by Unknown
"I ordered it from a catalog. It's supposed to be granite. It looks real to me."
"Yeah, but we don't have any granite in south Florida. We've got gravel, and we've got oolite, but not any granite. A burglar who spotted this in your yard next to the house would know that it was a fake. What you should do is leave the key with a neighbor instead."
"I've done that. Mrs. Koontz, next door, has a key, and I've got a key to her house."
"In that case, I'd advise you to keep this phony stone inside the house. What else did these men say?" Hoke opened the screen door, and they went back into the living room.
"Nothing else. Mrs. Ames, from across the street, came over with a Key lime pie, and while I was around the back letting her in, they slipped out the front door and left."
"Did you see their car?"
"It was a convertible. The top was down. It was light green, an apple green."
"You didn't take down the license number?"
"No, I was talking to Mrs. Ames, telling her what had happened. It wouldn't have occurred to me anyway." She looked away. "Would you like a drink, Sergeant?"
"A beer would be okay."
"I've got vodka, and a six-pack of Cokes, but no beer."
"Make it a Coke, then. I usually drink beer or bourbon, but I can drink almost anything, except for Mr. Pibb."
Hoke followed Mrs. Hickey into the dining area and sat at the Eames table while she went into the kitchen. The table was loaded with food. There was a baked ham, studded with cloves; two cheesecakes; two Key lime pies; and a large brown ceramic casserole dish filled with Boston baked beans, topped with parboiled strips of fatty bacon.
"You ever see so much food?" Mrs. Hickey said, coming back from the kitchen. She handed Hoke a tall glass of Coca-Cola over ice cubes. "On top of all this"--she made a sweeping gesture over the table--"there's a big tuna salad in the fridge and a half a watermelon." She blushed. "I've had two ham sandwiches already, and both with mayonnaise."
"That's natural. Death makes a person hungry. Those beans look good to me."
"Would you like some? I'll never be able to eat all this food by myself."
"I'm on a kind of diet. I'd rather have the beans, but I'll settle for some tuna salad."
"I'll fix you a plate."
Hoke didn't want the tuna salad either, but he thought it might help if he gave Mrs. Hickey something to do with her hands. She had to be embarrassed about her morning's performance, but she was covering it well. He needed to know more about Jerry Hickey. If Jerry had ripped off twentyfive thousand dollars, where was it? Of course, he might not have ripped off anything. The two guys could have been looking for him for something else, and told Mrs. Hickey that as a cover story. On the other hand, it was plausible. Drug people stiffed each other all the time, and a junkie like Hickey might not have considered the consequences of taking down a dealer. If these two dealers, or whoever they were, had been dumb enough to trust that kind of money to a junkie, they deserved to be ripped off. The kid, if he took the money, had hidden it somewhere, stashed it away, figuring that he would hide out here for a few days, then pick it up and take off. He had kept out a thousand, probably, as an emergency fund..
The tuna salad was attractively presented: a heaping portion on a lettuce bed, garnished with two deviled egg halves, green and black olives, and celery sticks. To keep Hoke company, Mrs. Hickey had a slice of Key lime pie. She took two bites, then got up and started the percolator in the kitchen.
"This is good tuna salad," Hoke said, "but I never put hard-boiled eggs in mine. I prefer the classic recipe. One pound of tuna, one pound of chopped onions, and one pound of mayonnaise."
Loretta Hickey laughed. "Oh! All that mayonnaise! I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't laugh, but I couldn't help it."
"Don't ever apologize for laughing, Mrs. Hickey. Life goes on, you know, no matter what. That's what your neighbors were trying to tell you when they brought this food over."
"I know. And I don't want to seem callous. I should feel sorry about Jerry's death, but I always knew that something would happen to him sooner or later. So in a way, I'm just as glad it's over. I don't mean I'm happy about his death-- don't get me wrong--but his father and I gave up on Jerry a long time ago."
"I understand, I think. What I'd like from you now is a little background information on your son--"
"Jerry isn't my son. That is, I wasn't responsible for him the way I would've been if he'd been my own son. Or even my legal stepson."
"That isn't quite clear. Gerald Hickey isn't your son?"
"No. I'm divorced. Jerry's my ex-husband's son. Only Jerry wasn't his natural son either. He was my ex-husband's adopted son. That is, Jerry was my ex-husband's ex-wife's son by her first husband. Harold, my ex-husband, adopted Jerry when he married Marcella, his first wife, because she had custody of Jerry from her first marriage. You see, when he married Marcella, she talked Harold into adopting Jerry. Then, after they were divorced, Marcella left town, and he had to keep Jerry because Jerry was now his legal responsibility. Harold didn't know where Marcella went, and he's never heard from her again. Jerry was fifteen when they were divorced, and then Harold married me about a year later, when Jerry turned sixteen. But I never adopted Jerry, so I wasn't his legal stepmother or anything like that. He just came with Harold and the house. This house."
"You may not believe me," Hoke said, pushing his plate to one side, "but I can follow you. I run into a lot more complicated families than yours in Miami. Then you divorced Harold, right?"
"That's right. I never got along too well with Harold, but I always got along with Jerry because I didn't try to play the mother act with him. Jerry was too old for me to try that anyway, when Harold and I got married, and I'm not the maternal type. I got along with Jerry much better than Harold ever did, but then Harold was responsible for him legally.
"At any rate, when I got my divorce I also got the house--this one--as part of the settlement. Harold wanted a bachelor pad, so he asked me to keep Jerry, too. He gave me an extra two hundred a month in the agreement, so I let Jerry stay on. By that time Jerry and I were pretty good friends. He did pretty much as he wanted to do, and I didn't care. After he got his car, I didn't see him much. He got into a little trouble with the police, but his father always got him out of it. After he dropped out of school, he was sometimes away from the house for two or three weeks at a time. He ran around with a bunch in Coconut Grove, but he never brought any of them here. So to tell you the truth, Sergeant, I don't know all that much about what he was doing, or where he spent his time. But I wasn't legally responsible for him. I do know, or feel, that this place was a kind of a sanctuary for him. I never bugged him, and there was always food to eat here if he wanted to come home and eat it. Harold still sent me the two hundred every month, whether Jerry was here or not, even after Jerry turned eighteen."
"Did you know that Jerry was on drugs?"
"I suspected it, but I wasn't positive. As I said, I wasn't legally responsible for--"
"Yes, you did mention that. Where did Jerry get his money to live on? Did he have a job?"
"Not lately. He used to get odd jobs now and then, at the Green Lakes Car Wash, and as a bag boy. He offered to help me once in the flower shop, but I turned him down. He wasn't a dependable boy, so I knew he wouldn't stay for more than a few days, and I didn't want to add another failure to his list. Harold mailed him a check once in a while, but that was after he quit school. While he was in school I gave him an allowance, but when he dropped out of school I stopped it. After his driver's license was suspended, he sold his car. He made about two thousand on the sale. But that was several months ago." She ate the last bite of her pie. "Anyway, it's all over with now, isn't it? Including my extra two hundred a month from Harold. That's what I wanted to ask you about."
"What?"
"A favor. Somebody has to tell Harold about Jerry. And I just can't make myself do it. Would you call and tell him for me? I think he ought to be told soon, becaus
e it wouldn't be very pleasant for him to read about it in the papers or hear it on the radio."
"Jerry's name won't be released to the papers until they've checked with us that his next-of-kin's been notified. The press is pretty decent about things like that. But I'll call him if you want me to." Hoke got to his feet. "Where does he live?"
"At the Mercury Club, in Hallandale. I'll get his number for you."
Harold Hickey, Hoke thought, must have a bundle. The Mercury Club was right on the ocean, with tight security, and had its own small marina. The Mercury Club was still restricted, too: no Jews, blacks, or Latins. When all of the civil rights legislation was considered, it cost a great deal of money to keep a private club restricted nowadays.
Hoke dialed the number Mrs. Hickey gave him. After two rings, a voice came on the line. The voice was deep and husky; each word was enunciated self-consciously.
"This is a recording. I am Harold Hickey, attorney at law. I am temporarily unable to answer the phone in person. In a moment or so, when I finish speaking, you will hear a tone. At that time, if you are so inclined, you may leave your name, phone number, and message. I will return your call at my earliest convenience."
Hoke waited for the tone, and said: "This is DetectiveSergeant Hoke Moseley, Homicide, Miami Police Department. Your son Gerald died this morning under peculiar circumstances. For additional information, call me after ten P.M. at my residence, the Eldorado Hotel, Miami Beach. Don't give up too quickly." Hoke gave the number, then added, "If you don't call me at the hotel, you can reach me at Homicide, Miami police station, tomorrow after seventhirty A.M."
Hoke racked the phone and turned away. Loretta had an expression of dismay. "What was that all about? Were you talking to a recording?"
"He wasn't there, so I gave the machine the information."
"Jesus! You told the recording Jerry was dead? I could've done that myself. Except that I'd never tell a recording anyone was dead. That'll be a shock to Harold when he plays it back. The reason I asked you to call him in the first place was I thought you could do it gently."
"There isn't any gentle way to tell someone that a member of his family's dead. The direct method's as good as any. Besides, if Mr. Hickey was sensitive, he wouldn't have a recording answer his telephone for him. By the time he calls me back, he'll have had time to digest the news."
"You don't know Harold." She looked away, toward the bedrooms. "But at least he didn't have to discover the body, the way I did."
"I think the coffee may be ready."
"Just a sec. I'll see."
When Loretta returned with the coffee and cups on a tray, Hoke handed her the envelope containing $1,070 and asked her to count it. He then asked her to sign a receipt.
"This money's yours, or your ex-husband's. Or you two can split it. But you'd better tell him about it."
Loretta Hickey nodded. "Suppose those two men come back? They might say it's theirs."
"If they come back, call me." Hoke put his card on the table. "Let me have your home and office number too."
She gave him the numbers, and Hoke wrote them down in his notebook.
"Is this money evidence, Sergeant?"
"No. I've got a list of the serial numbers, and that's all I'll need. If I were you, I'd put the money into your night deposit at the bank."
"I don't think I want to leave the house tonight. Can't you keep the money for now, and give it to me tomorrow at the shop?"
"I suppose." Hoke put the receipt into the envelope with the money, and returned the envelope to his jacket pocket. "Where do you work?"
"I have my own shop, The Bouquetique, a flower and gift shop in the Gables, on Miracle Mile. Do you know where it is?"
"I can find it, but I don't know exactly when I can get there. Did you make that name up all by yourself, or did you inherit it?"
"I made it up. It's a combination of bouquet and boutique."
"I suspected that. What do you sell besides flowers?"
"Smart things. Gifts. Vases, ceramics, turquoise jewelry from New Mexico. Little things like that."
"All right. I might have some more questions for you. Try and make a list of Jerry's friends--men and women-- and I'll see you then. If I can't make it tomorrow, I'll call you. When was the last time you saw Jerry?"
"This morning--but you mean before that, don't you?"
Hoke nodded.
"About a month ago. He came by one night and got two shirts, but he only stayed for a few minutes. He was living in the Grove, but he didn't tell me where, and I didn't ask. Somebody drove him over and waited for him outside. He was only here a few minutes. He just got the shirts and left."
"Who brought him--a man or a woman?"
"I don't know. I was working on some accounts here at the dining table, and didn't go outside with him when he left."
"It doesn't matter. If you're pressed for money, I can leave you some of this thousand."
"I'm not pressed for money, Sergeant. What makes you think that?"
"I didn't say I thought so." Hoke smiled. "I'm always pressed for money, so I guess I usually assume everybody else is, too. Meanwhile, if you think of anything else about your conversation with those two men, or if they pester you again, call me at the Eldorado Hotel in Miami Beach. I wrote the number on the back of my card."
"The Eldorado? That's in South Beach, isn't it?"
"Right. Just off Alton Road, next to the condemned Vizcaya Hotel, on the bay side."
"How can you possibly live in such a terrible place? If you don't mind my asking."
"When I got my divorce, my wife got the house, the car, the furniture, the children, the weed-eater, my tankful of guppies--the same old story."
"You're not married now, then?"
"No." And you've got a very nice house, Hoke thought.
"Perhaps you can come over for dinner one night? I've still got all this food."
"Why not?" Hoke finished his coffee and got to his feet. "There'll be a postmortem on Jerry, but we'll let you know when you can recover the body."
"That's all right. Harold'll take care of all that. So tell him, not me. I don't think he'll want a funeral, but he'll probably call me about that." She walked Hoke to the front door. "How come, Sergeant Moseley, you live in Miami Beach, anyway? I thought it said in the paper that all the Miami police had to live in the city."
"That's a long story, Mrs. Hickey. I'll save it for another time. I don't think those men will come back, but keep the bolt on the door anyway, and if they do come back, don't let them in. Just call me instead. All right?"
"I will. Good night, and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow. And thanks for the tuna salad."
The rain had stopped, and the dark clouds had moved west over the Everglades. Hoke drove cautiously on the stillslick streets. At eight-thirty there was enough light left to drive by without his headlights, because of Daylight Saving Time. But when he reached the MacArthur Causeway, Hoke turned on his lights anyway. Some people drove like maniacs across this narrow link to Miami Beach.
Hoke hadn't been laid in four months, and Loretta Hickey, all fresh and sweet-smelling from her shower, had made him horny. If he had stayed much longer, he might have made a move on her. But the timing wasn't right. Her emotions had been drained that morning. She had discussed Jerry as if he were a stranger. She had been coming on to him toward the end of their conversation, though. She knew how sexy she was in that thin floor-length robe. It was funny how some women were sexy and others were not. Ellita Sanchez, despite her ample bosom and good legs, didn't do it for him. But underneath, she probably smouldered. She was thirty-two, and still lived with her mother and father. He doubted if she had ever been laid. On the other hand, her bed was Cuba: The right man could fry an egg on her G-spot. Living at home that way, and saving her money, she would have one hell of a dowry for some macho Cuban to squander on a sexy mistress some day. At thirty-two, however, her chances of getting married in the Cuban community were negligible. Mos
t of those Cuban girls were married by the time they were eighteen or nineteen. Ellita was no longer an old maid of twenty-five; officially, after thirty, she was a spinster.
Hoke parked in his marked slot in front of the hotel and glanced up at the electric sign. The neon spluttered, but it still spelled ELDORADO in misty rose letters. The shabby lobby was occupied by a half-circle of old ladies watching the flickering television, bolted and chained to the wall, and by four male Cuban residents playing dominoes at an old card table. By tacit consent, the live-in residents of the hotel kept to their own sides of the lobby. The only time the Cubans watched TV was when President Reagan, their hero, was on the tube. The noise at the card table stopped when Hoke crossed the lobby to the desk to check his mail. Eddie Cohen, the ancient desk clerk, was not behind the desk, and there was no mail in Hoke's box.
Hoke's thoughts kept returning to Loretta Hickey as he made his routine, if perfunctory, security check on each floor on his way up to his suite. After he made out his report for Mr. Bennett, which he would leave on the manager's desk in the morning, Hoke undressed and took a tepid shower in his tiny bathroom. Thinking of Loretta Hickey again, and about how she must look under her robe, Hoke masturbated gloomily in the shower. Christ, he thought unhappily, I'm getting too old to jerk off this way. I've got to get out of this hole and find a place where I won't be ashamed to bring a woman.
6
As usual, Hoke awoke without the aid of a ringing alarm at 6 A.M. It was a habit held over from his three years in the army. He invariably awakened at six, regardless of the hour he went to bed.
After his one year of junior college in Palm Beach, Hoke had enlisted for three years as a Regular rather than wait to be drafted. An R.A. man had an advantage over the draftees, and the Vietnam War had had little effect on Hoke, except that he probably wouldn't have enlisted in the army if it hadn't been for the war. He had spent three uneventful, but not unpleasant, years as an M.P. at Fort Hood, Texas. Most of that time had been spent at the front gate, saluting and waving cars on and off post. He had also pulled his share of guard duty, wandering around unlighted warehouses, but on the whole his had been a safe war. He had gone home twice to Riviera Beach, Florida, on leave, but spent his other furloughs in El Paso and Juarez, where he had some great times with his bunky, Burnley Johnson.
