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"I know you're a fish, hon."
She finished her gimlet and signaled the black barman for another. He took her glass away and filled a fresh one from the blender. The color in her green eyes deepened when she sipped from the glass.
"Is there something I should know, Kim?" I asked.
"You're a big boy. Make up your own mind. Look at the flamingos."
"What?"
"Painted on the edge of the mirror. The pink flamingos. When I was a little girl we lived in Miami. My father was the guy who took care of the flamingos at the Hialeah racetrack. Before the seventh race he'd chase them with a broom in the center ground and make them fly high above the stands. That was his job. He thought it was a real important job."
She drank again from her glass and closed and opened her eyes slowly. Her mouth was bright red.
"I see," I said.
"One morning he took me to work with him and told me to sit on this wood bench by the finish line while he picked up paper from the track with a stick that had a nail in it. But I wandered out in the center ground and started feeding the flamingos. There was a bucket of ground-up shrimp by the lake, and I was throwing handfuls of it at these big, beautiful pink birds. I didn't see or hear him come up behind me. My hair was long then, and he twisted it in his hand and jerked it against my scalp like you'd snap a rope. He pulled me back to the bench and told me if I cried any more I'd get it again when I got home.
"Then this horse trainer walked up and shook his finger at my father and said, 'Don't you hurt that little girl, Bill. She didn't mean no harm.' He picked me up in his arms like my father wasn't there and carried me to his car. 'She don't belong out here. I'm going to take her to the zoo. You go on about your work,' he said. 'I'll bring her back to your trailer later. Don't be giving me any trouble about it, either, Bill.'
"He drove me down to Crandon Park to see the flamingos. He said my father wouldn't hurt me anymore, not as long as he was around. Then he bought me some ice cream and parked the car in some palmettos and sat me in his lap. Then he unbuttoned my blouse. I've always thought of it as my morning for flamingos."
"That's a bad story, Kim."
"You learn early or you learn late. What difference does it make?"
"Are you really that hard?"
"No, I just like hanging around people like Ray and Lionel and the raghead for kicks. You'll see. It's a great life."
She finished her drink, went to the women's room, and came back. I could smell mints on her breath. The Negro barman started to pour her another gimlet from the blender but she shook her head negatively. Somebody had put an old recording of "Please Don't Leave Me" by Fats Domino on the jukebox.
"Dance with me," she said.
It was dark and the vinyl booths were empty at the back of the dance floor. She felt light and small in my arms, and her head rested against my chest. I felt her hair touch my cheek.
"Look, Kim, let me buy you some gumbo at the Golden Star," I said.
She didn't answer. I could feel her stomach and breasts against me, and I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
"Hey," I said, and looked at her and smiled. "I'm an over-the-hill guy who doesn't deserve the kindness of a pretty young woman."
"Tony lets me use his beach house in Biloxi. Come with me there today."
"It sounds like a good way to end up in an oil barrel."
"He won't hurt you. He likes you. I don't think Tony's going to be around much longer, anyway."
"Why not?"
"People in Miami and Houston want him out of the way. He keeps breaking all their rules. Sometimes I feel sorry for him. Will you come with me?"
"I'm involved, Kim. You're sure a big temptation, though."
Her feet stopped moving and her hand rested on my arm. She looked out at the light from the opened front door. A lock of her hair hung down on one eyebrow. Her face had the same wan expression on it that I had seen when she had been staring out at Tony Cardo's empty tennis court. Then she touched my throat with her fingers.
"So long, hotcakes. Don't think too bad of me," she said.
She left me on the dance floor, picked up her purse from the bar, and walked through the brilliant square of light at the front onto Decatur Street. Clete parted the window blinds with his fingers and squinted out onto the street.
