by Tom Turner
“You get used to it, my friend.” Al-Jabbah got in front of his locker and raised his bisht over his head.
Juke, lighting up a twenty-dollar Cuban cigar, examined Jabbah curiously as he disrobed, one clothing article at a time. “You got kind of a layered-look thing going there, huh?”
Al-Jabbah chuckled. “I guess you could call it that.”
“What’s that woman’s thing called where you can see just the eyes,” Juke said. “I dig that.”
Al-Jabbah sighed as he hung his thobe on a gold clothes hook in his locker and pulled out his madras shorts. “It’s called either a burqa or a niqab. The burqa’s got a mesh screen and the niqab’s got two eyeholes. Just for woman.”
Juke nodded as he put his foot up on a locker bench. “Niqab, huh? Pretty tough to check out their bodies in those things, huh?”
Al-Jabbah pulled his madras shorts on. “Yes, that’s the idea. But I must admit I much prefer a woman in a tank top.”
Juke set his cigar down on the bench and slapped him five. “Good to see you got all nice and Westernized, Jab.”
Well, yeah, up to a point, Al-Jabbah was thinking.
Fifteen
Crawford’s alarm clock started jangling at 7AM. He got up, walked out to his living room and took in his apartment’s view. He was constantly reminded how poor he was in Palm Beach, and today was no different. It didn’t really bother him; it was just a fact of life. The obvious things were cars, houses and clothes, but even true with things like hairdos, tans, and sunglasses. Like a pair of Bvlgari Solara shades which, Rose Clarke told him once, went for a cool $59,000.
What? 59k? Was there a boat or something that went along with them, Crawford wondered.
Rose went on to explain the sunglasses were made of 18k white gold, and had a few blue sapphires and diamonds fused onto them. All Crawford could think of was he still had the same pair of Foster Grants he’d bought at the turn of the last century for $9.98.
His apartment’s picture window held a commanding view of the Publix parking lot across the street. Publix was a chain of medium to high-end grocery stores located throughout the southeast. In Crawford’s eyes, they were also pretty damn good at keeping a neat parking lot, with a minimum of stray shopping carts scattered around the outer perimeters. However, in terms of views, it had to be considered a one out of ten when you compared it to an ocean, Intracoastal, or golf-course view. And that was why Crawford only paid $1,200 a month for his tidy but modest one-bedroom.
One of the big pluses that came with it was a Dunkin’ Donuts just a block away and a Checkerburger right next to it. Not long after Crawford signed his lease, he was at Walmart debating whether or not to buy a $19 Mr. Coffee machine and decided instead that all he needed to do was make the three-minute walk every morning to Double D. Sure, in the long run it cost a lot more, but, hey, you couldn’t beat the ambience.
He pulled a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt out of a drawer, slid into his flip-flops and walked down to the lobby, then out onto the street.
Jeanelle, the smiley one with the gold tooth, took his order at Dunkin’ Donuts. His usual: two blueberry donuts and a medium extra-dark coffee.
He took the coffee and two donuts, got a paper from the blue metal box and went over to “his” table. The Palm Beach Post was, at most, a ten-minute read, but today he thought it might stretch out to at least fifteen. It was the fourth day after Knight Mulcahy’s murder and there was still a lot of mileage to be had by reporters dredging up Mulcahy’s colorful, and somewhat sordid, past. Not to mention, speculation about what might have been the motive to kill him. The subhead to the main Mulcahy story, which was battling it out with another one entitled, “Fake Kid Doc Arrested Again,” was “Cops Down to a Handful of Suspects.” Oh, really, thought Crawford, and just who might they be? He scanned down with interest and by the third paragraph had found no names. “A high-powered local businessman” was referred to, as was a “Washington politician who had clashed repeatedly with Mulcahy.” Crawford had no clue who the Washington politician might be, but thought Ainsley Buttrick, Chuffer Church, and Brewster Collett all fit the description of high-powered local businessmen, even though, in reality, Collett fell quite a bit short.
He got to the end of the article and realized that it was just a rehash of the last three days’ articles and a lot of it seemed to be pure fiction.
Then he went to the sports page—sped through it in about a minute, mainly reading headlines—and thought about his upcoming golf game at the Poinciana. The main thing was not to embarrass himself too badly. He assumed David Balfour was good, since it seemed he spent a substantial portion of his life playing or practicing. Crawford had also observed two shelves in Balfour’s library dedicated to the display of silver trophies, along with cups and bowls of varying shapes and sizes, which seemed to be for winning tournaments, or at the very least, coming in second. Crawford finished up the last bite of his second blueberry donut, then washed it down with a final sip of coffee and stood up to go.
He walked back to his apartment, took a shower, changed into golf clothes and drove over to the Poinciana.
David Balfour was waiting for him at the driving range. Balfour wore dark blue shorts, a blue and white Polo shirt and brown alligator golf shoes that looked expensive. He was around fifty, had the hard belly of a guy who did a lot of sit-ups and Caesar salads, and topped off the whole presentation with perfect, brown fluffy hair without a trace of grey.
He eyeballed Crawford’s golf clubs skeptically. “A Nike Sasquatch, huh?” referring to Crawford’s eight-year-old, oversized yellow driver. “Thought that went out with neon orange golf balls?”
That was news to Crawford, who had three of the orange balls in his bag. “They’re not around anymore?”
Balfour just smiled and shook his head.
A guy on the other side of Balfour, hitting wedge shots, swung around and checked out Crawford with skepticism.
“Charlie, this is Earl Hardin,” Balfour said, turning to the man. “One of the guys playing with us.”
“Hey, Earl, nice to meet you,” Crawford said, remembering the name from when he and Ott had questioned Skagg Magwood. Magwood had been vague about his connection to Mulcahy.
Hardin gave Crawford a cursory nod.
Balfour turned back to Crawford and said under his breath. “Helluva good player. Takes his game a little too seriously, though.”
“I heard that, Balfour,” Hardin said, then turned to Crawford. “Haven’t seen you around before, you an out-of-town member?”
Crawford thumped his driver on the ground.
“Nah, I work here,” Crawford said. “I’m not a member.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hardin said. “You own or rent your house?”
Crawford thought it was kind of an odd question.
“Rent at the moment,” Crawford said, picturing his parking-lot view. “Why do you ask?”
Hardin slid his club into his bag and took a step toward Crawford, a big smile on his face.
“‘Cause I’m a real-estate agent.”
Balfour chuckled as Hardin came a step closer to Crawford.
“Just got a nice new listing down on South Ocean last night.” Hardin touched his chin thoughtfully and started nodding. “Yeah, might be perfect for you. Actually has its own putting green. Plus, a pool and a tennis court. You know, the works.”
Crawford glanced over at Balfour, who looked amused.
“I got a feeling it might be a little out of my price range,” Crawford said.
Balfour guffawed.
But Hardin didn’t notice. “Or I got another one in the Estate section. Recently renovated Mediterranean, really great bones. Only six million-nine.”
Crawford held up his hand. “Earl, I hate to break it to you, but I’m a cop.” He said. “And, unfortunately, not a cop with a trust fund.”
It was like Hardin just got drilled in the nuts with a golf ball. His eyeballs actually seemed to pop. “What?” he said, as if
Crawford had just confessed to being a Charles Manson disciple. “What do you mean, a cop?”
“Well, actually, a detective,” Crawford said. “We make a couple bucks more than sanitation workers, but their hours are a lot better. So, unfortunately, that Mediterranean with the really great bones, not ‘til I get a really big raise.”
Balfour burst out laughing. “Earl normally plays with CEOs and hedge-fund guys, not a guy who handcuffs people for a living.”
Crawford laughed. “I got a rich second cousin,” he said, smiling at Balfour. “Maybe he could step up to the plate.”
But by then, Hardin had lost all interest and walked back to his spot on the range. Crawford was dead to him.
“Hey, Detective,” the voice behind Crawford said.
He swung around and saw Sam Pratt, the man he had interviewed two days before.
“Hey, Mr. Pratt,” Crawford said. “How’s it going?”
“Sam,” Pratt said, shaking Crawford’s hand. “I’m guessing we’re in the same foursome—” flicking his head at Balfour. “Numbnuts here said he had a special guest. Guess he meant you.”
“I don’t know, maybe meant Earl over there,” Crawford said, turning to Balfour.
“No, I meant you,” Balfour said. “This crowd could use some new blood. I’ve heard all his lame stories”—glancing at Pratt, then to Hardin—“and all about his renovated Mediterraneans with really good bones.’”
Pratt smiled and Hardin scowled.
“So you got anything on Knight Mulcahy yet, Charlie?” Pratt asked.
Crawford shook his head. “I can’t really get into it,” he said. “I’m sure you can understand.”
“Charlie was the one who put away Ward Jaynes last year,” Balfour said, snapping off a 4-iron shot.
Ward Jaynes was a billionaire who had a thing for young girls. Turned out to be a killer, too.
“Good work,” Said Pratt, pulling out his Taylor M3 driver. “That guy was a real bad actor.”
“Not to mention murderer,” Balfour said.
Pratt nodded. “Well, yeah, there’s that.”
Balfour looked at his watch. “All right, boys, we’re up in ten minutes,” then turning to Crawford. “You probably want to hit a few more balls ‘stead of shootin’ the shit with these bozos.”
Crawford ended up being partners with Sam Pratt. He kept a close eye on him and didn’t see any golf balls roll down his pant leg and bounce off his foot. Actually, the only one of the three of them, Crawford thought, who played a little loose with the rules was Hardin. At least three times, Hardin picked up his ball after he made a putt that didn’t go in. The custom, of course, was that your opponent tells you to pick up your ball—a gimme, it’s called—when it’s close enough to the pin where he knows you can tap it in. But sometimes Hardin’s balls were as far away as four or five feet and neither Pratt nor Crawford had conceded it as a gimme. Despite that, Crawford and Pratt ended up winning on the eighteenth hole. Crawford got a par, and had a stroke, so they netted a birdie.
In the locker room afterward, things got much more interesting.
After showering, Hardin set up a backgammon board at one of the dining room tables off of the locker room and he, Pratt, and Balfour proceeded to launch into a high-stakes game. Crawford quickly relegated himself to the role of spectator since the stakes of just a few games was likely to exceed his weekly paycheck.
Earl Hardin, Crawford soon realized, was a sore loser.
“You’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen,” was his refrain every time Balfour or Pratt rolled doubles. Within a half hour, he was seven hundred dollars in the hole. Crawford, who Hardin hadn’t bothered to speak to once on the golf course, was thinking that it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
They were about to start a fourth game when a man who had just finished playing walked up to the table.
Balfour looked up and smiled at him. “Hey, Mike, want to get in?”
The man, Mike, sat down in a spare chair. “Looks like easy pickins’ here. I’m in,” he said, nodding at Pratt and Hardin.
“Earl’s putting my kid through college at the moment,” Pratt said.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce you guys,” Balfour said to Crawford. “Charlie, this is Mike Dickerson”—then to Dickerson—“this is Charlie Crawford.”
“Hey, Charlie,” Dickerson said, shaking Crawford’s hand. “What are you doing with these losers?”
“Just spectating,” Crawford said.
Dickerson nodded. “Smart. Can’t get hurt that way.”
Dickerson took a long sip of a Heineken, which a waiter had just brought him, and glanced over at Balfour. “You hear there’s a pool—who killed Knight Mulcahy?”
Balfour laughed. “You’re shittin’ me,” he said, then turning to Crawford, noted, “Charlie here is the guy in charge of the case.”
Dickerson looked at Crawford like maybe he didn’t hear right. “You’re kidding, you’re a cop, Charlie?”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, but I won’t haul you in for gambling.”
Everybody laughed except Hardin.
“So who’s in the pool?” Hardin asked Dickerson.
“Well, let’s see, Ned Durrell’s like a 5:1,” Dickerson said. “Apparently, he and Mulcahy got into it pretty good the night of the party.”
“Yeah, Mulcahy was always getting into it with somebody,” Balfour said.
“True,” Dickerson said. “Chuffer Church is like 9:2. Word is he and Mulcahy had a business deal together that went sideways.”
“Same with Ainsley Buttrick, I heard,” Hardin piped up.
“What happened there?” Dickerson asked.
“Mulcahy invested in his fund,” Hardin said. “It went south and Mulcahy said on his show the thing was a piece of shit.”
“Which is maybe why he’s the odds-on favorite at 4:1,” Dickerson said.
“You taking notes here, Charlie?” Balfour asked.
“Yeah, this is good intel,” Crawford said.
Pratt shot a look at Dickerson. “Who came up with the thing?”
Dickerson shrugged. “I heard a bunch of guys were watching a football game over at Tommy Sullivan’s house. Couple beers later, some genius dreamed it up.”
Crawford reached for a napkin and pulled out a pen. “Tommy Sullivan, you said?”
Dickerson nodded.
Balfour turned to Crawford. “Your next interview?”
Crawford shrugged. “Definitely worth a conversation.”
“Just let me know if I’m in the pool, will you?” Balfour asked
“Yeah, sure,” Crawford said. “But so far, I think you’re in the clear.”
Sixteen
It was Saturday afternoon. Crawford was in Ott’s cubicle, which was barely big enough for the two of them. That was fine with Ott because Norm Rutledge had tried to cram himself in earlier in the day but didn’t fit.
“So one guy lost fifteen hundred bucks?” Ott said, mouth agape.
“Yeah, not exactly like our nickel-dime game,” Crawford said.
“Aside from being really rich, what are these guys like?”
“I liked two out of three of ‘em,” Crawford said. “David Balfour…haven’t you met him yet?”
“No, but you told me all about him.”
Crawford nodded and looked up at Ott’s picture on the wall with his two nieces.
“Yeah, well, Balfour and Sam Pratt are good guys. So was this other one, Mike Dickerson, who came in a little later. But this one guy, Earl Hardin, what a jack-off.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just like this incredible snob, for one thing,” Crawford said. “When he found out I was a cop, he had nothing more to say to me.”
“Hey, we ain’t exactly the highest rung of PB society.”
“No shit,” Crawford said. “But the guy was a big-time bigot, too.”
“Why, what did he say?”
“He was talking about some guy—I didn’t even catch his name�
��but he referred to him as a nouveau Jew-veau.”
Ott’s eyes narrowed. “Nice, he just insulted twenty-five percent of me.”
Crawford patted him on the shoulder. “I forgot about that,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too upset about it, coming from a guy like him.”
“I’ll get over it,” Ott said. “Anybody else he go off on?”
“At one point he launched into the Royal & Alien Club.”
Ott laughed and nodded. “Bet he had a field day with that.”
Crawford’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the number and punched it.
“Crawford.”
“Charlie, we got a homicide at 120 Middle Road.” It was a woman named Barbara in Dispatch. “Where y’at?”
“In the building,” Crawford said, standing up and flicking on speakerphone. “What else you know?”
“Body’s in a car in the garage. Shot multiple times. House is owned by a man named Jabbah Al-Jabbah.”
Ott stood up and grabbed his jacket.
“Thanks,” Crawford said. “We’re on our way.”
Jabbah Al-Jabbah’s garage was not like most garages. It was the size of half a polo field, accommodated fifty cars, and not a drop of oil or a speck of dirt was anywhere to be seen. All there was were rows of vintage Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis in one section, and in another, American muscle cars—Pontiac GTOs, Plymouth Road Runners, Ford Mustangs, and two 1949 Oldsmobile Rocket 88s in moss green and candy-apple red.
Two uniform cops were on either side of a black Ferrari. It had a front windshield that looked like ten guys had unloaded their clips into it. Twenty feet away, another uniform was talking to a tall, skinny man in his fifties with a dark complexion. As Crawford approached the Ferrari, he noticed the passenger side window was blown out and saw broken glass on the gleaming white floor of the garage.
Crawford nodded at the two guys standing next to the car, one of whom was taking pictures with his cell phone. Then Crawford looked inside the Ferrari. A man who appeared to be in his twenties, though it was hard to tell since he didn’t have much of a face left, was slumped down, his hands still on the Ferrari steering wheel. The leather seat was covered with blood and glass.
