Spark fc-7

by John Lutz

  After a while he spread the other towel over him to protect against sunburn, plunked the cap tightly over his bald head, and settled down like a hunter in a blind, which in fact he was.

  It was almost five o’clock when he saw Adam Beed walking through the garage toward the Cadillac.

  Carver shoved his bare feet into his moccasins and used his cane to stand up as he grabbed towels and T-shirt. He hobbled as fast as he could back into the hotel lobby and through to the street to where the Plymouth was parked. He was trailing sand and drawing some stares now, but it didn’t matter.

  As he reached the car, he saw that Beed had already pulled from the garage and the Caddy was turning the corner at the end of the block. Carver got the Plymouth going and cut over a cross street at close to fifty miles an hour.

  As he made a right turn he saw the black Caddy in front of him, about a block away.

  He relaxed and followed.

  Beed met the same short, stocky man he’d seen at breakfast. They had dinner at a small Cuban restaurant downtown. Like the topless lounge this morning, this was the kind of place a man dressed as well as Beed’s companion-and for that matter Beed-didn’t figure to frequent. And there seemed to be something furtive in their mannerisms. Carver considered that they might be homosexual lovers meeting on the sly, but despite Beed’s background in prison, that didn’t quite ring true. There was nothing in the glances they exchanged, and there was no touching. The relationship seemed more businesslike than personal. Still, it would be interesting to see if they went their separate ways when they left the restaurant.

  They did. But not before Beed had removed the leather briefcase from the trunk of the Caddy and placed it in the back of the yellow Isuzu.

  The barrel-chested man in the business suit sat for a few minutes in the Isuzu, then drove away last, as soon as Beed’s black Cadillac had disappeared.

  This time Carver followed the yellow Isuzu.

  22

  The squarish little yellow vehicle was easy to keep in sight as it cut east, then made its way north on 1A1 along the shoreline. Carver noticed for the first time that there was a small dog in the Isuzu. Occasionally it would leap up to lick the driver’s face. It was too far away for Carver to see what breed it might be, but it appeared to have short hair. Once the man, still staring straight ahead at the road, reached over and ruffled the dog behind the ears. The dog shimmied its neck and head as if trying to shake off the sensation.

  Carver drove with the windows down, now and then glancing to his right at the ocean rolling its inexhaustible life out on the beach. From here the splaying white surf appeared pure, unsullied by the debris carried in on the swells, the blackened seaweed and the occasional globs of oil from distant passing tankers. The ocean’s convergence with the land was as it had looked thousands, perhaps millions, of years ago, as long as it was viewed from a car doing sixty miles an hour on a road that hadn’t existed at the beginning of the century.

  Several miles north of Fort Lauderdale the Isuzu slowed and then turned into the driveway of one of several luxurious private homes with ocean views. Twin stone pillars marked the mouth of the driveway, and there was a chain-link gate across it that must have been opened when the Isuzu entered, but was now closed. The house itself was out of sight except for a long, red-tiled roof.

  Carver parked in the shade of a grouping of date palms, made a note of the Isuzu’s license plate number and the address of the house, then waited.

  Not for long.

  Twenty minutes later the Isuzu reappeared, bumping over the raised lip of the driveway, then turning south on 1A1, back the way it had come. The chesty little guy in the suit was smiling as he bounced in his seat and held onto the steering wheel with both hands. The little dog was on its hind legs, staring out the side window as if checking for road signs.

  Carver started the Plymouth and fell in behind as the Isuzu built up speed, catching a glimpse of the gate gliding shut as he passed the driveway.

  He leaned back in the Plymouth’s upholstery, wondering where this was all leading and what it might mean. The miles slid by beneath the car’s singing tires, as the ocean rolled on Carver’s left and the wind caressed his bare elbow propped on the hard edge of the cranked-down window. The sun began to set, and a few oncoming cars had their headlights on. The Isuzu’s lights winked on; the driver playing safe. Carver left the Plymouth’s lights dark.

  On Morning Star Lane, in a going-to-seed area of Fort Lauderdale, the Isuzu parked across the street from an old apartment building with brilliant red bougainvillea growing wild up its cracked stucco walls, draping down from some of the second-floor decorative wrought-iron balconies. There were yellow bug lights on each side of the entrance, but one of them was burned out and night moths, out early at dusk, circled the other one, now and then darting close, daring death.

  The chesty little guy strode across the street and through the flitting, suicidal insects and disappeared through the doorway. He was walking the dog on a leash, and not carrying the briefcase. There was a transom over the old door, with an address lettered on its glass. Carver made a note of the number, beneath the address of the house on the coast. Then he limped through lengthening shadows over to the Isuzu and peered inside it.

  No briefcase.

  He stood for a while thinking about that, then returned to the Plymouth and drove back to his motel.

  It would be too late to call Desoto at his office, but he might catch him at home.

  After breakfast the next morning, Desoto called back with the information Carver had requested.

  “You got a pencil, amigo?”

  Carver said he did. He was lying on his back on the bed with his shoes off, the receiver in his left hand, his right hand with the pencil poised over the notebook propped against his upraised right thigh. While he waited for Desoto to talk, he listened to the ocean whispering beyond the shrill cries of gulls and children on the beach; it seemed to be commenting on life from offstage, cautioning with its old, old wisdom.

  “The Isuzu’s registered to one Roger Karl, with a K. The address listed’s the one on Morning Star Lane.”

  Carver squinted at the pencil point gliding over the notepaper, finished writing, and said, “Anything on Karl?”

  “He’s got a sheet,” Desoto said. “Did time for burglary back in the eighties, but that’s not his specialty. He’s really not much more than an errand runner, but a reliable one who can deliver cash or documents, and sometimes people, for his superiors. A fella like that, one who can be trusted, is valuable in that kind of world.”

  “A bagman,” Carver said, remembering the leather briefcase that had arrived at the Cuban restaurant with Adam Beed, then had left with Roger Karl. Karl had delivered it to the house on the coast.

  “That’s what he is exactly,” Desoto said. “Another interesting thing about him, he did the last part of his stretch behind walls when Adam Beed was there. They were in the same cell block, no doubt knew each other.”

  “Old school ties,” Carver said.

  “But sometimes the alumni turn on each other,” Desoto said, “like people from Harvard.”

  Carver again saw Adam Beed walking from the house with the green roof and awnings, lugging the briefcase he later gave to Roger Karl to take to its primary destination. “Karl might be a drug mule,” he said. “What he and Beed are involved in might have nothing to do with Solartown.”

  “Could be,” Desoto agreed, “but you don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not. Good bagmen are too savvy and valuable to use as mules, and at this stage of his career, Beed’s not likely to be involved in illegal narcotics.”

  “This is Florida, amigo.”

  “We got Disney as well as the D.E.A.,” Carver said. “What about the address on Langdon?”

  “Single-family residence belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Sam Ribbling.”

  “No bell rings,” Carver said.

  “Ribbling works for Gheston Chemical, amigo. He was transf
erred to their New York office two months ago. The Langdon address is for sale and vacant.”

  “So it was nothing more than a drop point,” Carver said, thinking that what was in the briefcase must be valuable for someone to take such a precaution. And where had the briefcase finally landed? Was the expensive house by the sea its final destination? “What about the house up on the coast?” he asked. “That one vacant and for sale, too?”

  “Not at all. That one belongs to a Jamie Q. Sanchez. No sheet on him, no additional info. But if he lives in that area, he must have money, therefore clout. Therefore walk with great care, hey?”

  “You know me,” Carver said. “I’ll even use a cane.” He doodled in the margin next to his notes. Concentric circles. “How do you see it?” he asked.

  “Obvious,” Desoto said, “assuming that what you told me’s on the mark. Adam Beed met Karl for breakfast, talked business, and got the address of the drop and the pickup time. Then he drove there and got the briefcase, gave it to Karl after dinner, and Karl delivered it to its destination.”

  “Which means the recipient doesn’t want Beed to know his or her identity.”

  “Seems so, amigo. I’d call that prudent. You should watch and learn.”

  “Only Beed’s not the type to stay in the dark. And if I could follow Karl to the house up the coast, so could Beed.”

  “Probably has,” Desoto said. “He’s nothing if not industrious.”

  Carver didn’t have to speculate out loud about the rest. Once Beed learned the identity of the briefcase’s recipient, he’d apply leverage, maybe physical force. He’d be a professional among amateurs, a fox among the hens. If he didn’t have a major piece of the operation now, he soon would.

  “You nod off, amigo?”

  “I need to find out more about Jamie Sanchez.”

  “Thought you might. When you do, clue me in, hey?”

  Carver said he would. Said good-bye to Desoto.

  He’d reached for his cane and had just sat up and replaced the receiver when the door crashed open and a huge, shirtless man in blue bib overalls swaggered into the room.

  23

  The sweaty mountain in blue denim shut the door and was on Carver before he could think. This was no genial emissary from the World Wrestling Federation. A moist, thick arm almost casually brushed Carver off the bed and slammed him into the wall. Through his surprise, he saw that the man had ragged, short blond hair and tiny red-rimmed eyes. Carver knew the expression in those eyes. He’d first seen it years ago when a schoolmate had used lighter fluid to set fire to a kitten.

  Carver wasn’t a kitten. And he’d managed to stay on his feet and keep his grip on his cane. The huge man had muscle, but much of his bulk was fat. He’d be strong, but probably not quick, and without much wind. And so far he hadn’t demonstrated much in the way of expertise. Crude hired help.

  His thin lips were curled in a smile above his triple chin as he hitched up his crusty overalls and moved in on Carver again. As he came nearer, Carver could smell his stale sweat and what might have been gin on his breath.

  “Gonna teach you a real hard lesson,” he growled, in a voice that would have suited a bear roused from hibernation.

  Carver jabbed the cane’s tip into his stomach, but didn’t make contact with anything other than blubber.

  The huge man almost managed to snatch the cane, then he backed off a few awkward steps on his tree-trunk legs. He was wearing a conservative yellow tie with a tiny blue diamond pattern, the sort sometimes referred to as a “power tie.” It was knotted loosely around his neck and tucked into the top of the overalls. On his feet were boat-size brown wing-tips with the laces untied and dangling for comfort, the leather tongues protruding as if desperate for water. Was this what investment brokers did on off days?

  He came at Carver again, in a predictably straight line. Mistake. This time Carver jammed the cane’s tip into his chest just below the sternum, catching bone as well as fat. The big man grunted and his fleshy face twisted in a brief mask of pain. But in an instant pain became cunning. He said, “Tell you, motherfucker, all you’re doin’ is makin’ this rougher on yourself. Rougher’n it motherfuckin’ has to be.” He edged around where he could come at Carver from a different direction.

  Carver scooted over into a corner, narrowing the man’s angle of approach.

  “Motherfucker,” the big man said, momentarily stymied. Smiling widely, he stood motionless with his fists propped on his hips, his breath a little ragged now. No problem here, his expression suggested. He knew he had Carver on the defensive, so he’d have plenty of time to figure the best way to get to him. It was a puzzle that seemed to amuse him, total offense against a fixed target who’d be an interesting recipient of pain.

  But Carver abruptly stepped away from the corner, settling his weight on his good leg as he lashed the cane across the huge man’s forehead. The mountain was slow, all right. His hands had barely lifted off his hips when the solid walnut thunked against solid bone. When he did get his hands raised to his bleeding head, Carver jabbed the cane deep into his fleshy stomach, drawing it back quickly before the man could grab it. As the cruel mouth formed an O, and breath and gin-smell hissed out, the big hands instinctively dropped again and Carver took another unsteady step forward and swung the cane like a baseball bat. As it met the wide head he felt the vibration shoot up his arm and almost dropped the cane. The big man stumbled backward, stunned, bleeding heavily now from a gash in his temple. Carver lunged, this time using the cane as a sword, aiming at the sloppy yellow tie knot. The fleshy giant gasped as the tip speared into his throat.

  “I’ll kill you, motherfucker!” he said, his voice high and hoarse, even if still threatening. But now there was doubt in it; Carver was supposed to be afraid, supposed to buckle, but it wasn’t working out that way.

  The phone rang. It was near Carver. Keeping his good leg pressed against the side of the bed for support, he used his cane to knock the receiver off the hook.

  “Somebody probably complained about the noise,” he said. “Or maybe the smell.”

  The huge man’s breathing hissed like a blacksmith’s bellows in the hot, tiny room. “Motherfucker,” he said again. Not much imagination, Carver decided. And apparently some kind of oedipal fixation.

  “You should have brought a gun,” Carver said, reading fear in the cruel blue eyes. He smiled. “Yeah, you definitely need a gun.”

  “I’ll bring one next time, motherfucker,” the man said. He showed no inclination to advance on Carver again.

  “Somebody’s probably calling nine-eleven right now,” Carver said. “Why don’t you hang around and see who shows up.”

  The agonized little eyes flickered with the knowledge that this might not be a bluff. Someone might well have complained about the noise, or heard the talk about guns over the phone, whose receiver was lying on the carpet with the line open. The law might swoop down on them like cavalry to the rescue.

  It could all be true and both men knew it. The balance had shifted so noticeably that it seemed to have altered weight and gravity in the room. Carver’s assailant backed toward the door, glaring fearfully, as if Carver might suddenly charge with the cane.

  Well, Carver might; he felt like it. God, he felt like it!

  But he knew it would be stupid. If the huge man ever got hold of him where they’d be fighting in close, grappling, he’d be in trouble.

  “You’re gonna be real sorry for this,” the man said, oozing his bulk out the door. “You’re a dead man, you are. Dead, dead, dead.”

  Carver smiled and said, “Motherfucker.”

  The huge man slammed the door hard enough to make a framed Norman Rockwell print drop from the wall. The one where the big ruddy cop is scolding the skinny, contrite boy for stealing apples.

  Carver let out a long breath, then slumped down on the bed and picked up the receiver. Said, “Yes?”

  “Housekeeping,” a voice said. “You got plenty of towels?”

&n
bsp; Carver said thanks, the towels were fine, and hung up.

  Limp now in action’s aftermath, he sat for a long, long time on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, both hands cupped over the crook of his cane. Throbbing pain made him probe above his right ear. There was a lump there from when he’d struck the wall just after the huge man had entered the room. He realized he was miserably hot and sweat was pouring down his bare arms and dampening the thighs of his pants.

  After drying off with a towel in the bathroom, he retrieved the notes he’d taken during his phone conversation with Desoto and made sure his keys hadn’t dropped out of his pocket. Then he slipped his stockinged feet into his moccasins and hobbled squinting from the room into the bright and baking morning.

  The vestibule of the cracked, often-patched stucco apartment building on Morning Star smelled faintly of frying bacon. Graffiti on the peeling walls informed Carver of all sorts of interesting things he could do with his own body. He scanned the mailboxes and saw Roger Karl’s scrawled name above the slot for apartment 2E. There was an intercom system, but half the buttons were missing, including the one next to Karl’s apartment number. Didn’t matter, Carver discovered, because the door allowing access to the stairwell and halls was missing.

  He set the tip of his cane down and climbed creaking wood stairs to the second floor, feeling the thick air get warmer as he rose. There was loose rubber matting on some of the steps; he made a mental note of that so he’d be careful if for some reason he had to take the stairs in a hurry on the way out. Walk with a cane and you had to plan ahead sometimes.

  The scent of frying bacon was stronger on the second floor, nauseating him and making his head ache. The carpet here was worn in the center all the way through to the wood floor. A dirty window at the far end of the hall provided just enough illumination to make out the apartment letters painted large and bold and recently on the doors. From behind the nearest door came the faint sound of an infant screaming desperately. Carver limped down the alphabet and knocked on the door with the oversize black E painted on it like a “Sesame Street” graphic.