, Ike. Isn’t that what Billy meant?”
“No,” said Billy. “Forget about Robin Hood. We’re talking big time here. What was he doing? Hanging around a forest ripping off people dumb enough to ride through. Small change.”
