The shooting at Loma was on Monday. Today is Tuesday and this is where I find out just exactly how much rope Bill and Karen are willing to extend to me. Predictably, Bill is the one I will have to lure into my camp because there is no way Karen will ever be alright with my departing for an undetermined amount of time.
Now, in order for this to work, I have laid the groundwork to lure Bill into camp. First, I stop by his favorite coffee shop and pick up a steaming 20 oz. cup of gooey sugar that’s laced with high-octane caffeine. Next, I swing past his favorite deli that also caters to the breakfast crowd. Here I am purchasing a unique blend of protein and carbs. I know you’re thinking bacon covered doughnut and it’s not a bad guess, but you would be wrong.
The deli of which I allude to lies in the heart of Miami Beach. Okay, if you have to know it's right next door to the Concourse hotel. Rudy’s is a little sliver of a deli that shares the same wall space with the Cuban kitchen next door and because it’s Miami Beach, the menu is over the top. In the morning they offer you a lox-covered, gluten-free, crab-cake-filled long john. It’s just as disgusting as it sounds, but Bill loves them. Proof positive the world takes all kinds.
You think that’s bad? You should see the lunch menu. Oh, by the way, this little lox-covered doughnut is no cheap item. Just one of them goes for $10. I go for a baker’s dozen so this little gambit had better pay off, else I just spent a buck thirty for nothing.
I get to the office, which is located at tenth and Collins, at two minutes past 8:00 a.m. Wired Connections is tucked back into the corner of what used to be an office building, but has recently been converted to lofts for the upwardly mobile twenty to thirtysomethings. Our building, which is like every other building on South Beach, is stark white with mirrored one-way glass facing the street. Bill and Karen had managed to get a first-floor location near the front door and it is the first and last thing you will see when entering and exiting the elevator.
Karen went the whole hog on the nouveau riche Art Deco theme. Karen, like me and Bill, is a product of the eighties. During that time Miami Beach saw a resurgence in hip places to be, especially as Crockett and Tubs were the trendsetters on TV. Everything is that garish neon color.
Bill thinks I’m trying to be cool because I refuse to take off my shades while in our office and Karen just thinks I’m a dick. What I have never revealed to either of them is the fact my eye holes can’t take the ‘Mickey Mouse threw up on the walls’ color scheme. I do, after all, need this paying gig for as long as I can keep it.
But on this morning I remove my blinders and fight the tears of pain my eyes are being subjected to. Karen looks up when I walk in and sees me decamp my glasses. Her jaw goes slack and her eyes glaze over just long enough for me to notice. However, like a magic trick her slack-jawed appearance vanishes and is replaced with suspicion as her jaw snaps shut. Her eyes follow me all the way to Bill's desk.
Bill, on the other hand, gives no notice to my arrival. He is busy on the phone. His back is to me. Feet up and crossed on the window sill in front of him. Head cocked to the left, the phone cradled between his shoulder and his left temple. The fifty cent piece sized bald spot on the back of his head makes eye contact with the box of doughnuts I’m carrying in front of me. I stop in front of his desk and rap my knuckles.
His hand shoots up and waves me off, his focus not wavering. I’m still staring at the bald spot and for a moment I wonder if this is actually a third eye. I wave at it. His arm shoots up and waves again. Only this time his hand makes like a gun and his thumb drops on the firing pin that is his hand.
It unnerves me a little when he shoots me with his finger. I’m still staring at the suspected eye when Karen idles up to me, her perfume meeting me just a second or two before she does, which breaks my concentration on Bill’s third eye.
I turn and our eyes meet. She smiles, but it lacks both humor and enjoyment. And never does the smile make it above her nose. I decide right then that my sale will have to be with Karen because Bill won’t pardon the phone from the death grip. I waver, but then charge ahead.
“Karen, it’s sure great to be alive this morning, isn’t it.”
“Why? Somebody die and we weren’t notified yet?” she responds.
“Not that I’m aware of. But the salty air on a morning like this sure does make living in Miami great this time of year,” I say.
“Cut the shit, Walt. Whatever it is, there aren’t enough of those wannabe doughnuts in that box to get you out of the Hernandez and Couture cases,” Karen says.
“Karen, my dear, you misunderstand my good tidings this morning.”
“Yeah and I’m still on the right side of forty,” she snapped.
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you still cut quite a nice figure.”
“No dice, you’re still going to have to finish both of those cases before the end of the week,” she replies, her head shaking slowly back and forth with a hint of a smile briefly creasing the corners of her mouth.
“Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Sure,” Karen replies.
Pointing at the “eye” I ask, “You ever seen that thing move? Or maybe wink at you like it’s watching you?”
I am rewarded with a small snicker. “Only when I’m undressing at night, or getting into the shower, or anytime I’m bending over.”
“I swear it watched me all of the way into the office.”
Bill’s voice now bellows a report aimed at both of us. “I saw your reflection in the window smart ass. Some detective you are.” His legs come down and then he turns the chair to face both of us, his eyes resting on the box I’m still holding. Then they move to the coffee cup I’ve set down.
“Is that the loxy doughnut from Rudy’s in there?” he asks, nodding his head at the box.
“It is indeed,” I reply.
And now his eyes fill with suspension. I swear you would think I’ve never done a kind thing in my life.
“You know there is no more money we can pay you, right?” he states.
“Huh?” I grunt.
“What does ‘huh’ mean?” Karen asks.
“It means that until this moment, I hadn’t considered my pay,” I say. Okay, now this is a lie. I know for a fact they live in a rather expensive beach house, not a mile from where I’m standing and both of them drive new Mercedes. If they aren’t flush, it’s because all of it has been spent on their toys and hobbies. They have never shown any concern for the meager requirements I possess.
“Well, okay then, I’m stumped,” Bill says as his hand reaches into the box and he retrieves one of my $10 bribes.
Karen also reaches in and takes one out. Both of them look at me and then the box expectantly. I jam my hands in my front pockets and shuffle my feet in an ’ah shucks, that’s mighty kind of you’ kind of way. And for effect, I bow my head and shake it back and forth. A quiet “No thanks” escapes my lips.
Both of them trade a look they think I can’t decipher. But I recognize Bill passing off to Karen. He likes me and has troubles saying no. Karen, on the other hand, does not suffer from this particular ailment. She will have the final say.
I had rehearsed a version of what happened last night, which paints a picture of desperation and reluctance to even ask. It takes me a full ten minutes to make it through my speech. Every few seconds I’m checking both their reactions and then amending it as I go.
This is dangerous because ninety-nine percent of humanity can only tell one lie at a time and it’s hard to keep your fabrications straight. But if you keep the important details in the right order and keep it simple, you should be okay. Or at least this is what I have convinced myself over the last few years.
And in case you’re wondering, the crux of my story revolves around my sister being the victim of abuse at the hands of Ronald. It’s not really a stretch. His activities did almost get them both killed, so seen in a certain light this is abuse and it is life-threatening.
Anyhow, my rehearsed
story lands in all of the right places because, at the end of my story, Karen has moved from skeptic to full-on motherly concern. And Bill looks like he himself would like to take a swing at Ronald. I went into the abuse bit because a few years back, Karen’s little sister, Jamie, had fallen into a bad lot. To be accepted into this ‘gang’, her would-be boyfriend was required to share her with all of his amigos while he watched.
I am now cashing in on Jamie’s bad experience to get me a few days to sort out my own sister. It’s shitty, I know, but like I said, I am marginally equipped to handle this sort of thing. I mean employed. Hey, don’t judge me. My sponsor tells me all the time not to judge others.
“Walt, you take all the time you need to help her out and if you need to, you can bring her here and she can stay with us,” Karen says.
I nod my head a little and rub my eyes. “Thanks, that means a lot coming from you guys.”
“It’s no problem,” says Bill.
“Oh, and Walt, next time you don’t have to spend all that money on doughnuts. Just come and talk to us. Save your money,” Karen says.
I nearly bite my tongue in half in order to keep myself from asking for the buck thirty back. But instead, I nod and say, “Thanks, you guys, it really means a lot coming from you”.
Bill stands up and extends his hand to me. I take it and we shake. Karen puts her arm around my shoulder and provides comfort.
I have to get out of here because now I’m starting to feel guilty for lying to them. I gently extricate myself from both of them and head for the door. As I am reaching for the door, Karen calls out to me.
“And Walt, don’t you worry about Hernandez and Couture. I’ll find someone else to work them for you.”
Ah, Rickets. Why did she have to go and say that? Now I’m going to have to work them before I leave.
Chapter 8
The next few days kept me going at a pretty good clip. I was going to work both cases before I left, but after some soul-searching (read: really heavy drinking the night before, followed by a whopping hangover) I decided the best thing for me to do was to farm it out to a local P.I. whom I trusted to doggedly follow the trail wherever it led and to close them out like a professional. The private investigator in question is named Philip Mablonk. He and I know each other through our shared passion of fermented beverages. We met at a local business that caters to a niche market of daytime dipsomaniacs. Phil is one of those people who is a true salt of the earth. A blue-collar hustler who lives and dies every day because of the ethical virtues of his profession. Plus he also had the added attraction of not having worked for the last three months. This made his fee very reasonable (read: desperate). The downside of an out of work P.I. is they do tend to allow things to drag out a few days longer than they need to.
But I had it covered. I called Phil when the cuckoo clock in my head stopped singing in my ears. We agreed to meet at an out of the way bar called “The Shaft”. It was owned by a guy named Jackie Deutch. He named his bar after a coal mine in West Virginia. After thirty years of digging coal and iron out of the bowels of a mountain, he decided there had to be an easier and safer way to make a living. So he pulled the pin and retired to south Florida. The Shaft was a blue-collar bar with old-time spittoons on the floor. It was one of those neighborhood places that had a bad name yet never showed up on any police blotter nor could anyone ever remember the last time a bad element had wandered in and busted the place up.
Jackie went the whole hog on a south Florida-meets-John Wayne theme. It had bras and bikinis stapled to the ceiling that had been liberated from soused co-eds. The aforementioned spittoons, as well as the brass-footed rail, both circled the bar. He had wanted timber floor beams to bear the weight of his patrons, but the cost of replacing the existing floor proved to be too much, so he went with faux tiling instead. He had a jukebox with a wide selection of classic country and modern dance music. The large mirror behind the bar was oval in shape and had silhouetted wagon trains engraved into it. The walls were covered with posters of the Beach Boys and John Wayne movie posters. There were also pictures of topless women sunbathing on the beach. Jackie installed paddle fans which were propelled by the wind off of the tides that blew across the bar. The overhead lighting was kept dark so as to give the permanent illusion of imbibing at night.
By day, The Shaft was home to men and women who had cashed in all their chips and devoted themselves to the systematic destruction of their lives. Men and women who had chosen to ride on top of amber-colored liquid in order to find their quixotic odysseys at the bottom of a bottle, or they would dust off rails of cocaine, or suck their lungs full of H or meth. Fortified with chemical courage that propped up their faux bravado, they would heave themselves back into the bar on bended elbows and continue to reap the kind of personal destruction into their lives that made Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell look like paradise.
By five o’clock, these mainline destructoids had boiled their livers and clogged their arteries so full of poison that they could no longer stay atop a chair, much less a bar stool. At which time they either propelled themselves out into society or were dumped into a back alley trash heap because they were so far down the rabbit hole that no amount of detox would render them sober.
I asked Phil to meet me at 5:30 p.m., which meant the bar would most likely be empty. This is what I wanted, because I needed a little mental fortification before Phil and I spoke.
When I arrived, a little early, the place was uncharacteristically empty except for a cabbie that worked the night shift and then drank his days away. Jackie was leaning against the bar and reading the paper. He looked up and waved his hand in acknowledgment of my arrival. I returned his five-finger salute and took a perch in front of him.
“Walt, hoz it hanging these days?” Jackie asked.
“Fair to middling,” I replied.
He smirked. “Only fair, huh? I thought you were a gun-slinging cocksmith?”
“Ah, Jackie, if only you knew how many women’s bed sheets I have sullied in my time you’d cut your own dick off just for an opportunity to be my cock for a day,” I said.
“You braggarts are all the same. All talk and no pussy,” he laughed.
“It would only be bragging if I gave you the details, my drink slinging friend.”
“I assume you’re here for the gruel?” Jackie asked.
“Just a short one Jackie, and today I’ll take it neat.”
Jackie stood up straight, turned, and with the deft experience of a grandmaster drink slinger, reached to his left and picked up a bottle of fireball whiskey. Then with his right-hand, he grabbed a shot glass and with one swift motion, he upended the bottle and poured two fingers of whiskey into the glass.
That done, Jackie replaced the bottle and with no apparent effort, turned, and put the glass down. Then, without missing a beat, he resumed his perch in front of me. His posture was that of a man without a care in the world.
I picked up the glass and upended it, the booze sliding down my throat, the whiskey coating my insides with calmness and security. Then with equal deftness, I place it upside down on the bar, the glass sounding hollow as it smacked down. Jackie and I looked at each other. His eyebrow arched in a question. I nodded and he repeated the process. We do this dance three more times until I shake my head in response to his arched eyebrows. He shrugs and then walks down the bar to check on the cabbie.
I checked the time and saw it was just after five. Phil should be there any minute. I took my phone out and put it on the bar. As I did so, it began to vibrate and then to dance along the wood finish of the bar. I picked it up and answered it.
“Walker,” I say as a way of a greeting.
“Didn’t figure you would answer my call so fast,” the voice answered.
Coolness begins to fill my body, followed by a white-hot anger.
“If I’d given it any thought when I looked at the caller ID, maybe I wouldn’t have,” I reply.
“Your sister tells me you’re
coming out,” Ronald said.
“Well, that’s what I told her. But since I know how you don’t like boundaries or people, I suppose this is the call that tells me not to bother,” I sarcastically replied.
He didn’t respond right away. Then he said, “It would be my preference to keep the guest list limited to only those parties with a stake.”
“Exactly how is it I don’t have a stake? Correct me if I’m wrong, but she is my sister and it’s you that has involved her.”
“Didn’t say you didn’t have a stake, but I know how you operate and you would only spoil the party. Plus, it would be better if you come on out,” he said.
Now it was my turn to wait to speak. I thought about his last statement and tried to figure out why the king of death would want me to come out, but the booze had dulled my thoughts just enough to collapse my reasoning skills.
I start to reply in a snarky fashion, but then give up. “Why are you okay with this?” I ask, only the why came out “wry” and the you was more like “ewe”. My speech was just a little off.
“Does your sister know you're still drinking?” Ronald asked.
“The fuck it’s your business?” I snarled.
“Jesus, are you kidding me. You’re still blaming me for what happened?” Ronald asked.
“Careful Killer, this is an open line,” I said with a lot of heat.
“This was a mistake,” Ronald said.
“Damn right it was, Killer,” I said.
“Do yourself a favor and don’t bother to come out here. I got enough going on without having to watch you go through the DTs,” Ronald said with some heat of his own.
“Well, you know what, you may just get your wish. The old travel fund is a little dry this time of year,” I barked back.
“So, what, you’re going to ride in the hull of the airplane? Ship yourself via FedEx?” Ronald practically screamed.
On The Devil's Side of Heaven Page 4
