Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  He gave me a dirty look and said, “I know that. All right, Jacoby. Get out of here.” When he said it he waved, as if swatting away a fly, an annoyance.

  “I’ve still got to look for my girl, Becker,” I said. “That’s my job.”

  He narrowed his eyes and said, “The only reason I don’t run you out of town is because I told you I wouldn’t come down on you if you were working here. But get this: Don’t get in my way—and if I find out you’re involved in this you’ll be one sorry snowbird. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “So keep looking,” he said. “Just keep out of my way.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  As I started back into the house to walk through to the front, he said, “Jacoby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I find another body,” he said, “and you’re anywhere near it, or your name is anywhere near it . . .”

  “I get the picture, Detective,” I said.

  “Stop trying to be funny.”

  I didn’t know what he meant until I got to the front of the house, where all those photos of the bodybuilders were. “I get the picture,” I’d said. With a dead photographer in the bathroom.

  Get it?

  Okay, so I’m slow.

  I was outside before I realized that I needed a ride back to my hotel. I started back into the house, but Rizzo was coming out.

  “I need a ride,” I said.

  “I know,” he said, “I’ll take you.”

  “What about Becker?”

  “I’ll come back for him,” he said, “or he’ll get a ride. Come on.”

  In the car we rode in silence until we got out of the development.

  “I’m from New York, you know,” he said.

  “I never would have guessed,” I said. Actually it was probably a long time ago, because he didn’t have much of an accent.

  “I’ve been here fifteen years, so there’s not much of an accent,” he said.

  “Were you a cop in New York?”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t join the cops until I got here. I was the oldest rookie in my class.”

  “Must’ve been rough.”

  “Naw,” he said, and it was a New York “Naw.” He hadn’t gotten New York completely out of his system. “Actually, a lot of them were impressed with the fact that I was from the city.”

  “Much of that around now?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, “people down here pretty much tolerate New Yorkers because they know we need them, need their tourist dollars.”

  “I’m finding the people down here very polite.”

  “That’s because they know you’ll be going home,” he said. “Try moving down here.”

  “No, thanks.”

  We were silent for a little while again, then he said, “I saw you fight, you know.”

  “Did you?”

  “A couple of times,” he said. “I go back to New York to visit my parents. You fought in the Felt Forum one time, against a kid named . . . what was it? Feliciano?”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering, “Pepe Feliciano. He put me away in nine. It was my first pro loss.”

  “It was a hell of a fight,” he said. “You never took a backward step.”

  “Yeah,” I said, touching my jaw and remembering again, “that was my problem, neither did he.”

  “You had a rematch with him, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “People almost demanded it, and the Forum wanted it. Feliciano was a kid from Philly. It was a match made in heaven.”

  “You beat him, if I remember right,” he said. “Outpointed him?”

  “Unanimous decision,” I said.

  “What made you quit the ring?”

  “A few things,” I said. “Mainly, I wasn’t good enough.”

  “You looked plenty good to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  I didn’t mention anything about my friend and mentor Eddie Waters being killed. After that I sort of took over his office and got away from boxing. I liked investigative work better than boxing. I didn’t get hit as much.

  When we reached the hotel, he pulled the car right up to the entrance. I was about to get out when he turned to face me in his seat.

  “Have you told Becker everything, Jacoby?”

  I looked at him over my shoulder, my door half open.

  “Everything there is to tell him, Rizzo.”

  “Becker’s a little bit of an asshole,” he said, “but he’s my partner. I know he’s not so bad, but if he finds out you lied to him—even once—you’ll find out different. Understand?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I understand. You’re telling me that if I have lied to him, I better never let him find out.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Do you think I lied to him?’

  He blew some air out in a distinctive New York gesture and said, “Hell, I know you did. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said, getting out and slamming the door behind me.

  When I entered the lobby, the night clerk was on duty, the one I had asked about Patrick.

  “I’m in two-seventeen,” I said. “Any messages?”

  He looked, said “Yes, sir,” and handed me a pink message slip. It was from Sarah Connor, and it had Ray Cortez’s address on it.

  I thanked him, crumpled the piece of paper into a tight ball, and tossed it into a sand-filled ashtray.

  34

  I didn’t leave a wake-up call for the next morning, and I didn’t set the alarm either. There was really no reason for me to get up early. My search for Sandy Meyer was momentarily stymied. I was going to have to come up with a new track to follow, maybe by retracing my steps—although I didn’t relish the thought of doing all that driving again. I don’t drive much in New York, and all the driving I had done since my arrival in Florida reminded me that I didn’t like it. I’m a walker, not a driver.

  I finally crawled out of bed and into the shower at eleven o’clock. I had to meet Cathy Merrill at Busch Gardens at three, so I had better than three hours to kill before I drove over there. While I was drying off, I decided to take a ride back to Sam’s Gym. Maybe somebody there knew Sandy Meyer. Maybe that was where Cortez had met her—if I was lucky.

  On my way out I noticed that Patrick was not behind the desk. He’d been on duty during the day since the first day I checked in, so I figured he was entitled to a day off.

  I stopped at the Village Inn for a late breakfast, then drove to Waters and Sam’s Gym.

  When I entered, I noticed that the place was not that full. Maybe most of the people who worked out there came in during the afternoon and evening.

  The same woman who had greeted me last time was coming toward me, but she didn’t look as glad to see me as she had then.

  “Ray’s not here,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “We really don’t want any trouble here, sir,” she said, politely but firmly.

  I was once again impressed with her physique. She was solidly built, probably too short to be a serious bodybuilder. She reminded me a little of one of the women I had seen in the magazines named Sharon Marvel—only Sharon Marvel was a major bodybuilding star. She had placed fifth in the recent Ms. Olympia.

  I decided to take a shot in the dark.

  “Do you know who Sharon Marvel is?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “She’s wonderful.”

  “You remind me of her.”

  That got a smile.

  “Do I?” she asked, standing up straighter. “I’m glad to hear that. She’s my idol. I try to model myself after her, because I’m not very tall.”

  This girl was not as pretty, but to my uninitiated eye she looked fine, particularly her thighs and legs. Sharon Marvel was also known for her back muscles.

  “Turn around.”

  She did, and while she didn’t have Marvel’s back “sweep,” she was still very firm.

  “
What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Karyn,” she said, “with a Y.”

  “Well, Karyn with a Y,” I said, “even from behind you remind me of her.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she said, turning back. “That means a lot to me.”

  “Do you own this place?”

  “No,” she said, “I’m just an assistant manager.”

  “There’s more than one assistant manager?”

  “Yes,” she said, “one male and one female.”

  “Is there someplace we can talk?” I asked. “Like an office?”

  “Talk?” she said, looking dubious again. “About what?”

  “I need your help,” I said, “and I have some shocking news.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Well, all right. Come this way.”

  I followed her, and she led me to a small office with one desk. If there was a manager and two assistant managers, I imagined they shared the desk.

  There was a stack of T-shirts, each separately wrapped in plastic, that said sam’s gym on the front.

  “Is this a chain?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’re not as big as, say, Gold’s, but we have four outlets here in Florida.”

  “Was Cortez doing publicity photos for you?”

  “Yes, he was. What’s this shocking news you have for me?”

  “You weren’t close to him, were you?”

  “I hardly knew him,” she said.

  Good. That would make it easier—if she was telling the truth.

  “Ray Cortez is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody killed him yesterday.”

  “Somebody?” she asked. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The police are working on it now.”

  “Are you . . . with the police?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m just helping them. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really?” she said, in the same tone she probably would have used if I’d told her I was a transvestite.

  “Yes,” I said, “really.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to sound—I didn’t mean anything. I just never met a private detective before.”

  “Investigator,” I said. “Detective is normally a police rank. It doesn’t apply to private individuals.”

  “See?” she said. “I never would have known that. I’m sorry to hear about Ray. I’ll have to tell my boss that he’s going to need a new photographer.”

  From her reaction I decided she was telling the truth when she said she hardly knew him.

  “You said something about needing my help,” she said, folding her arms. The muscles in her forearms jumped. “Does it have to do with a . . . case you’re working on?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. I’m looking for a woman. Her husband hired me to find her. I thought that Cortez might lead me to her.”

  “Did he know her?”

  “She might have modeled for him at one time,” I said. “I can’t be sure. I was going to ask him about her, but obviously now I can’t.”

  “Why did he run from you?” she asked.

  “That I don’t know,” I said. “If someone was angry enough at him to kill him, maybe he thought I was them.”

  “Somebody wanted to kill him and he didn’t know who it was?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I said.

  “How does somebody who doesn’t even know you want to kill you?”

  “Maybe they were hired to do it.”

  “Oh,” she said, sobered by the thought of a hired killer. “Uh, how was he killed?”

  “He was shot,” I said. “There were indications that he might have been tortured first.”

  “My God . . .” she said, unfolding her arms. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “You saw him . . . after?”

  “I saw him,” I said, nodding.

  “I guess that doesn’t . . . faze you, does it?”

  “It’s never easy seeing a dead body,” I said, “especially one that’s experienced violence.”

  “No, I suppose not,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m being . . . stupid. I guess what you do isn’t much like it is in the movies, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Well, tell me how I can help you?”

  “If you’d look at a photo of the woman and see if you know her, that would be a big help,” I said.

  “Sure, of course,” she said.

  I took out the photo of Sandy Meyer and handed it to her.

  “Can’t tell much from this,” she said, “but she doesn’t look like she works out much.”

  I took out the postcard and showed her that, too.

  “Maybe not then, but this might also be her.”

  She took the postcard, looked at it, then turned it over and looked at the back.

  “I see what you mean,” she said. “This was taken by Ray Cortez.”

  “Yes.”

  “If this is her.”

  “My client—her husband—seems to think that it is.”

  “Well, she looks fit enough in this postcard,” she said, “but still not a bodybuilder. Most of the people we get here—men and women—are fairly serious about bodybuilding.”

  “I realize that. You don’t recognize her at all?”

  She looked at the photo again, then shook her head slowly.

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “How about her name? Sandy Meyer? That sound familiar?”

  “No, I can’t say it does.”

  “How about a blond woman with those initials? S. M.?”

  “Why those initials?”

  “When people change their names they tend to keep the same initials.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that either.”

  “What about it?”

  She thought a moment and then said, “We have some blond women, naturally, but I can’t think of anyone with those initials.”

  She handed the postcard and photo back to me.

  “I’m sorry I’m not much help.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I said. “I appreciate the fact that you’re trying.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Cortez was my only lead. With him dead I don’t even know if the woman is in Florida.”

  “If that’s the case, there doesn’t seem much point to you continuing, does there?”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “I’ll give it a few more days, though. Something might come up.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “While you’re here, why don’t you make use of our facilities? You did say you used to box?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Feel free to come in and try our machines,” she said.

  “Thanks, Karyn,” I said. “I might do that.”

  “Oh,” she said as I was leaving, “what’s your name?”

  “Miles Jacoby,” I said.

  “I hope to see you soon, Miles,” she said.

  I waved and left the office. A couple of women had come into the club while we had been talking. Both were dressed in “posing outfits”—as they say in the bodybuilding magazines—rather than in leotards. One of them started lifting weights on one of the machines, while the other one spotted her. No doubt they’d switch off after a while.

  I left the club with the uncomfortable feeling that I’d been lied to. Why? Because people usually lie to me, and I’ve developed a pretty good bullshit detector over the past few years.

  I had the distinct feeling that Karyn had lied to me. I just wasn’t sure when, or what about.

  35

  I went from the gym directly to Busch Gardens. I arrived early, well before Cathy, so I parked the car in one of the parking lots and caught the shuttle that would take me to the main gate.

  When I got there, I discovered that outside the gates were some shops and a couple of fountains. I browsed in the shops, bought a frozen yogurt, and sat by one of t
he fountains, watching families go in and out until Cathy arrived.

  In one of the shops I had picked up a map. It described Busch Gardens: The Dark Continent as one of the four top zoos in the country. It was broken up into eight sections, each with its own special motif. They were called: Morocco, Nairobi, Crown Colony, Serengeti Plain, Timbuktu, Congo, Stanleyville, and Bird Garden/Brewery. The main attraction of the latter was the Anheuser-Busch Brewery.

  Each section had its own animals, rides, and restaurants. Running through the park was a railroad, a monorail, and a Skyride. It would probably take two full days to see everything. At least.

  Cathy was easy to spot. A blonde wearing yellow shorts and a tight, sleeveless pink top would be easy to spot anytime, even if I hadn’t been looking for her. She was wearing sunglasses with very dark lenses and black frames, and had a white canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Again I wondered if off-duty deputies were required to carry a weapon.

  She looked good. Watching her as she approached, I realized that her arms and legs were well developed. Maybe I was just starting to notice things like that more.

  I had already decided that since I had told Becker and Rizzo that I was in Florida working, I was going to tell Cathy as well. I was glad for the opportunity because I liked her and didn’t like the idea of lying to her.

  “Hi!” she said brightly. “Waiting long?”

  “A while,” I said, “but I came early on purpose.”

  “Girl watching?” she asked. Her head was cocked to one side and the sun was reflecting off her sunglasses as she looked at me.

  “Not until now,” I said.

  “My momma always told me to beware of a man who always knows the right thing to say.”

  “Well then,” I said, “you’ll have no problem with me, will you?”

  She put her hand out and I took it. She helped me to my feet. She was a strong girl and I wondered if she spent time in a weight room.

  “Nice grip,” I said. “You work out?” The question came easily.

  “I’ve been known to frequent a gym or two,” she said. “It helps in my line of work.”

  “Really?” I said. “In that case, maybe we can mix a little business with pleasure.”

  “How?”

  “Let’s go inside and find someplace to have coffee,” I said. “I’ve got a few things to tell you.”