Dead Man's Bluff

by Debbie Burke

  “The leg, I think. He got around pretty good on that fake one but he still had a lot of pain. Gave me the willies when he’d pull that appliance off. God, his stump looked like a raw, bloody ulcer. He liked to sit on the diving platform on my boat and dangle the stump in the water. Said the sea was healing.” He shuddered. “Jesus, I couldn’t live the way he had to.”

  She thought back on the night Irma had hit, how it almost felt like the old coach was saying goodbye.

  “There was the money thing, too,” Commodore went on. “He’d run up a lot of debts. Course nobody held a gun to his head and made him place those bets. But still…”

  “Do you know who he owed money to?”

  “He ran with some damn strange people. He’d tell me he was going to Dubai or Singapore or Johannesburg to meet wealthy collectors. Never knew if he was bullshitting me. I like sports OK but who in their right mind pays half a million bucks for a dirty, sweaty, old baseball?”

  “Do you know Gabriel?”

  “Is that the slick dude who’s so impressed with himself? Met him one time but that’s it.”

  “How about Smoky’s girlfriend?”

  Commodore cracked a smile. “Which one? For a one-legged gimp, that boy sure got around. He spent most of the time with this gorgeous black woman. Real classy. He’d bring her to X-Isles when a good band was playing.”

  “Nyala?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. She had friends who used to be pro athletes. Some of ’em have big yachts, forty, sixty footers. They’d invite her for a cruise and she’d take Smoky along, down to the Keys, the Bahamas, Cuba.”

  “Was he good with a boat? Knew what to do in high seas?”

  A one-shouldered shrug. “Not like me but pretty fair.”

  “Would you have tried to go out the night Irma hit?”

  He wagged his head. “Not on your life. Back in my Navy days, I was on the Bonnie Dick—y’know, the Bonne Homme Richard—during a typhoon. Scared the living crap out of me. Thirty-thousand-ton aircraft carrier bouncing around like a ping-pong ball in a bathtub when a two-year-old’s throwing a tantrum.”

  The sun was dropping low. Soon, darkness would end their ability to search. In the deepening shadows, she caught a glimpse of Tillman’s yellow shirt through the jungle and asked the question she didn’t want him to hear. “Do you think Smoky meant to commit suicide?”

  Commodore blinked as if his watery eyes were burning. “Honest to God, I don’t know. He was a gambler. He could have been making a break for it, trying to outrun his creditors. But sometimes he’d get despondent, talking about how bad he’d screwed up his life, the chances he’d blown, the great jobs he’d pissed away. Didn’t even know his own daughter’s name. Pretty damn pitiful.” He studied Tawny. “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so. And I’m worried about how Tillman will react. They were close.”

  He gave a slight jerk. “Yeah. Smoky was always talking about this kid he wished had been his son. Couple weeks ago, he told me he hadn’t seen the guy in years and wanted to get together one last time. Didn’t pay much attention at the time. But, now, looking back, I think he wanted to say goodbye.”

  Another chill ran up Tawny’s neck when Commodore echoed her thought of only moments before. She’d been praying the leg bones wouldn’t match Smoky’s DNA but had a sick sense they were going to.

  Thrashing sounds came from deep in the woods. She caught a glimpse of yellow, Tillman plowing through brush like an angry grizzly. Heavy footfalls pounded the trail. Then he burst out of the vines near Tawny.

  He held a metal rod with a flexible sleeve on one end, a plastic foot on the other. In black marker on the sleeve, a single word was printed: Annalise.

  Chapter 15 – Heavy Bag

  Tawny called five Tampa prosthetists the next morning before she tracked down the clinic that had built the device Tillman found. They drove to the office adjacent to a hospital on Martin Luther King Boulevard.

  In the laboratory, a young woman patient walked on a treadmill, testing her new leg. At a worktable, a technician sculpted fiberglass into a socket to hold an artificial arm.

  The owner was a Hispanic man in his mid-fifties named Fernandez, himself an amputee. He sat on a tall stool before a computer, using a modeling program to move around three-dimensional diagrams of arms and legs.

  Tillman handed the prosthetic to Fernandez and explained the circumstances.

  Fernandez examined the metal shaft and cracked plastic foot. “Held up pretty well for being bashed around in a hurricane,” he said. “I remember building this, two or three years ago. If I recall, the man had lost his leg in a boating accident. That’s why it stuck in my mind because I’m a sailor myself.” He gestured to a framed picture on the wall. “Took the Bronze in the ninety-six Paralympic Games.” The photo showed him standing on a sailboat, wearing cargo shorts, his prosthetic leg visible.

  Beside Tawny, Tillman clenched his fists and shifted from one foot to the other. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed, hoping his impatience wouldn’t put off Fernandez. Tillman attempted to still his fidgeting.

  The prosthetist tapped on his computer. “Yes, I remember him now. Smoky Lido. I built several devices for him. This was the first. Always interesting how patients react to losing a limb. He named the device Annalise, like it was human.” He shook his head. “Because of the configuration of his stump, he had difficulty getting a tight fit. I worked through quite a few adaptations. Fitting requires a lot of trial and error. He finally gave up and said he’d just live with the pain. I was concerned when he didn’t come back because he had problems with blistering and infection that could lead to necrosis. I would’ve kept trying but I can’t chase the man down and drag him in here.”

  Tillman leaned forward. “You’re positive this is his?”

  Fernandez answered, “Absolutely. Each device is as unique as a fingerprint. Besides the name Annaliese, see, here’s the serial number on the foot portion. No doubt at all.”

  ***

  The DNA testing center was only a few miles away from the prosthetic lab. During the drive there, Smoky’s artificial limb lay on the back seat, the elephant in Raul’s van.

  “Should we turn the leg over to the sheriff?” Tawny asked.

  Tillman looked scornful. “You’ve got to be kidding. That place is a cluster.”

  “Except, isn’t this evidence?”

  “That they’d misplace before they ever got around to checking out the missing person report. Better to beg forgiveness…”

  Right, she thought, as if Tillman Rosenbaum had ever begged for anything in his whole life. “You’re not worried about losing your license?”

  “My only concern right now is Smoky.”

  Tillman understood more about the law than Tawny could ever hope to. His knowledge intimidated her, mostly because he was so casual about it, as if any slob could graduate magna cum laude with a Stanford law degree. Dyslexia had almost made her flunk out of high school and she still remained in awe of education. But if he wasn’t worried, why should she?

  When they entered Rupert Jefferson’s clinic, the doctor was talking to a client in the waiting room. As soon as he saw them, he quickly excused himself from the client and escorted them into his office. “I was just going to call you. Please, have a seat.”

  Tawny sat in front of the desk, knowing from the doctor’s somber expression that the news was bad. Tillman knew it, too. He remained standing, as if his defiance would change the results. She took his cold hand in both of hers.

  Jefferson’s voice was soft and gentle. “The known specimens, the hairbrush and tissues, match both the blood on the shirt and the bone fragments. All samples belong to the same person. I’m sorry.”

  Tillman’s hand stiffened in hers. He pulled free, fist clenched. For a second, she thought he might punch the wall. Instead, he asked, “Where’s your restroom?”

  Jefferson said, “Just outside on the right.”

  T
illman left the office, the door banging shut behind him.

  Tawny’s eyes filled with acid tears, feeling his anguish. The faint hope they’d been clinging to, that Smoky was simply missing—not dead—just evaporated. She placed her elbows on the desk and let her head drop into her hands.

  The doctor came from behind the desk and set a box of tissues in front of her. He gently patted her shoulder. “I am sorry. Will Mr. Rosenbaum be all right?”

  “I don’t know. Smoky is the worst loss since his mother.”

  “I hope he’ll allow himself to grieve.”

  She looked up at the kind face, the crinkled brow and wise eyes. “He’s been shutting himself off pretty tight since Smoky went missing.”

  “Does he have a sport?”

  Jefferson’s question raised her curiosity. “Baseball, when he was in high school. Now, mostly weights and running. Why?”

  “Does he box?”

  She remembered the punching bag in his home gym. “A little, I guess.”

  He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a card. “My father has a training center only a few blocks from here. Maybe pounding a heavy bag for a while is what he needs.”

  She accepted the card and smiled through tears. “Doctor, that sounds like a very good idea.”

  “Tell my dad I sent you.” He picked up stapled pages from his desk and gave them to her. “These are the DNA results.”

  “Thank you…very much.”

  When they shook hands, his grasp was warm. “He’s a fortunate man to have someone who cares about him the way you do.”

  She left his office, sad but grateful.

  In the hall, the restroom was vacant, light off. No Tillman. She checked with the receptionist who said he’d paid the bill and left. “He didn’t even wait for his change,” the receptionist added, handing the money to Tawny.

  In the parking lot, she found him in the driver’s seat of the van. She opened his door and put her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Again, he felt like a marble statue.

  She wanted to share the heavy burden of his pain, help him carry the loss. But she knew from past experience that he would wall himself in, like a wounded wild animal crawling into a cave to escape enemies that threatened to finish it off in its weakened state.

  After a minute, he still had not responded so she backed away. “Move over and let me drive.”

  He transferred to the passenger seat without a word.

  She drove three blocks to the storefront facility and stopped.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Dr. Jefferson’s dad owns this gym. This is a free pass for a workout.” She handed him the card.

  While Tillman studied it, Tawny got out, walked to the glass door, and held it open, waiting for him. A moment later, he followed.

  Inside, the rhythmic thud-whump of punching bags and the grunts of men doing pullups echoed off the high, warehouse-style ceiling. The smell of sweat, leather, and menthol sports cream hung in the muggy air.

  In the center of the open room was a boxing ring, surrounded by a group of middle-school kids wearing padded helmets and boxing gloves that looked impossibly large on their thin arms. They gathered around an elderly black coach who gave them instructions in a voice nearly as deep and throaty as Tillman’s. He tapped the shoulders of two kids. They climbed into the ring and started clumsy sparring. The stooped coach raised his left fist in front of his face, demonstrating how to protect themselves.

  At the front counter, Tillman presented the card and rented a pair of gloves. He stripped off his polo shirt, handed it to Tawny, and wrapped his hands with tape. The clerk fastened the straps on the gloves and Tillman approached a heavy bag suspended in one corner.

  She stood to the side and watched as he tried out a couple of jabs. Then harder. And harder, until the bag jerked on the thick chain that fastened it to metal eyebolts in the ceiling and floor.

  He pounded the bag over and over, not pausing for breath. He bounced from one side to the other on his toes, hitting from different angles. Soon, sweat drenched his hair and skin, droplets flung into the air by the force of his smacks. Still, he pounded, relentless.

  Several men who’d been working out stopped to stare at the angry giant pummeling the leather bag. Tawny heard someone say, “That dude’s big as Klitschko.” She recalled the name of the Ukrainian heavyweight, back from when her husband and son used to watch boxing on TV.

  She sat on a wood bench beside the wall, marveling that Dr. Jefferson had known exactly the right release Tillman needed for his sorrow over Smoky’s death.

  The elderly coach approached and sat beside her. “My son called. Said your man is in a powerful world of hurt.”

  “That was kind of him.” She leaned against the wall. “He had a coach who was like a father to him. We just found out he’s dead.”

  The man ran a hand over his sparse hair. “I’m ninety-one years old. My wife’s gone, two of my children, and all the friends I grew up with. My past is nothing but dead people.”

  Tawny remembered the Agent Orange deaths of her husband’s Army buddies, one by one, how each loss had eaten away another part of Dwight’s heart until cancer finally killed him, too. “Hard to be the last man standing,” she murmured.

  He peered at her through rheumy eyes. “You’re a wise young lady.”

  She grimaced. “Not so young.”

  A small, hoarse chuckle. “Come back and see me in about forty years. Then we’ll talk about how old you are.”

  She smiled. “Your son is a good man, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “In spite of his daddy, not because of him.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

  With a wink, the old man planted his hands on his thighs and slowly rose. Each movement made his tired joints click and snap. He nodded toward Tillman, still pummeling the heavy bag. “He’ll get by. Give it time.” He limped toward the center ring, back to the boys he’d been coaching.

  ***

  Two hours later, at Smoky’s house, Tillman filled the kitchen sink with ice cubes and water. He plunged his swollen, bruised hands into it, lower teeth biting his upper lip.

  At the gym, when he’d unwrapped the bloody tape under the boxing gloves, Tawny had been horrified at his mangled, pulpy hands.

  “Do you want some ibuprofen?” she asked.

  A single shake of his head. “Does Smoky have any scotch around here?”

  She opened cupboards, vaguely remembering a pint on a back shelf, one of the few bottles that hadn’t been broken when Gabriel’s men searched the house. She retrieved it, filled a tumbler mostly full, and held it to Tillman’s mouth. He tipped his chin up, gulping greedily. She kept tilting the glass until he’d drained it. Probably the equivalent of five shots.

  A couple of inches remained in the bottom of the bottle. “Might as well finish it off,” he said.

  Tawny poured the rest into his glass, maybe another four shots.

  In the past, she’d worried his drinking might turn into trouble, like her dad. But, given his size, his tolerance was high. Besides, he’d backed off a lot since his daughter, Arielle, at only fifteen, showed signs of developing her own booze problem.

  But Smoky’s death justified Tillman drinking himself into a stupor if he wanted to.

  After five minutes, he lifted his puffy hands out of the ice water, shook them, and examined the purplish fingers and raw, split knuckles. Then he gingerly picked up the glass and moved toward the bedroom. “Going to take a nap.” The door closed.

  Three hours later, his snores still roared.

  Tawny barbecued chicken they’d picked up at the supermarket the day before. When the aroma didn’t bring him out, she ate by herself. As the sun set, she watched TV. Clicking on a lamp gave her a little surge of pleasure after the long darkness.

  Two hours later, she spotted a line of light under the bedroom door and peeked in.

  Tillman was nak
ed, sitting up, propped against the headboard, swiping his laptop, half-glasses down his nose.

  Tawny went in and curled beside him on the bed. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Finding a local attorney. Have to get Smoky legally declared dead. I’m executor of his estate but I don’t have a Florida law license. I need someone here to file with the court.”

  Tawny’s worry eased a little, reassured he felt up to taking care of business. “Find anyone?”

  “A woman I went to Stanford with practices in St. Pete. Except for getting him declared dead, the will is straightforward. I’m the sole heir.” He swept his long arm around the room. “Someday, all this will be mine. Too bad I’m not a fan of Hawaiian shirts.”

  The return to his normal sarcasm made her feel even better. “Why not? I think you’d look good in them.”

  He stared down his nose at her. “In Montana, an attorney can get away with wearing cowboy boots in court but flowered shirts? Never.”

  She smiled and stroked his thigh. “What will you do with his stuff?”

  “Donate it to charity. His biggest asset is a waterlogged car.”

  Tawny thought for a moment. “What about the Honus Wagner card?”

  “I think we can safely assume since Smoky’s gone, the card went down with him. Three million bucks in the bottom of the swamp. Tough luck for Gabriel.” He didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

  She studied his hands, still swollen and discolored. They had to hurt. “Want me to type for you?” She reached for his laptop.

  He moved it away with a sly smile. “By the time Google figures out what you’re trying to spell, we’ll be back in Montana.” He often teased her about her poor reading and worse spelling because of dyslexia, claiming he needed to hire a cryptographer to decipher her reports.

  She folded her arms. “OK, mister, who convinced the Commodore to take us to Smoky’s boat?”

  “I never said you weren’t smart, just that you can’t spell.” He took off his glasses and set the laptop on the bedside table. “You earned your pay today.”

  She tucked into his side and ran her hand over his muscular chest and belly. Despite his banter, he felt tight, tense. She watched, knowing he was ready to detonate.