by Mike Stewart
Peety Boy thought a bit and said, “Yessir. That’s all right.”
And I felt goodâfor about ten seconds.
chapter twelve
As I stood there trying to convince Peety Boy to take my money, I had unrolled the soaked fifty and pressed it against my T-shirt with my palm. I had squeezed a rectangle of water into my shirt and managed to flatten the bill back into shape before pressing it into Peety Boy’s hard palm. That felt good. Seeing Deputy Mickey Burns cruise by when I turned to leave did not.
Burns’ cruiser moved at that intimidating snail-pace cops use to make you feel like you’re under surveillance and like you’ve done something wrong, if only you could remember what it was. I waved and got the universal cop nod in response. I decided to jog back to my pastel palace along Gorrie Drive where I would be in plain view of the island traffic, which, as it turned out, consisted of one four-wheel-drive convertible with two dark-suited, Hispanic-looking businessmen inside, what appeared to be an old lady trudging along deep inside a straw hat, dark glasses, and a flowing dashiki, and three dogs. Two of the dogs barked and growled and chased me for a few feet to spice up their day. Otherwise, the trip was uneventful.
I had reached the top of the wooden steps and was fishing inside my waistband for my rented key when I saw him step out from the tall space under the house. Sonny, the almost mute, eye-jumping painter walked up the stairs behind me. When he was four steps away, he hung back like someone who had been kicked down stairs before. “Go on inside. It ain’t locked.”
As Sonny spoke, he swiveled his right hip toward me and showed me the butt of a handgun sticking out of his pocket. The movement looked a little effeminate. I decided not to tell him.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside my own little pastel hell. A familiar-looking man sat in a rattan chair padded with green and peach puffs of printed seashells. Carli had given me a pretty good description. He did in fact look like a weight lifter or an ex-jock going to fat. My young client didn’t know it, but she had seen a pretty famous guy shoot another man in the mouth. Leroy Purcell, former All-American running back for the University of Florida, used gridiron-scarred, oversized hands to push out of the chair. If I hadn’t known he’d taken out a knee his last year with the Cowboys, I don’t think I would have noticed that he favored it getting up.
Purcell seemed to be trying for a Florida resort look. He wore a blond crew cutâwaxed straight up in frontâand an expensive set of golfer’s duds. His problem was that the wardrobe didn’t much go with the scarred gash across his chin, or his twenty-inch neck, or the overwhelming sense of controlled violence that seemed to radiate from every pore.
He rose to his full height and said my least favorite sentence in the English language. “Do you know who I am?”
I said, “You used to be some kind of jock, didn’t you?”
Purcell looked disgusted. “My name is Leroy Purcell. And, yeah, I was some kind of jock. I was the kind who played tailback for Florida and spent five seasons with the Dallas Cowboys.”
I really did not like this guy. “Congratulations. What can I do for you?”
He turned deep red. “I’m not used to being talked to that way.”
And, I thought, I’m not used to entertaining murderers. I said, “I didn’t invite you here. You and Harpo broke in because you wanted to see me, and you think I’m supposed to be impressed by who you are. Fine. I’m impressed. Now tell me what you want.”
This, I thought, is not going well. Over the past week, I had been shot at; Susan had been shot at; her house had been vandalized; my life, Susan’s life, and Carli’s life had been turned upside down; and a frightened, abused teenage girl had been traumatized beyond description. It all came pouring in on me. I breathed deeply and tried to regain control.
I repeated, “What do you want?”
I was not the only one starting to lose it. Leroy Purcell said, “You’re not exactly impressing the shit out of me either, McInnes.” I looked at him. “I came here to talk business.”
“So, talk.”
“Are you this big an asshole with everyone, or do you think you know something about me in particular?”
“I’m this big of an asshole with everyone.”
“Well, asshole, we’re going for a little ride.” “I don’t think so. You want to shoot me, then shoot me. But I’m not going to get in a car and go anywhere with you two.”
“I could have Sonny make you.”
I turned and looked at Sonny. His eyes were bouncing around the room, never really looking at me but keeping me in view somehow. I said, “I doubt it,” and Sonny’s eyes stopped ricocheting and focused.
Purcell said, “I know about you, McInnes. I’ve taken the time to know about you. I hear you’re some kinda minor league hard-ass. But old Sonny here is major league. You might say he’s a professional.” I shrugged. Purcell smiled, but it wasn’t pretty. “You need to come with us. If you do, you’ll be fine. We’re just going up to The Plantation. If you won’t come, Sonny’s gonna put a bullet in your ass.”
“I guess I’ll come then.”
Purcell said, “I thought you would.”
“In case you’re wondering, it was that ‘bullet in the ass’ line that did the trick. That sounds like it would hurt.”
No one thought I was funny.
Purcell drove my Jeepâhe already had the keysâwhile Sonny and I sat in back. The back windows on a Jeep Cherokee are tinted dark. Sonny had drawn his hip gun and was keeping it leveled at my rib cage. As we approached the gate, Sonny took off his cap and placed it on the seat. Then he used his free hand to pull an old-fashioned switchblade out of his left hip pocket. He pressed the point of the blade deep enough into my side to just break the skin and then put the gun away and placed his cap over his knife hand. Behind tinted windows, no one outside would be able to tell I was a flick of Sonny’s hand away from a punctured lung. Purcell was right. Sonny seemed pretty professional.
The guardhouse came up on the left, and Sonny said, “Don’t say nothin’.”
The overstuffed guard’s uniform shuffled to the car, was visibly and loudly impressed with Leroy Purcell’s presence, and waved us through. I assumed Purcell or one of his capos had a house on the island and that was where we were going. I was wrong. We went to Susan’s beach house, and I was relieved not to see an old Ford pickup sticking out of the carport.
We trudged up the wooden steps single file, and Sonny kicked in Susan’s front door while Purcell and I watched. When the door splintered and swung open, Sonny limped to one side, and Purcell strutted in ahead of us like an African chieftain at a war council.
Sonny said, “Inside.” He had his gun out again, and it was pointed at me. I sighed and followed Purcell.
Purcell said, “This is more like it. Where does she keep the liquor?” I didn’t answer, which seemed to upset Sonny because he rapped me on the shoulder with the butt of his revolver. That was enough. I turned and hit Sonny on the bridge of his nose with a straight right that had six months of anger and frustration and wanting to hit someone behind it. Sonny went down. Then he came up again with blood pouring from both nostrils and every intention of killing me where I stood. Purcell yelled, “Stop!”
Sonny looked pleadingly at Purcell, who said, “Did I tell you to hit him?” Sonny shook his bloody face and dripped red on the carpet. “I told you I wanted to talk to this man, and I wanted to impress him that we are serious. When I need your help impressing him, I’ll tell you. You got that?”
Sonny nodded this time and dripped more blood on Susan’s rug.
I said, “Can he sit up and beg?”
Purcell looked pissed. “Shut the fuck up, McInnes.”
“It’s your party.”
Leroy Purcell walked over to the kitchen, snatched a roll of paper towels out of its holder over the sink, and tossed it to Sonny. While Sonny put pressure on his flowing red nose, Purcell located a bottle of bourbon and mixed it with ice and Coke from
the refrigerator. He walked over and sat in a chair with its back to Susan’s bright view of the Gulf. He said, “Sit down.” I didn’t see any reason not to, so I sat on the sofa and looked out at the beach. Purcell said, “Now, this is more like it. That fucking place you’re staying is for shit.” He gestured at the room. “These people got some goddamn taste.” He sipped his sweetened bourbon. “Tell me, McInnes, what do you think you know about me that makes you so pissed off?” I looked at him. “What does Susan Fitzsimmons tell you about me?”
I said, “Who is Susan Fitzpatrick?”
“Funny.” He said, “Susan Fitzsimmons owns this house, and she’s a client of yours. And I think that you think she and that white trash waitress from the Pelican’s Roost may have seen something last Wednesday night at a house down the beach from here.” He stopped for me to agree with him. I picked up a throw pillow and put it behind my head. He said, “I’m here to work something out. I really don’t know what your clients saw or didn’t see. I’m just here for some friends who don’t want any trouble. What I want is to meet with Fitzsimmons and the girl and straighten this out.”
“Explain the problem to me. What are you going to straighten out?”
“Then she is your client.”
I repeated, “What are you going to straighten out?” He didn’t answer. I said, “You know what I think? I think you’re scared shitless because you think someone saw you up to no good, and you don’t know how to find them. Look, I admit Susan Fitzsimmons has been both my client and my friend for a long time. If you’ve got half a brain, you could find that out in an hour anyway. But she’s never laid eyes on you, and, if I have anything to say about it, she never will.”
“So you’re not going to let me meet with her?”
“Nope.”
Purcell rose up out of the chair. “Maybe I should convince you.”
“Maybe you should kiss my ass.”
He walked toward me. I sat still. The former football hero stopped a foot from the sofa and took in a deep breath. “McInnes, all I want is a meeting. And all you gotta do is say yes. It’ll save your client a load of grief down the road. And it’ll save you an ass whipping right now. Think about it.” He smiled. The man was thinking about hurting me, and it seemed to put him in a better mood. “Hell, McInnes, I can see you’re a pretty good-sized guy.
Probably push around the Nautilus machines pretty good. Probably in a spinning class down at the fags-are-us sportsplex. But you caught Sonny by surprise. If I hadn’t stopped him, you’d be dead now. And you need to understand that, even if you think you’re tough, I got fifty pounds of muscle on you and Sonny.”
I said, “You’ve got fifty pounds hanging over your belt,” and, as soon as I got the words out, I realized I might have gone too far.
I could feel the violence arcing like static electricity between Purcell and Sonny over my head. I could see him breathing hard, trying to regain control.
Purcell raised his glass and downed what was left of his drink in one swallow; then he turned and threw the empty glass at the kitchen sink from across the room. The crystal tumbler hit dead center on the stainless steel sink and exploded on impact.
Purcell’s eyes moved around the room and over Susan’s things. He was thinking; he was breathing deeply and thinking. Finally, he said, “You don’t understand what the fuck you’re in, McInnes. You may not believe it, but me and Sonny are about the most reasonable people you’re gonna meet on this thing.”
“Yeah.” I said, “You and Sonny got reasonable written all over you.”
Purcell huffed and shook his head. “Boy, there’s tough and there’s bad and there’s just plain evil. Old Sonny there is tough. I’m tougher, and I got a Super Bowl ring to prove it. But we can bring somebody into this thing whoâbelieve meâwould scare the living shit out of the toughest sonofabitch I ever saw on a football field. I make a phone call and say it’s out of my hands, you’re gonna get to meet a mean-ass spic who’ll slice you open and play with your guts while you’re still alive and watching. Crazy fuck’ll do the same and worseâperverted sex stuff with knives and spikes, shit like thatâto the Fitzsimmons woman and that trailer-trash girl.” He paused before he said, “This is your last chance to settle this normal.”
Purcell paused again to let me think about that. And I did, but the whole thing sounded like a lame horror story concocted to scare me into bad judgmentânot to mention my concerns with Leroy Purcell’s definition of “normal.” The threats were over the top. They were ridiculous. But… Purcell said this alleged boogeyman was Hispanic, and the cold puffy stare of the fat guy on Dog Island kept haunting me.
I shook it off. “Bedtime stories.”
Purcell looked surprised. “Huh?”
I explained. “You’re full of shit.”
Leroy Purcell pulled a nickel-plated Colt .45 out of his waistband and chopped at my face with the barrel. I ducked and he missed, and it occurred to me that maybe I should have let him hit me. Maybe it would have been better to let him vent some violence without pulling a trigger.
Purcell raised the .45 again but not to swing it. He pointed the muzzle at my face and cocked the hammer. The room grew still. Purcell breathed hard against an adrenaline rush, and in the short eternity between his breathsâwhen I waited for the bullet aimed at my eyesâthe only other sound was the soft hum of Susan’s refrigerator.
The room faded. I was focused on the gun in Purcell’s giant hand, and my only conscious thought was to wonder why I hadn’t noticed the refrigerator noise before.
The moment passed, and a dark mist seemed to lift. The battle-scared ex-jock rolled his shoulders to relax the muscles in his thick neck. He said, “Sonny?”
“Yessir.” Sonny sounded excited now.
“You got the lighter fluid?”
“Yessir.”
“Use it.”
Sonny appeared in the corner of my eye. I kept looking at the volcanic muzzle of Purcell’s .45. Sonny moved to the wall opposite Susan’s circular stairs and stopped in front of Bird Fitzsimmons’ wall-sized painting of seashells. Now I looked. Sonny pulled a yellow and blue squeeze can of lighter fluid from his back pocket.
“That painting’s worth a fortune. The artist is dead.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it was what I said. I looked up at Purcell. He had backed off a step and lowered the muzzle to point at my chest. The Saturday cookout smell of charcoal lighter fluid filled the room, and I looked over to see Sonny squirting the painting in big dripping circles.
Purcell said, “We’re done here. You can leave if you want to.” I sat still. He walked over to the painting and pulled a Zippo from his pocket like the one Peety Boy had used to light his Camel. “Just remember, all you got to do is set up a meeting with the Fitzsimmons woman and the waitress. We’ll work everything out, and they’ll be safe.” He spun the little black wheel on the lighter with his thumb and turned the flame all the way up. “You tell ‘em. Nobody’s safe. Nothing they got is safe until we work this out.”
And Leroy Purcell, former All-American tailback for the University of Florida, set fire to Susan’s most cherished remnant of her dead husband’s talented life.
I shot off the sofa and ran toward the deck, and they let me. Sonny and Purcell were already on their way out the back when I got the double doors open.
Behind me, flames shot eight feet in the air, scorching the walls and threatening the house. The painting was engulfed in fire. Unable to grasp it bare-handed, I grabbed a lamp and swung it in a hard upward arc against the lower edge of the painting. The flaming square flew off the wall and crashed onto the carpeted floor as I jumped out of the way. The top left corner was untouched. I gripped it and ran across the carpet and through the doors and swung a double handful of flames over the railing and onto the sand below.
Back inside, the carpet smoked, and the wall was too hot to touch. I splashed pans of water on everything and called the fire department.
Then I called Susan.
chapter thirteen
The flirtation was gone. Susan sounded dead inside. “I know it’s just a painting, Tom. And I’m so thankful that you’re okay. But… oh God, Tom. What do we do now?”
“Well, we damn sure don’t agree to let you and Carli meet with him. I’m going to put Joey on it. We’ll bug Purcell’s house and where he works and every other damn thing we can think of to find out what he’s up to. And, if he even gets close to hurting you or Carli, we’ll kill the sonofabitch.” Susan didn’t respond. I was mad and getting carried away, and Susan understood and let me do it. It’s what angry, overwhelmed males do instead of crying. I took a few breaths. “Susan, I know and you know you’re reacting to more than a ruined painting. Even if it was one of Bird’s best. So go ahead and feel bad for a while, and let me take care of this. I know it doesn’t look like I’m doing much of a job so far. But every time I stumble into a mess, we know a little more.” I stopped and tried to focus. “I’m going to get off and call Joey now. Take care of yourself and take care of Carli. I’ll see you in a few days. And, by the way, I’m going to take you up on your offer to stay in your house here on the island. I don’t seem to be especially invisible in my little house down the beach, and it’ll save us eight hundred a week for me to stay here.” She agreed, and we said goodbye.
It was past five, so I decided it was okay to locate a bottle of scotch and pour some in a glass. I sat on the sofa and waited for the Apalachicola Volunteer Fire Department. Thirty-two minutes after I dialed 911, half a dozen barbers, merchants, and mechanics came rushing through Susan’s kicked-in door in full fireproof regalia. We talked. A couple of them felt the wall. One checked out the electrical system, as best he could. We talked some more, and I almost told them about Leroy Purcell. But I realized it would be my word against his. And it occurred to me that the worst he’d face was financial responsibility for what he would almost certainly claim was an accidental fire.
