Glitz

Isidro Loved this guy Teddy. He was Mr. Tourist, every taxi driver's dream. The kind who not only wants to see everything in the guidebook, he wants the same driver every day, because he trusts him and believes whatever the driver tells him. Like he wants the driver to approve of him.

This Teddy bought souvenirs he sent to his mother in New Jersey. He wrote postcards and sent them to a guy in Florida, an address with a lot of numbers. He sat in the front seat of the taxi, saying, "What's that? What's that?" His camera ready. Isidro would tell him, that's La Perla. Yes, people live down there in those little houses.... That's San Cristóbal, that's Fortaleza, Plaza de Colón....

"What's that? With the bars on the windows?"

"Tha' was the old jail of the city, call' La Princesa. But now the jail is in Bayamón." Isidro had to stop so Teddy could take pictures of the entrance, like it was a historical place.

"That used to be the jail, 'ey?"

He always said that, not "hey"; he said, "'ey." He was interested in everything he saw. "The policía drive black-and-whites, 'ey? Most towns in the States, I think our policía drive black-and-whites, too." He took pictures along the narrow streets of Old San Juan. He took pictures of the Caribe Hilton and pictures of the liquor store that was in a building down the street. Strange? A liquor store. He took pictures of the old Normandie Hotel, nearby, that once looked like a ship but was closed now, decaying. A block from this hotel was the Escambrónpublic beach. As soon as the tourist saw it, it became his favorite place in San Juan.

It wasn't a tourist place. Isidro said, "You want the most beautiful beach, we go to Isla Verde." No, he liked this one. OK. Isidro believed it was because of the young girls in their bathing suits. The tourist would fix a long lens to his camera and photograph the girls discreetly, without (continued on page 180) Glitz (continued from page 154) calling attention to himself. Isidro loved this guy.

He kept his money--listen to this, Isidro told his wife--in a money belt made of blue cloth beneath his shirt. He would take money out of it only in the taxi, next to me, Isidro said. He goes into a shop and buys something for his mother, he returns to the taxi before he puts the change in his money belt. He trusts me, Isidro said. Isidro had lived in New York City nine years in a basement and was relieved to be back. His wife, who had never left Puerto Rico, didn't say anything.

The third day at the beach, the tourist went swimming. It was easy to find him in the ocean, the sun reflecting on the dark glasses he always wore. He splashed out there, cupping his hands and hitting the water. Man, he was white--holding his arms as though to protect himself or trying to hide his body as he came out of the water in his red trunks. It was interesting to see a body this white, to see veins clearly and the shape of bones. Isidro, originally from Loíza, where they made West African masks, was Negro and showed no trace of Taino or Hispanic blood.

"It was when he came for his towel," Isidro told his wife, "I saw the name on his arm, here." He touched the curve of his arm below his right shoulder. "You know what name is on there? Mr. Magic. It's black, black letters with a faint outline that I think was red at one time but now is pink and almost not there. My Mr. Magic."

His wife said, "Be careful of him."

Isidro said, "He's my prize. Look what he gives me," and showed his wife several $20 bills.

He didn't tell her everything; it was difficult to talk with the washing machine and the television in the same room, and she didn't seem interested. But that night, his wife said again, "Be careful of him."

•

There were whores on Calle de la Tanca in Old San Juan, different places for anyone to notice. In Condado, the whores stood in front of La Concha, another empty hotel that had closed. But none had approached Teddy, because Isidro was with him, taking care of him, and the whores knew Isidro in his black Chevrolet taxi. He believed, from the way Teddy looked at the whores displaying themselves, that his tourist desired one but was timid about saying it. So Isidro didn't roll his eyes and ask, "How would you like some of that, 'ey?" He wanted to offer him the pleasure of a woman without presenting it as a business transaction. He cared for his tourist.

On that third day at the beach, he began to see a way he might do it.

With his tourist wandering about taking pictures, Isidro had time to look at the girls and study them. They seemed to him girls who were lazy and yet restless, moving idly even as they moved to the music of their radios. They seemed to be looking not for something to do but for something to happen, to entertain them.

One in particular he believed he recognized and he searched his mind for a name. A girl who had come out of the Caribe Hilton late one night, tired, going home to Calle del Parque. She had given him her name and telephone number, saying, "But only men who stay at the Hilton, the Condado Beach, the DuPont Plaza and the Holiday Inn."

Light-brown hair with that dark-gold skin, and what a body. It was her hair that helped him recognize her, the way it hung down and nearly covered one of her eyes. She held the hair back with the tips of her fingers, like peeking out of a curtain, when she looked at somebody closely. As she did talking to the man with the cane.

Iris Ruiz.

That was her name. He had phoned several times with customers but never reached her. Iris Ruiz.

Talking to the man with the cane.

He remembered now she had been with him yesterday and the day before. The man in the same aluminum chair, reading a book, the cane hooked to the back of the chair. The girl, Iris, kneeling in the sand to talk to him, earnest in what she was saying. The man looking up from his book to nod, to say something, a few words, though most of the time he seemed to read his book as he listened.

His skin was dark from the sun. His hair and his beard, not cared for, though not unattractive, were dark enough for him to be Puerto Rican. An artist, perhaps, an actor, someone from theInstitute of Culture, a member of the party for independence. But this was only his look, his type. Isidro knew, without having to hear him speak, the man was from the States.

The man pushed up on the arms of his chair to rise. He was slender, a lean body in tan trousers that had been cut off to make shorts. No, he wasn't Puerto Rican. The girl, Iris, took his arm, to be close rather than to support him. He limped somewhat, using the cane, favoring his right leg, but seemed near the end of his injury, whatever it was. He wasn't a cripple. Something in the hip, Isidro believed. Sure, he was OK; he played with the cane more than he used it. He liked that cane. They approached a vendor who was selling pineapples.

Isidro waited a few moments, enjoying the sight of the girl's buttocks as they walked past him, before following them to the cart, where the vendor was trimming a pineapple with quick strokes, handing them slices. Isidro saw the girl's eyes as she glanced at him and away, indifferent, without a sign of recognition. He heard the man--who wasn't Puerto Rican, it was proved now--say quietly:

"People up there, you know what they do?"

The girl, Iris, said, "Here we go again."

"They work their ass off all year." The guy with the beard ate pineapple as he spoke, in no hurry. "Save their money so they can come down here for a week, take their clothes off. Now they have to hurry to get tan, so they can go back home and look healthy for a few days."

Iris said, "Vincent, I was born with a tan, I got a tan wherever I go. Wha's that? I want to be where people are, where they doing things, not where they go to for a week." They were walking away, Iris saying, "Miami Beach is OK, tha's where you work. I think I like Miami Beach fine."

Isidro followed them to the edge of the sand.

"But you never tell me nothing, what you think. Listen, I got an offer right now, Vincent. Aman I know owns a hotel, two hotels, wants me to go to the States and work for him. Wear nice clothes, be with people in business--"

"Doing what?"

"Oh, now you want to know things."

The tourist was coming back with his camera. Isidro walked over to the taxi to wait, ready to smile.

Before returning to the DuPont Plaza, they stopped at the Fast Foto place on Ashford Avenue--perfect--where the tourist left his rolls of film overnight. Perfect, because now they drove past La Concha, where a couple of afternoon whores who could be college girls in shiny pants, blonde hair like gringas, stood by the street.

"Oh, my," Isidro said. "Is ok to look at them, but if a man wish to have a woman, he has to be careful. Know the ones are safe so you can avoid disease."

The tourist said, "I imagine you know some, 'ey? Being a cabdriver."

"All kinds," Isidro said.

"I don't go for hookers," the tourist said. "I don't want any part of'em."

"No, of course not. These girls you pay and then you do it. There are other girls, you don't pay them, but you leave a gift."

"What kind of gift?"

"Well, you could leave money, is Ok."

"Then what's the difference?"

"One is payment," Isidro said. "The (continued on page 264) Glitz (continued from page 180) other is for her to buy her own gift. Save the man the trouble."

The tourist said, "What about, you know of any that aren't hookers but like to, you know, do it?"

"Let me see," Isidro said. "A girl who's very pretty? Has light skin, nice perfume?"

The tourist said, "'Ey, sounds good. But don't bother."

"Please, is no trouble."

The tourist said, "No, see, I'm not gonna need you no more. I know my way around now. I'm gonna rent a car."

Isidro's wife was no help. He asked her how this could happen to him, losing his prize, his dream tourist. His wife told him to pray to Saint Barbara, thank her for sending him away, this Mr. Magic.

The next morning, Isidro said, "An idea came to me. I believe I can talk to him and make him see he needs me." His wife didn't say anything. But as he drove away in his black Chevrolet taxi that had traveled 170,000 miles and always returned to this home, he saw her standing in the doorway with their four children, watching him leave. Something she had never done.

•

Here was the plan. Pick up the tourist's prints at the Fast Foto place, deliver them to him and refuse to accept payment. A risk, but look at it as an investment. No, please, it's my gift for the pleasure of driving you and for your generosity. Something like that. Then. ... It's too bad you haven't been out on the island, have the pleasure of the drive to Luquillo. Or. ... What a fine day to go to El Yunque, the rain forest. Or Utuado to see the pottery.

The goddamn prints cost him more than $27.

He sat in his taxi outside the Fast Foto, still thinking, getting the words in his mind. He opened one of the envelopes of prints, not curious but to be doing something. They were pictures the tourist had taken of the beach during the past three days. Twenty-four prints--Isidro began to go through them--all in beautiful color.

Less than halfway through, he stopped and started over, already feeling an excitement. He looked at the first prints again quickly before continuing, wanting to be sure the subject of nearly all these pictures was the same and not there by accident. Isidro felt himself becoming inspired but nervous and laughed out loud. He calmed down looking at pictures from the second envelope, taken in the Old City. Fortaleza, Casa del Callejón, those places. ...

But in the third envelope, he was back at the beach of Escambrón. Here was an ice-cream vendor; here was a man displaying jewelry on a straw mat. Girls, yes, pictures of girls and a number of shots that were so bright they showed almost nothing. But of the 42 prints in the two envelopes of beach pictures, 20--count them--were of Iris Ruiz. It seemed more than that, one after another, so many views of her in different poses. Wherever the tourist went on that beach, he must have been watching Iris, taking pictures of her through his long lens.

Iris talking to the man with the cane, Vincent. Gesturing, posing. Iris lying next to him on a towel. Standing behind him, her hands in his hair as he tried to read his book. Kissing him. Walking with him. ...

Oh, man. Isidro saw those pictures and had the best idea of his life. He drove to Iris Ruiz' house on Calle del Parque and knocked on the door to her upstairs flat.

•

"You believe it?" Isidro said to Teddy. "She saw you at the beach and would like to meet you." The two of them standing in front of Walgreen's, tourists walking past them, Isidro's own tourist adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced at the taxi, shy.

"How'd you run into her?"

"At the photo place. It was lucky, uh? She recognize' me because of you. I tol' her, sure, I know him. I think he would like to meet you also."

"What'd she say exactly?"

"Ask me if I drive for the photographer. I say, sure. Maybe he like to take your picture." Isidro took a chance, a liberty, and winked at the tourist. "I think she can be free this evening. She lives at number five two Calle del Parque. Is close by your hotel."

The tourist opened one of the envelopes, looked at the prints for a moment and said, "Let's go for a ride."

•

Isidro had his tourist again and felt so good that he could admit, "I pick up the pictures to give you so I could speak to you again and hope to be of service." The tourist seemed content, gazing out at the countryside from the highway as they drove toward Carolina. "There is so much to see out on the island," Isidro said. "All this use' to be sugar cane here. Now, look, use'-car places. Way over there, apartment buildings."

The tourist would look out his side window, turn his head slowly and Isidro would see his sunglasses, his serious expression. Interested but not amazed at anything today. Not asking, "What's that? ... What's that?" Instead, he said:

"Why'd you think I wanted to meet her?"

"Well, she's a nice girl, very nice looking, I believe educated. ... We can go to Loíza, my home, where I was born. If you like to buy a famous vejigante mask for your mother." The tourist didn't say anything. "Or we can go to El Yunque. You hear of it? The rain forest on the mountain, very beautiful. ..."

"Let's go up there," the tourist said, and Isidro relaxed; he had his tourist for at least the rest of the day and could show him the sights, show him some excitement on the way up there, some expert driving.

Blowing his horn, leaning on it through blind mountain curves, climbing through dark caverns of tabonuco trees 1000 years old, gunning it past the diesel noise of tour buses--everybody going to El Yunque, the show place of the island. Look, what forests were like before men were born. Where frogs live in trees and flower plants grow on the branches. The tourist didn't raise his camera.

"You don't want pictures?"

"I can get postcards of this."

Not in a good mood. He didn't want to go into the Rain Forest Restaurant; he wasn't hungry today. At the Visitor Center, he said, "Let's get away from these goddamn buses." Isidro removed a barrier where the road was closed because of a landslide. It was slippery in places but no trouble to get through. Nobody working to clear the mud. This was more like it, not running into people everywhere. A jungle in the clouds. The tourist said, "Let's get out and walk." OK--once Isidro found a place to put the taxi, off the road deep into a side trail, in case a Park Service guy came along. Park Service guys liked to be important, Isidro said, yell at drivers.

The tourist led them along a footpath, following a sign that said El Yunque Trail. They left it behind, following side trails, and came to an open place that ended, fell away hundreds of feet to the sight of clouds like fog over the treetops below. Beautiful. It gave Isidro the feeling he could dive off and land down there in that soft green sponge. Now he saw the tourist bring his camera case in front of him and open it, take out the camera and hang it from his neck. The tourist looked out at the view, then at Isidro, then stepped away from the edge, raising his camera.

"Smile."

Isidro posed, nothing behind him but clouds, trying hard to smile. He believed it was the first picture the tourist had taken of him.

"You want me to take one of you?"

"No, stay there." The tourist snapped another picture and said, "Tell me what you're up to."

Isidro said, "Please?"

Something was wrong. It was in the tourist's expression. Not a serious one but not a nice one, either. He wasn't happy, he wasn't angry, he wasn't anything. The tourist took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket as he said, "They ask you a lot of questions about me?"

It was as though a disguise was removed and Isidro was seeing him for the first time, seeing the man's eyes as tiny nail points holding him, telling him he had made a mistake, failed to observe something. For a moment, his wife was in his mind, his wife speaking to him with the sounds of the washing machine and the television. He was confused, and it made him angry.

"Who? Nobody ask me anything."

"No? They didn't pay you?"

"Mister, I don't know what you talking about." The only thing he knew for sure, the man was no longer his prize.

"Tell me the truth. Say the girl approached you?"

"Yes, she want to meet you."

"Go on."

"I said OK. See, I thought you like her, a lot."

"You did, 'ey? Why?"

"Man, all the pictures you took of her." He watched the tourist stare at him, then begin to smile, then shake his head back and forth and heard the tourist say:

"Oh, shit. You looked at the prints you picked up this morning. Didn't you?"

Isidro nodded. Why not? The tourist didn't seem angry now. "But I didn' hurt them, I jus' look at them."

The tourist said, "Jesus, you thought I liked Iris, so you were gonna fix me up. All this was your idea."

Isidro said, "Is up to you. It doesn' matter."

The tourist was still smiling, just a little. He said, "You dumb fuck, I wasn't taking pictures of her."

Isidro saw the tourist's hand go into the camera case and come out holding a gun, an automatic pistol, a big heavy one. The tourist--what was this?--he would have film and suntan lotion in there, not a pistol. If there was something wrong with him, if he was abnormal--it was OK to be abnormal, sure, act crazy for fun, wear masks ... when it made sense to act crazy, want to scare people. This trying to scare him made no sense....

[A] nd he yelled at the tourist, "But she's in the pictures!"

The tourist said, "So's the guy with her."

Isidro paused, still not understanding, then saw it, what was going to happen, and yelled out again, "Momento!"

The tourist shot him in the head, almost between the eyes. He listened to the echo and shot him again, on the ground, before rolling him over the edge of the mud bluff, into the clouds.

The restaurant called El Cidreño offered Creole cooking and was popular with the criminal-affairs investigators who worked out of Puerto Rico police headquarters on Roosevelt Avenue, Hato Rey.

They would come in here or look over from their tables and see the bearded guy with Lorendo Paz and make the guy as an informer. Look at him. The hair, the work shirt they gave him in Bayamón. Caught in a drug bust and fell out of a window--the reason for the cane--and after a month in the hole, willing to make a plea deal. Except that Lorendo Paz, always properly attired, wearing the cream-colored suit today, would touch his napkin to his trimmed mustache, take the napkin away and be smiling, talking to the guy like they were good friends. So then the cops who came into El Cidreño or looked over from their tables would think, Sure, the guy was a narc, DEA, and had to dress like that, the junkie shirt with the jeans and rubber sandals.... But if he was undercover or he was an informer, what was he doing out in the open talking to a criminal-affairs investigator? Finally, a cop known for his determination got up from his chicken and plantains, went over to the table where Lorendo sat with the bearded guy and said, "Lorendo, I need to talk to you later today."

Lorendo said, "Of course," and then said, "Oh, I want you to meet Vincent Mora. With the Miami Beach police, detective bureau. We know each other a long time, since the FBI school. Yes, Vincent has bean. here, almost two months, on a medical leave. A robber shot him in the hip."

Oh.

[A] fter that, the investigators would look over and wonder if the bearded guy, Vincent, was any good and wonder what he was talking about to Lorendo so intently.

He was talking about Iris Ruiz.

Lorendo made his face look tired, without effort, and told Vincent he was making a career of Iris Ruiz because he needed something to do that was important to him and concerned a person's life, not because Iris was a special case. There were a thousand Iris Ruizes in San Juan.

Vincent narrowed his eyes at him.

[A] nd Lorendo raised Iris' rating. All right, there was no one like her. OK? Fantastic girl. Her looks could stop your breathing. She had style, class, personality and she made sure a doctor looked up her every week, without fail.

Vincent shook his head.

[A] nd Lorendo said, "What you're doing we've both seen, how many times? The cop who has a feeling for a whore. He wants to be her savior, change her, make her like she used to be, uh? Before she found out that little fuzzy thing she sits on can make her money."

"That's not nice," Vincent said.

"Oh, is that so? What is it attracts you to her, her mind? Her intelligence?"

"I don't know what happened," Vincent said. "Ever since I got shot, I've been horny."

"It's your age. How old are you, forty?"

Vincent said yes and then said, "Fortyone."

"Sure, it's your age. Maybe getting shot, too. You see you aren't going to live forever, you don't want to miss anything."

"Maybe.... You ever been shot?"

"No, I've been lucky."

"It can happen," Vincent said, "when you least expect. I was off duty, walking home...." He said, "You know, I could retire with fifteen years in. I could stay right here and draw three quarters of my pay for life." It would buy a lot of cod fries and crab turnovers, get him a niceplace near the beach. He could live here. Why not? He said, "I could stand to get married again. It's what people do, they get married. But not to Iris. That's never entered my mind."

"Good. There's hope for you."

"You know what she has for breakfast? Toast and a Coke."

"You need to go back to work," Lorendo said. "You think she has a problem. You're the one with the problem. You nice to a girl like that, give her what she wants, oh, everything's fine. You don't give in to her. what happens?"

"She whines, she breaks things...."

"Vincent," Lorendo said, amazed, "this little girl, she's leading you around by your bicho. You know that?"

"All she talks about is going to the States."

"Vincent," Lorendo said, "she's a whore. What whores do, if they can, they go where the action is."

"She quit."

"Oh, you believe that?"

Vincent paid the check. Lorendo, waiting for him outside, was talking with the investigator who had approached their table. The investigator nodded to Vincent as he came out, looking at his rattan cane, his rubber sandals, and Lorendo said, "Vincent, my associate was asking, he would like to know what happened to the man who shot you."

"He died on the way to the hospital," Vincent said, looking directly at Lorendo's associate, straight-faced. "I think he lost his will to live."

•

Calle del Parque, number 52, upstairs.

Teddy knocked on the door and knocked and knocked until it opened a few inches and there was a pretty, sleepy girl looking at him over the chain. Her eyes puffy, what he could see of them in all that hair.

"Hi. You remember me?"

Iris said, "I'm still sleeping. Why don't you come back--"

Teddy held up a crisp $100 bill, folded twice, between the tips of two fingers, laid it on the chain right in front of her nose.

She seemed to wake up, staring at that C note.

He usually got into apartments with the old survey routine. "Hi, I'm with International Surveys Incorporated"--show the phony card--"we're conducting a study to learn what young ladies such as yourself think of current trends in..." the price of bullshit. You could tell them anything.

He palmed the C note as she closed the door to release the chain, and that was that. It was dim and quiet inside, the way he liked it, with just faint sounds out on the street. It smelled a little of incense or perfume. She held her silky green robe closed, then relaxed, yawning, and let the robe slip open before pulling it together again, though not in any hurry. She was wearing little white panties under there, no bra. He sat down in a sticky plastic chair without waiting to be asked. Shit, he was in now. Reaching into the camera case, he almost began to recite his International Surveys routine. ("If I might ask what your husband does.... He's at work, is he?") Fool around for a minute, make sure they were alone. One time, a big hairy son of a bitch had come walking out of the bedroom in his undershirt....

She was yawning again, hair hanging in her face. He liked that sleepy look. She stretched, arching her back. The robe came open to give him a peek at a brown nipple, a big one. He liked that, too.

"How's your boyfriend?"

"My boyfrien', who's that?"

"Guy you're with at the beach every day."

"He's not even a frien' of mine no more."

"Guess I was wrong. I met him one time. His name Vincent Mora?"

"Yes, Vincent."

"He live here with you?"

"Man, are you crazy?"

"I thought you two were pretty tight."

"What happen' to the money you had in your hand?"

"I got it." Teddy showed her the C note. "Right here. Yeah, I thought you and Vincent might be living together."

Iris said, "No way, José."

Teddy grinned. "That's cute.... Let me ask you, Vincent lives--I was told he lives over by the Hilton on that street runs next to it? In the Carmen Apartments? That's what they said at his office when I called there."

"Yes, the Carmen Apartments."

"Is that the place there's a liquor store in it? I didn't see a sign or nothing; I wasn't sure.

"Yes, in the downstairs." She kept looking at his $100 bill.

"Handy to the beach," Teddy said. He glanced around the room. "You live here alone, 'ey?"

"Till I move to the States. I can't wait."

"You bring guys here?"

She began to frown now and looked mad. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, his mom used to say.

"What do you ask me questions for?"

Teddy folded the $100 bill between his thumb and two fingers, then folded it again into a tight square. He said, "Catch" and threw it at her.

Iris let go of her robe and caught it, showing good reflexes for a crabby girl. She had probably had money given to her in some interesting ways. He watched her slip the C note into the band of her panties. She said, "I be back" and walked out of the room.

Teddy waited a few moments and followed her into a little hall, then left a few feet to the bedroom. He watched her from the doorway, her back to him, taking the money out of her panties and slipping it into the top drawer of her dresser. There were clothes on the floor. The bed was a mess, the sheet all tangled up. But it was a bed, and there she was next to it.

So easy.

Iris turned, raising her eyes to Teddy, not at all surprised to see him. "Will you escuse me so I can go to bed?"

Should he whip it out?

No, too easy.

The best part, always, was seeing that shit-scared gleam of terror in their eyes, the woman realizing this wasn't any survey of current trends, what housewives liked or didn't....

This one was different. Now that he hesitated and thought about it, this one was a survey. Find out exactly where the guy lived. Now he knew. Now, if he watched himself, didn't get carried away, he could fool around with this girl. Play with the cop's girl. See what it was like.

Iris said, "I hope you don't think you can give me money and go to bed with me."

Teddy said, "No way, José," grinning. Shit. "I'm gonna go to bed with you, sweetheart, then leave you a present, a gift. If you know what I mean."

Iris said, "Because you adore me."

"Not only that," Teddy said, "it'll be my first time in over seven years."

Iris frowned at him. "Since you did it?"

"With a woman," Teddy said. "I been away."

•

Vincent looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Moved closer, picked up the scissors and snipped at his beard, attempting to weed the thin streaks of gray, aware of himself in the silence, look, getting older. He would have to shave off the beard to get rid of the gray. But he liked the beard, so keeping it was a compromise. Living here would be the same thing, if he decided to stay. He didn't know what he wanted. If he quit the police and stayed, would it be because the guy shot him or because he shot the guy?

His hip hurt as he hobbled out on his cane through the courtyard of the Carmen Apartments that was like a small parking lot for the liquor store. People parked on the sidewalk in San Juan; they parked everywhere.

[A] guy in a straw hat and sunglasses was studying a map spread open on the roof of his car. The guy looked up and said, "Excuse me?" As though he wasn't sure if he should be excused or not.

Vincent recognized him from the beach: the tourist who came in the black Chevy cab and took pictures.

"I think I'm lost."

Vincent thought of saying to him, "No, you're not." His cop mind telling him the tourist had been waiting for him. Which could mean the tourist had followed him or knew beforehand where he lived. The tourist didn't act lost. He didn't have the proper lost expression, helpless or annoyed. The tourist was grinning, the grin saying, "Look what a nice guy I am." And Vincent thought, Bullshit; the guy was trying too hard. Guys like that made him nervous.

"I came over from Condado Beach," the tourist said. "The traffic across the bridge was going both ways. Now it's one way and I can't tell how to get back."

The guy had come up with a good one. Maybe he was all right. Vincent said he'd show him and got into the car. Then was sorry. The guy was a terrible driver. Vincent would feel the guy looking at him, see the rear ends of cars lighting up in the traffic and have to brace against the dash as the guy hit the brakes.

The tourist said, "The P.R.s sure play their radios loud. You notice?" He said, "They can't drive for shit." He said, "I think I've seen you someplace. I know I saw you on the beach; I mean before that."

Vincent waited.

"Was it in Miami?"

Vincent said, "I don't know. It might've been."

"That's where you're from, 'ey?"

"Miami Beach."

The tourist took his time. "You're a cop. Huh?"

Vincent glanced at him to make sure he had the guy in his mind, then looked back at the traffic. "If we've met before, tell me about it."

"I understand you got shot."

Vincent didn't like this guy at all, the feeling he was getting. He said nothing and listened to the guy's voice, his unhurried delivery, the words rehearsed.

"I bet it hurts to get shot, 'ey?" The tourist wearing sunglasses and a straw hat, props, with the sun gone for the day, behind them somewhere. The tourist said, "You don't have no idea who I am, do you?"

Vincent would be willing to make a 'guess now, in a general area, and bet money on it. But he said, "I'm afraid not. Help me out."

"It was seven and a half years ago."

"What was?"

"When we met."

"Take a left at the next light. It goes straight through to Ashford, if you want the beach."

"We first met, I didn't get a good look at you," the tourist said. "But after that, I had time." He paused, making the turn, before he said, "Four days in a row."

"Dade County Court," Vincent said.

"That your guess?"

Vincent said, "You can let me off at the corner, there'll be fine. I appreciate the ride."

The tourist kept going. He said, "Do I make you nervous?"

Vincent said, "Your driving does. Jesus."

The light at Ashford was red and the tourist stopped on the left side of the one-way street, so Vincent would have to get out in the traffic. The tourist said, "I'm gonna let you think about it, Vince. Till we see each other again." He took off his straw hat and sunglasses, giving Vincent one more chance to make him.

Vincent got his left leg out of the car before pushing himself up to stand in the street. The light changed. Horns went off close behind him. He hunched over in the doorway, his back to the noise. "You know why I don't recognize you?"

"Why?" the tourist said.

"Because all of you shifty ex-con assholes look alike," Vincent said. He slammed the door, limped around behind the car and into Walgreen's drugstore.

•

Vincent reversed the charge on his call to Buck Torres, Miami Beach police. Torres came on with "What's the matter? Is anything wrong?" Vincent asked him how it was going and Torres said, "Same old thing, trying to stay ahead of the assholes." They talked for a minute, Vincent watching the traffic, the young Puerto Rican guys in their cars, turning onto Ashford to make a slow loop through the Condado tourist section, playing their radios. Vincent said:

"What I need, check with Hertz for me. Find out who's driving a white Datsun, P.R. license number twenty Baker two eighty, and where he told them he's staying. OK? Now close your eyes and look at a male Caucasian, mid-thirties, five nine, a hundred and forty, dishwater straight hair, long thin nose, mole under his right cheekbone. Creepy guy, we sent him up 270 about seven and a half years ago."

Torres said, "I don't see. anybody."

"Get the name from Hertz and run it. Ok? I think he was released in the past couple of weeks; he looks like shit."

"He just got out," Torres said, "how'd he get a credit card?"

"I don't know," Vincent said, "but he's driving a rental. If he stole the I.D., all the better. Comes to Puerto Rico and does five to ten. But I'd have to canvass all the hotels to find him, wouldn't I? And my leg hurts."

"You saw him and you think you know him, or what?"

"He knows me," Vincent said. "He knows where I live, he knows I was shot.... I think I'm the reason he's here. Because I fucked up his life."

"Sure, it's your fault, Vincent."

"Can you do it now, call me right back?"

Torres said, "You miss work, Vincent-- is that it?"

When he came back on, Torres said, "Vincent? Teddy Magyk."

Vincent said, "Sure, that's who it is, Teddy," sounding relieved. "It's funny, that name went through my mind, Teddy Magyk, but I didn't recognize him. I don't know why."

"He drew a ten-to-twenty, first-degree sexual battery, but got early release."

"Woman was seventy years old, beat her up," Vincent said, remembering Teddy very clearly now--pulling him out of bed when he made the collar and wanting to shove him out the hotel window, through the window.

"His first fall, he did two years in Yardville, state of New Jersey. Also a rape," Torres said. "You know, he don't look like much, his picture. Man, that's the worst kind, the sneaky ones."

"Well, I'm not gonna walk backward the rest of my life," Vincent said, "worry about some freak wants to get even. He doesn't make his move soon, I'll have to make one."

•

Vincent drank beer as he waited for Lorendo Paz, getting hungry, deciding he'd have the asopao de pollo, sort of a chicken stew with rice. He could taste it already. With the beer and fresh crusty bread and hard butter. Jesus. Lorendo came in and sat down, worn out, his cream-colored suit smudged with dirt.

"You've got a tough one, uh?"

"Guy is dead a couple weeks or more." Lorendo touched his forehead. "One in here." He touched his temple, the left side. "Another one here, to make sure."

"Two weeks out there?"

"At least. They been insects and things, animals, eating him, plants growing on him. His face isn't much left. A week ago, they found a taxi out there, but we don't know if it belongs to the guy. He didn't have a wallet, any I.D. on him."

"How about missing persons?"

"We got to talk to them, see who they looking for."

"If he's the cabdriver, maybe there's a record, where he picked up his fare."

"I'm going to see about that, too, Vincent."

"Who found him?"

"Some hikers, by luck. He wasn't near a trail. This guy, whoever it was, shot him and then pushed him off a place, you know, where you go see the view. So we still looking for the wallet out there. Meanwhile, they do a post on him at the medical center, look for a bullet. We get some prints of the guy and see if they match prints in the taxi. Then where are we, uh?"

"Just getting started," Vincent said. "What's different about this one?"

"They all different," Lorendo said, "aren't they? Once you see how they came to happen, the reason. Maybe this one is robbery. But we don't know the same person shot him took his wallet, do we?"

Vincent said, "You asking for an opinion?"

Lorendo shrugged. "You want to give it, sure. This point, I listen to everybody." Smiling a little.

Vincent said, "You feel like buying lunch today?. Is that why we're here?"

"Well, it's my turn," Lorendo said. He looked off to find a waiter and said, "There is something else," still looking off. "I received a phone call this morning...."

Vincent watched Lorendo straighten and glance at him, only a glance, taking something from his inside coat pocket--a folded sheet from a legal pad--opening it now as though he didn't want to.

Vincent eased upright, wary. "Oh, shit. Iris, uh? You pick her up?"

"We found her--"

"What'd she do, solicit a cop?"

"She didn't do nothing, Vincent. She died."

•

Vincent was alone with Iris.

[A] girl they said was Iris.

He would begin to go over in his mind what the police had and what they didn't, the holes in the case, and he would see Iris falling through dark space, alone. He could see her eyes and then see the ground coming up as she would see it, alone, trying to hold back. But he couldn't see her going off the balcony alone. Someone had been with her.

There were traces of semen in her vagina.

They weren't sure if she had been assaulted, sexually or physically. Blood, fingernail scrapings, tissue samples of vital organs had been sent to the medical center. They'd wait for the report, learn the apparent cause of death before trying to determine the nature of the girl's death. Homicide, suicide....

"Or she could have been on something," Lorendo had said. "Acid, angel dust. Maybe she thought she could fly. If we find out she was already dead, tha's different. But if it was hitting the ground killed her, well, then we have to think it could have been an accident."

Vincent saw Iris on a balcony. He saw her falling....

[A] young woman wearing a raincoat entered the parlor, her gaze holding on the casket.

Late 20s. Dark hair pulled back. Pale skin, delicate features cleanly defined. No make-up, not bothering on this rainy day to make herself more attractive. Still, as he watched her, Vincent saw a glamor shot of the same girl and a name with it. Now Appearing In The Sultan's Lounge, Linda Moon. Then saw her in a soft blue spot that diffused her clean features, but it was this girl. It had to be. He watched her stop short of the casket.

"Why did you have it opened?"

"I wanted to see her," Vincent said. "Make sure it was Iris, not somebody else."

"It's Iris." She said, "I don't know if I can look at her again" but moved almost cautiously toward the casket to stare into it without moving. "God, whoever did her make-up--"

"Ought to be arrested," Vincent said.

The girl he knew was Linda Moon looked over at him, taking her time now. She said, "You're Iris' friend. I came in, I didn't recognize you." She turned away, walked over to the empty rows of folding chairs, hands in the pockets of her raincoat, and sat down before looking at him again. "Where's your cane?"

"I forgot it," Vincent said.

He sat down with a chair between them, the girl staring at the casket again. She said, "Isn't that pathetic? Last seen in this life in a genuine wood-veneer-plastic box."

Vincent studied her face in profile, dark hair tied back, giving him a good look at her features, hollow cheeks, delicate nose, long, dark lashes--a girl who knew things about him, knew Iris well enough to pay for her funeral.

He said, "You are Linda Moon." Wanting to be absolutely sure but sounding like a lawyer or a court clerk.

She said, "I didn't make too big an impression, huh? You should see my act now. I wear an orange outfit, with ruffles." Very dry. Staring at the casket.

He said, "You did a weather set, Stormy and then Sunny...."

She turned to look at him.

"Then you did Where're the Clowns."

"Send in the Clowns. Weren't too broken up, uh, after Iris left?"

"You want me to tell you about Iris and me? It'll take about two minutes."

"But you're here," Linda said. She turned back to the casket. "It's pathetic, the whole thing. The little party girl--she gets two people at her wake."

Vincent waited, aware of the silence, before he said, "Linda? What was she doing in that apartment?"

She said, "Who knows?" After a moment, she looked at him again and said, "I have to go."

•

Teddy, behind the wheel of the Datsun, watched them come out of the funeral home. Jesus, he could slip the car into gear, creep it toward them in the dark, time it, get almost there and pop the lights on as the cop started across the street. Shoot him going by.

Except he wasn't ready. He'd have to have his gun out, the window open on the passenger side.... He should've thought of it sooner. Except what if the cop had a gun on him and had time to shoot back....

No, it seemed like a good idea, and it was a good place, dark and lonely. But it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to see the cop's eyes just before and wanted the cop to see his. Hi. Remember me?

•

Vincent walked past the open-air front of the restaurant, along the boxed hedge. He spotted Teddy right away. Teddy wearing a red knit shirt, in there among the hanging plants and green-oilcloth-covered tables. Tourist with camera case, head lowered, ordering a late breakfast from the place-mat menu. When Vincent entered the restaurant later, Teddy was eating pancakes with one hand, holding onto his plastic glass of Coke with the other. Vincent wasn't sure if he could watch him: Teddy cutting a big wedge out of the stack, shoving it into his wide-open mouth, then taking a sip of the Coke before he began to chew. Vincent sat down at the table for four across the aisle.

Teddy, hunched over his plate, turned his head to look past his shoulder. "'Ey, we gotta stop meeting like this."

Was he honestly off the wall or pretending to be? Playing the nerd. Eyes with a watery glaze this morning. Hung over? Maybe. He didn't seem on guard or the least concerned. Vincent could be someone from back home.... An old pal thinking how simple it would be to reach into the back of his pants beneath his jacket, pull out the old Smith and put him away. One shot. There. Tell the waitress, "Let's see, I think I'll have the eggs over easy."

"What're you following me for? It won't do you no good."

"I'm not following you."

"What've you been doing all morning? I saw you go by here."

"You used to follow me," Vincent said, "take pictures.... What were the pictures for? You mind if I ask you?"

"What've you got, a wire on you?"

"I'm curious, that's all."

"Why'd I take pictures? I'll tell you," Teddy said, his mouth full. He paused to take a drink of Coke, work his tongue around in his mouth. "I wanted to look at your face."

"'Why?"

"See how you look at people." Teddy squared around to face Vincent directly. "See if you look at them the same way you look at me."

"How do I look at you? I don't understand what you mean."

"Tough shit. That's all I'm saying on that particular subject at this time. It may come up again, but we don't know for sure or when...."

"It doesn't matter," Vincent said. "I don't think you're the one did Iris, anyway."

"Yeah? Why not?"

"I think it was some other creep. You're not the only creep in the world, Ted. There could be millions."

Teddy said, "Is that right?" Face drawn tight as he picked up his camera case from the table and came over. "You think it was some creep, 'ey?" He pulled the chair out across from Vincent and sat down, the camera case in his lap now, looking right at Vincent, Vincent lying back, waiting, Vincent very happy with the way it was going. "I hear she did a double back flip off that balcony," Teddy said. "I hear it wasn't a bad dive, but she only scored an eight point five. You know why? She didn't keep her feet together."

Vincent had to wait a moment. He picked up his glass of water and took a sip. He had to let himself ease back down.

"I understand she didn't scream," Vincent said. "I wonder why."

Teddy shrugged his shoulders, staring at Vincent. "Maybe she was dead or close to it. Can't you figure things out? Speculate on it? Hell, I'm the one oughta be the dick. I'll tell you something, though. You can keep surveillance. I don't want any parts of surveillance work. Other than following some stove-up cripple walks with a cane." Teddy grinned. "That's different."

"You're a weird fucking guy, Teddy. I've never met anybody like you before in my life."

"You better believe it," Teddy said and grinned. "You're finding out the hard way they don't call me Mr. Magic for nothing."

"Who's they? I never heard anybody call you that."

"Guys."

"What guys? Guys at Raiford? All the winners? I wouldn't call doing time exactly a magic act."

"I got along fine."

"And came out with some great ideas."

Teddy squinted at him. "I can see that look again, man. There it is. Like you think you know something." Teddy, grinning his smirky grin, raised and lowered his eyebrows, twice. He said, "Have a nice day," got up and walked off.

Jesus Christ, Vincent thought, feeling strangely self-conscious, as though people at the other tables were staring at him, associating him with Teddy.

Look at the freak, crossing the street now in shorts, wearing white shorts, camera case hanging, the freak raising his hand with a flat palm toward approaching traffic, the freak looking straight ahead, ignoring the cars blowing their horns at him. Teddy onstage, showing off. Something a kid in junior high might do.Look. Moving off with a jaunty stride, on the other side of the street now, with a bounce that seemed to lift him up on his toes.

•

This isn't what you do, Vincent thought. Play games with weird kids. You can't do it. You have to get out.

•

Vincent didn't mention Miami Beach, that it was time for him to go home, past time; he wouldset it aside for a while. They were together now, closer because they had been apart. Vincent and Linda sat in the sun at Escambrón beneath that clean sky and talked about things as they thought of them, Teddy already out of the way as a topic, done to death.

"I can't play with him anymore."

"Good. But it makes you mad."

"More than that."

"You have to forget about him."

He was trying. They watched the sleek young bodies in skimpy, stringy bathing suits, the vendors cooking, selling, the families on blankets, and looked out at the low barrier of rock 100 yards offshore and imagined it, squinting, a rusting ship's hull, a long brown submarine.... And a Datsun behind them. Parked back in the shade of Australian pines. He didn't imagine the car, it was there, and felt someone inside it watching them--trying to forget Teddy but feeling his presence.

•

Teddy got up during the night to go to the bathroom. "Go potty," his mom called it; woman her age. Tub a lard trying to be cute. He had actually been inside her and almost killed her, shesaid, coming out at birth. Well, excuuuse me. It could still he arranged. She's sleeping; hold a pillow over her face so as not to have to look at her. Lay on top of it till she finally quitbucking and breathing and he would never have to hear her say "Kisser mom" or "Buddy go potty" again. He shouldn't think things like that. He said to the bathroom mirror, "Would you do that to your mom?" Then had to grin at himself, turning his head to look at the grin from different angles.

"Hi."

"Hi, yourself."

"Haven't I seen you someplace before?"

"Now you do, now you don't."

"Wait."

He stared at himself in silence, not grinning now.

"When you gonna do it?"

"What?"

"You know what."

He stared at himself in silence.

"Tomorrow. Didn't I tell you?"

•

Teddy said out loud, "Well, it's about time. Where'n the hell you been, sightseeing? Shit, keeping me waiting."

He watched them from across the street.

Vincent and his girlfriend were out of their car, walking away from it arm in arm. Wasn't that sweet? They stopped like they were going to go into the liquor store. Nope, decided not to, kept going and went into the apartment entrance.

Teddy slid down some in his seat so he could look up at their balcony now, second floor, directly above the liquor store. He waited for lights to come on. . . . There.

"Now make yourselves a couple of drinks," Teddy said. He told them they were thirsty from all that sight-seeing. He told them to get comfortable and bring their drinks out onto the balcony, get some fresh air. Sitting down or standing up, it didn't matter to him. Or whether he looked in the cop's eyes or not. The hell with it. Teddy had made up his mind he was going to get it done. Soon as they appeared--walk out into the street like he was crossing, stop, aim his .38 up there and give 'em each three rounds, Vincent first and foremost, Vincent more than three if it was necessary. A woman you could go up there and kill all different ways. Have some fun.

It looked like only one light was on up there. What were they doing? Teddy said, "'Ey, you can screw her any time. Come on out on the balcony." He waited. Shit.

[A] figure appeared, moving the curtain aside.

•

Linda sipped Chablis from a water glass, let the curtain fall in place as she heard Vincent.

"It's all yours."

Vincent stood in the living room, buttoning his shirt.

"You have great legs."

"So do you."

She held up the glass. "We could use some more of this."

"It's on the list. You think of anything else?"

"Bread?"

"We've got the rolls. Empanadillas for appetizers, a mixed salad, alcapurrias, what else? Piononos. Wine, coffee; I'll get some booze...."

"Vincent? Am I going to have to learn to cook Puerto Rican?"

"You'll love it."

He was going out as she said, "That's not an answer."

The door closed.

•

Teddy had six rounds in the revolver, six more in his right-hand pants pocket and six in the left. If he couldn't do the job with--what'd that make?--18 shots, he oughtn't to be here. The gun was so shiny he'd have to keep it in his pants till he was out in the street, no cars coming. The girl had appeared up there, looking cute in her shorty outfit. But no Vincent. Shit. Teddy said, "Come on, Vincent, you son of a bitch," lowered his gaze to the street and, Jesus Christ, there he was, coming along the side of the building past the cars, coming out of darkness to the liquor store. Look at him, right there across the street. Going in for a six-pack or something. In his shirt sleeves. No place to hide a gun, no way. Teddy wiped his palms on his pants. He picked up the .38 from the seat.

Walk over there like he had his arms folded. Get behind a car by the building. Wait. Get him coming out of the store.

•

Linda was pinning up her hair, the shower running, when she thought of it and said, "Cheese" to the bathroom mirror, caught her own smile and was out of there, slipping on the wrap as she hurried through the living room to the balcony, to catch Vincent before he got inside the store--tell him to get cheese and crackers and potato chips, gringo snacks to go with the empanadillas--and looked over the rail straight down. Too late; missed him.

She looked up to see Teddy in the middle of the street.

Even before the car passed and he continued across and she recognized him, she knew it was Teddy coming. Teddy concentrating on the liquor store, cautious, keeping beyond the edge of light on the pavement, walking in a peculiar way. People didn't walk with their arms folded. She saw his arms unfold as it was in her mind and saw the glint of bright metal and wanted to call out--gripping the balcony rail as hard as she could. Yell for help, yell at Teddy, yell at Vincent the moment he came out--and it could be a moment too late. She saw the gun in Teddy's hand, Teddy moving toward the cars parked in the courtyard. Linda let go of the rail, aware that she had to run but remain calm, hurry without losing her head and doing something dumb.

Vincent's gun was on the dresser.

It was heavy and her hand was wet. There were catches and strange little knobs, numbers and names etched in the metal. She had seen someone in a movie, in a hundred movies, slide the top part of the barrel back, and she did it and jumped as a cartridge ejected and the slide clicked into place. Vincent would keep the safety on. The catch, she hoped to God, by her thumb as she gripped the gun. Push it up....

•

Vincent saw it coming and thought, Not again.

Carrying the groceries reminded him of that other time. That other time, he thought he might have seen the guy before, in a holding cell. This time, he knew the guy quite well and knew the guy was not going to tell him to drop the groceries and hand over his wallet. This guy's only intention was to shoot him dead. What had he learned that other time that might help him now? Absolutely nothing. This time he had learned, never go to the store without your gun. But even if he had it....

Teddy said, "Well, well, well," coming out of the dark to smirk at him, holding the bright-metal piece low, elbow tight against his side.

Vincent looked him in the eye, trying for an expression that would show honest surprise. What's going on? What is this? He didn't want to look threatening. He didn't want Teddy to take anything the wrong way and all of a sudden empty the gun. He wanted to reason with Teddy, at least try. The trouble was, Vincent had to concentrate so hard on appearing harmless, surprised--while hiding the fact he was scared to death--he couldn't think of anything to say. Drop it, motherfucker, or I'll blow your fucking head off came to mind. It was a good line but not one that would work here. Blow his head off with what?

Teddy said, "I want to be looking in your eyes as I pull the trigger."

"Why, Ted?"

"I'm not Ted, I'm Teddy."

Shit. "OK. Would you tell me--see, I don't understand--why you want to do that?"

"You don't know what I feel or anything about me. You think you do."

"I give you that impression?"

"Cut the bullshit. Time you busted me eight years ago, I could tell. Like you thought you could see inside me. Well, you can't."

"No, I'd be the first to admit that. I think what we have here is a misunderstanding...." Jesus Christ, did they.

Vincent was about to stumble on, think of something, anything, when he saw a figure in white, beyond Teddy's right shoulder, run from the building entrance to the cars parked in the courtyard, and he said, "What we should do is clear it up."

"What else you gonna say, I got a fucking gun aimed at your gut?"

The figure was beyond Teddy's left shoulder now, among the cars, coming out toward them. Linda, Jesus, in her skimpy white robe.

"You don't want to be in the position, get brought up for murder--you know, that's pretty serious--and find out you were wrong. I don't mean wrong, I mean you misinterpreted, made an honest mistake of what you thought I was thinking."

Hearing himself but seeing Linda, Jesus, holding his police gun out in front of her in both hands, sneaking up hunched over, maybe 20 feet away and closing in. Teddy was saying, "Bullshit!" repeating it with feeling, with everything he had, working himself up. Teddy saying, "Look at me! Look me in the eye, goddamn it!" Vincent wanted to. He raised his eyebrows to stretch his eyes open wide, felt like an idiot and didn't care, wanting with all his heart to tell Linda about the safety at the back end of the slide on a Smith & Wesson Model 39 parabellum. If it was on and she tried to fire and Teddy heard her. ... Wait. Or if it was off and she did fire a copper jacketed nine-millimeter round right at Teddy, right in front of him....

Teddy was saying, "Open 'em wide! Come on, wider!" Showing the whites of his own wild eyes, Teddy at the edge....

[A] s Linda stretched both arms all the way out, braced herself and fired.

[A] nd Vincent closed and opened his eyes, saw her juggle the gun and drop it as Teddy slammed into him and Teddy's gun went off between them into the grocery sack of bottles, went off again and went off again, the bottles gone now as Vincent tried to grab hold of Teddy clinging to him and put him down, step on his gun. But something was wrong. Shit, he knew what it was. It wasn't pain, not yet; it was his strength going. He had been shot somewhere, and the rug-burn pain would come once his adrenaline had drained off. He had learned that the other time. He had to find Teddy's gun hand right now, Teddy holding on like dead weight. He got hold of Teddy's arm and took a step and threw him as hard as he could, but it wasn't enough. Teddy reeled off, staggering, but stayed on his feet. Vincent started after him and his legs lost their purpose, wouldn't work. It was Vincent who went down and had to crawl in the dark toward Linda's white bare feet on the pavement--where his gun was supposed to be and wasn't--Linda saying something, mad or urgent. He couldn't tell or stop to look up at her and listen, not now, or explain what he had in mind. But she knew. She came down to him on her knees, holding the Smith, and putit in. his hand, grip into the palm. She knew. He turned with one hand on the ground, gun extended in the other, and put it on Teddy. Vincent paused to say, "Drop it." Gave him that option.

Teddy looked wobbly, drunk, weaving as he aimed the bright-metal piece right at them, at oneor the other, from less than 20 feet. So Vincent shot him. Put one dead center through Teddy's solar plexus and killed the poor wimp who thought he was magic and couldn't be scared.

"He wanted to offer Teddy the pleasure of a woman without presenting it as a business transaction."

"Wherever Teddy went on that beach, he must have been taking pictures of her through his long lens."