Ron and I were happy to wait. It was the quiet before the storm. The window was open a crack and a soft breeze was drifting in off the Atlantic. I heard the deep rumble of the car as it pulled into the lot next to our building. The thunk of expensive doors as they were slammed home. Ron raised his eyebrows and waited.
The front office door flew open. I heard the marbled window in the door rattle in its frame. Lizzy was out front but she didn't speak or get spoken to. The door to my office burst open. BJ Baker took up the entire space. The shoulders of his blazer touched both jambs. He was dressed in what I would call yachtie formal. Blue blazer, white cotton shirt, and tan trousers. He looked at me and his nostrils opened and closed like an angry bull.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he said.
"Miami Jones," I said. "Says so right on the door there."
I leaned back in my chair. I was enjoying myself. BJ Baker stepped into my office. I noticed his lackey, Murphy, was behind him.
"Excuse me?" roared Baker.
"In due course, possibly. But we've got a bit of ground to cover first."
Baker frowned. "Look, Jones, I don't know who you think you are."
"Didn't we just cover that? It's on the door. Just had it done."
"Jones!" he bellowed.
I thought he might come across the desk at me. I half-wanted him to. No doubt he could do some damage. He was past his prime but still in fine shape.
"Where the hell is my Heisman? The police say they don't have it."
"You didn't pay them to find it."
"No, I paid you, damn it."
"Yeah, let's talk about that."
"Is that what this is? Blackmail?"
"Not all. It's called fee for hire."
A sheet of paper sat on my desk in front of me. I pushed it across the desk with my forefinger. BJ Baker gave me a stern look, the sort of withering stare that probably sent his house staff into a mad flap. I just raised an eyebrow and smiled. I was having a little too much fun.
Baker stomped forward and ripped the paper off the desk. "What the hell is this?" he said, before he'd even looked at it.
I didn't say anything. He was a smart guy. He'd figure it out. He frowned at the paper, then looked at me.
"An invoice?" he said.
I nodded. "For services rendered."
"I'm not paying this. And you try to blackmail me by withholding my Heisman, I'll sue you so fast your eyeballs will spin."
"Your Heisman has been found and delivered, as agreed. Now we require payment."
"Delivered? Where?"
"All will be revealed in the debrief that occurs after settlement of invoices. Corporate policy."
"I won't pay."
"Ron?" I looked at him in his Magnolia print shirt and linen trousers. "What happened to the last guy who didn't pay his invoice?"
"All unpaid bills are referred to collections."
"Who does collections?" I said.
"Catfish Tony out of Brooklyn. I got his business card here." Ron pulled a business card out of god knows where and looked at it. "Yeah. Catfish Tony. His motto is ‘they pay or they float.’ Catchy."
Baker looked at Ron, then me. “You think I'm scared by that?"
"No. It's just a slogan. But I don't think a heavy trophy would float, do you?"
"You wouldn't."
“No, I certainly wouldn't. But I am not responsible for the actions of third party collection agencies."
"You don't want me as an enemy," he said.
"You're right, I don't. But I sure as hell don't want you as a friend. So pay your bill, before I have to spread it all over South Florida that BJ Baker welches on his commitments."
"I never."
"You'll find everything in the invoice properly accounted for."
"I don't have my checkbook."
"That's okay. We take Visa or MasterCard. With an extra 10% processing fee."
He glared at me. I really was having too much fun. I'd pushed my luck for no real reason other than Baker was a blowhard. And that wasn't a crime. But then I wasn't the police. And I just didn't appreciate being treated like a doormat.
Baker grimaced and put his hand out, towards his manservant, Murphy. Murphy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather-clad checkbook that he appeared to have after all. Why bother with a man-bag when you can have a man. Baker opened the checkbook, and put out his hand again. Murphy slapped down a gold pen. It was like watching surgery. Baker looked at the invoice, then leaned over onto the desk and wrote out a check, ripped the check from the book in one swift move, and handed it to me. Murphy took the checkbook and pen back. I thought about suggesting that the check better be good, but thought the wiser of it. Baker was a jackass, but he was the kind of guy who would take a bounced check as a character flaw.
"Thank you," I said.
"Now where's my Heisman?"
"Just one more little thing." I pushed the intercom button on my phone.
"Lizzy? If you have a moment, could you join us?"
"What the hell now, Jones? All I asked for was you to get me my Heisman and the guy who took it. So far you have failed on all counts."
"The guy who took it was shot to death."
"Not by me," he snarled.
Lizzy stepped through the open door. I hadn’t really needed to use the intercom. She could hear everything that was being said. But I was making a point. She walked around BJ Baker and stood at the end of my desk, between Baker and me.
"Mr. Baker. From the very day you hired my firm to find your trophy you have seen fit to abuse, belittle, and degrade the very people who were working hard to find it for you."
"Excuse me?"
"This time, I cannot. On no less than thirteen occasions you have called this office and yelled at and abused my Office Manager, Miss Staniforth here. I believe you owe her an apology."
"Now see here."
"Mr. Baker," I said firmly. "Apologize. Now."
The big man gritted his teeth. He would have been a sight on a football field. His eyes drifted to Lizzy and his face softened, if only a touch.
"Miss Staniforth. I am deeply sorry for my conduct. If I have caused you any offense, I apologize wholeheartedly and ask only for your forgiveness."
It was better than I thought it was going to be. He sure was a smooth piece of work. I thought for a second that Lizzy might tear up.
"Apology accepted," she said. Considering the circumstances, this was pretty magnanimous of her.
Baker kept her eye for a moment, nodded, then shifted his gaze to me. "Now. For once and for all. Where the hell is my Heisman?"
I leaned back in my chair. "Mr. Baker. Go home. Your Heisman is waiting for you."
He looked puzzled for a moment, then he turned and directed Murphy out the door. As Baker reached the door, he turned back to us.
"Good day," he said. Then he left.
I looked at Lizzy and then Ron.
Ron smiled. "Say what you will about him, but he does have good manners."
“When he remembers to use them,” said Lizzy.
I nodded. "So what was all that about Catfish Tony?"
"You don't like Catfish Tony?"
"You sit at home and think these things up?"
"I sit at Longboard Kelly's and think these things up. Catfish. You know, as in, if you mess with him, you'll end up with the catfish. On the bottom."
"Sterling work. Really."
“So where is his Heisman?”
“A friend of Sally’s is installing it back into its cabinet at BJ’s house, as we speak.”
“That’s going to freak him out.”
“I know.”
We grinned like Cheshire idiots at each other.
"So when did I become Office Manager?" said Lizzy.
"You prefer secretary?"
"No."
"So Office Manager."
"Does that come with a pay rise?"
"Why don't you go home and pray on it?"
"T
hat means no."
"Who knows? Perhaps I'll get some divine inspiration."
"Perhaps you'll get struck by lightning," she said, and she strode out to her desk.
"Equally possible," I said to no one in particular.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I LEFT RON laying on the sofa, mapping out a plan of attack for his investment banker case, and Lizzy to do the banking. I drove up to the hospital. I asked around and finally located Jenny Bellingham. She was checking the chart for an old guy who was complaining about the television reception. She saw me and her face registered a mix of happy and sad. Sad because I was a bridge back to a past she wanted to forget. Happy because I was a bridge to a better future. I hoped I was made of sturdy enough stuff to get the job done.
She told me she had a break in thirty minutes. I waited in the cafeteria. It looked like a cafeteria. A little antiseptic and bland, easily maintained and difficult to break. It could have been in a school or a museum. Only there was none of the life of those sorts of institutions. No noise or hubbub. People crouched close and spoke in hushed tones. I drank a stale coffee and ate a Caesar wrap that was so cold it made my teeth ache.
Jenny Bellingham arrived after forty-five minutes. She did the nurse shuffle that made nurses walk light on their feet. Nurses were only second to ninjas when it came to sneaking up on people.
She grabbed an iced tea and sat down opposite me.
"How's it going?" I said.
"All right." The bruising had faded a little. She looked like she'd been in a car accident and the airbag had hit her in the face. Maybe that was what she was telling people.
"Things okay at Mona's?"
"Sure. She's a saint."
"But?"
"Well, I can’t stay with her forever."
"Just take it one day at a time. Forever will take care of itself."
"I'm going to have to find somewhere to live. I’m starting from less than scratch.”
"We can fix that."
"How?"
"I have a real estate agent friend who has taken on the listing of your home. She's having it cleaned today."
"Newt won't agree to that."
"He already did.”
She frowned at me like I'd spoken in Chinese, but she said nothing.
“Plus, I found your dad’s Heisman."
"Thank you, I guess."
"It's with the Gainesville Police Department. And it's gonna stay with them as evidence until you get a divorce. As soon as the divorce is final you'll get it back, and you're going to sell it."
"I couldn't, Mr. Jones. It was Daddy's. It's worth more to me than a few thousand dollars."
"Jenny, I have a friend who has a lot of experience selling things like that. And he tells me the trophy is worth at least one hundred thousand. Maybe double to the right buyer."
She looked at me but didn't register any shock. Maybe she couldn't be shocked anymore.
“That’s a lot of money."
"Yes. It is."
"But it still feels wrong."
"It's not. Trust me, Jenny. If your dad were here, he'd agree. He'd want his little girl to be free of this." I waved my hand around the room. "He'd want you to be happy. More than any trophy. I bet you are the greatest prize he ever got and he'd be happy to know his Heisman got you a new life."
She nodded. "Maybe."
"We don't have to decide that yet."
"Thank you."
We sipped our drinks in silence for a while. A man pushing a saline drip on a pole sat at a table nearby.
"Did Deputy Castle speak with you?"
Jenny Bellingham nodded. "She put me in touch with a support group."
"And?"
She looked me in the eye. "It doesn't make it feel any better. But it helps to know other women have made it through."
"As will you, Jenny. As will you."
Chapter Fifty-Eight
A BRILLIANT PINK sunset exploded across the horizon. I watched the colors play across the huge marshmallow clouds. Danielle stepped onto the patio with a bottle of wine. Beads of condensation dripped down its side. She poured me a refill, then sat down on the lounger beside me and topped up her own glass.
"How was the review board?" I asked.
"Fine. As expected. Ferguson had a loaded weapon and he pointed at you with the intention to harm. Gainesville PD will find the same way."
"How do you feel?"
"I'm okay. I'm not sorry I did it," she said, sipping her wine. "I'm just sorry I had to."
"Thanks for that."
She smiled, almost begrudgingly. "Someone tries to hurt you, I have to stop them."
I nodded.
She looked into her wine glass then at me. "Can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"Why didn't you draw your weapon? He could have killed you, and your gun was still in your holster."
"I guess I felt like I was the negotiator. Trying to be on his side. Once you guys arrived I figured you had me covered.”
Danielle nodded. "I guessed it was something like that."
We looked at the last of the sun as it dipped below the flat Floridian horizon. We both knew it was a lie. But I didn't see an upside in verbalizing it. The PBSO would make her see a shrink and maybe in doing so it would come out, and she'd want to talk about it. And if she did, I would. But until then I figured it was of no benefit to tell her I didn't draw my weapon because I knew Sandy Ferguson wasn't going to shoot me. I knew at that point his delusion had exploded around him and he was left with plan B. And he'd put the pieces on the board for plan B before he even disappeared. We assumed he had left to take his own life. He’d topped up his life insurance before he was fired from the used car lot. He was, in the deepest part of his sad mind, looking after his family. If he took his own life, Arlene Ferguson would get nothing. So he chose suicide by cop.
I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. But he would force the cop's hands. They would have to take him down. And they did.
I was sorry Danielle had been there. I was sorry I hadn't seen Ferguson's plan B earlier than I did. But as he picked himself off the floor of the bowling alley, I knew.
"They didn't let me go see her," said Danielle. "Arlene Ferguson. I thought I should be the one to tell her."
"Understandable on both sides. But the PBSO isn't going to send you in after being involved in the incident."
"Yeah. I'm sorry about your husband. PS, I shot him."
"You and three other cops."
"Did you see her?"
"I did." I sipped my wine. It was rapidly going warm.
"What did she say?"
"If anything, I think she was just glad it's over. She’ll probably wonder if she could have done more for him, but she's not there yet. She needs help herself, before she can worry about anything else."
"What will she do?"
"She doesn't know. Too soon. Her son is flying down from Seattle for the funeral. She's going to go back with him, for a visit. Turns out he's a psych major."
"Figures."
"Yeah. Then she’ll see. She's from Ohio. Think she might head back that way."
“Will she be okay?”
"I really don't know. She's been sad for twenty years, she says. Forgets what happy feels like. She needs help with her depression. She does that, maybe she'll be okay.”
Danielle sighed, deep and long.
"Hungry?" I asked and she nodded.
We stepped in out of the warm air. Danielle sat on a barstool at the orange counter while I put a plate of antipasto together. I took some salami and Parma ham and lay them out on a platter. Put some cornichon in a small ramekin. Laid out some pickled veggies and some cheese, fresh buffalo mozzarella and Parmigiano-Reggiano that I sliced into slivers with a vegetable peeler. I popped a bowl of olives on the platter and we carried our food and drinks out to the patio.
The lights of Riviera Beach twinkled across the intracoastal. I tossed the warm wine in our glasses onto the lawn and refreshed our drinks f
rom the cold bottle. As I sat down Danielle spoke. "You ever feel like Ferguson?"
"Depressed, you mean? Not like that."
"No. I mean, he became sad because he didn't make it, win the Heisman. Become a pro footballer. And you played in the minors for what, six years? But you never made it to the Majors. You ever think about that?"
I ate a cornichon and screwed my face at how sour it was. I ate another. Then I sipped my wine.
I took a breath. "I did get to the Majors.”
Danielle turned in her seat. "You did? You never told me that."
"I don't really talk about it."
"Why?"
"Because it sounds like a sad story. And people just don't get that it wasn't."
"When? How?"
"End of my fourth season at Modesto. I'd had a good year. Probably my best ever. I got bumped up to Triple A with the Sacramento River Cats. The A's organization had a few injuries, it was late in the season. We were in the race for a playoff spot against the Angels. I got called up. Me and Joe Blanton. For twenty-nine days I was in the Oakland A's bullpen."
"That's incredible."
"It was. Moving from A to Triple A was two levels up, but it was like changing from an older bus to a new one. Not that different. But the one step from Triple A to the Majors, that was like going from a Greyhound bus to British Airlines First Class. Everything was bigger, better, faster, brighter."
I smiled at the memory. I could still see the floodlit grass at the Coliseum. It was not one of the prettier stadia in the MLB, but the fans were passionate. I was wide-eyed for the whole twenty-nine days.
"So that doesn't sound sad."
I smiled. "The A's had one hell of a roster. Zito, Harden, Hudson, Mulder. Duchscherer in relief. Great pitchers. Blanton was lucky, he got a couple games. I never did. Twenty-nine days and I never threw one pitch in anger."
Danielle had gone quiet. That's what people did at this part of the story.
"So the A's finish one game short of Anaheim and miss the postseason. Then the organization make changes. Mulder and Hudson get traded. Blanton did enough to keep his spot. I get traded to the Mets, and they send me to Port Saint Lucie. That was it. That was the Majors for me."
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