by Unknown
"I'm not going back home again, Hoke. If I did, I'd get the silent treatment from my father. It's time I left anyway. I would like to get a place in the same neighborhood though. That way, my mother could come over and help me with the baby."
"You've got months to go before you have to worry about a baby-sitter."
"I know, but I've thought about it."
"How do you feel? Physically?"
"I feel fine. I like your girls, Hoke. Not only are they well-behaved, they adore you."
"How could they? They don't even know me, for Christ's sake. And I don't know what to do with them either. You've helped me a lot."
"Did you call their mother yet? To let her know that they're all right?"
"Except for a few letters, I haven't talked to Patsy in ten years. If she wants to know how they are, she can call me."
"Maybe she's tried, Hoke? It's hard to get you at the hotel."
"I'll tell you what. Get her phone number from Sue Ellen, and you can call her. Reverse the charges, and if she won't accept the call, the hell with it."
"Sure you don't want to talk to her?"
"Positive."
"I'll call her then. If I were their mother, I'd want to know that they got here okay." Ellita cracked the door to the bedroom, then closed it softly. "Aileen's sleeping like a baby. That was awfully kind of you, Hoke, taking her braces off."
"What the hell." Hoke shrugged. "She was in pain. I'm her father, for Christ's sake."
Ellita started to cry. Hoke looked at her for a moment, then picked up his leisure jacket, left the suite, and took the elevator down to the lobby. He didn't know why he felt so lousy, so useless.
He got into his car, switched on the engine, and tried to think of somewhere to go. He didn't have anywhere to go, so he drove to the police station in Miami. He looked for the Mary Rollins file, and read through it. He leafed through two more cases--hopeless, hopeless, both of them--and then locked his office. He went down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and sat down alone at a table to drink it.
Lieutenant Fred Slater came in, and Hoke watched him as he got a carton of milk and a glass, and paid the cashier. Slater was grinning. He looked around the room, spotted Hoke, and came over to the table. Slater's thin lips split his pockmarked face into two ugly parts. He opened the milk carton and filled his glass.
"I just heard a good one, Hoke," he said. "How do you know when you're sleeping with a fag?" He took a sip of milk and wiped off the milk mustache with a paper napkin. "How? His dick tastes like shit!" Slater laughed and took another sip of milk.
Hoke didn't laugh. "Let me tell you something, Slater, and I want you to get it straight. You ever tell my girls a joke like that, and exec officer or no exec officer, I'll kick the living shit out of you."
"I don't know what you're talking about. It's just a joke, for Christ's sake. All I was..."
But Slater was talking to Hoke's back as he walked out of the cafeteria.
16
On Sunday morning Hoke awoke at six, as usual, dressed, and drove to the 7/Eleven. He bought a dozen bagels, a quart of milk, a package of cream cheese, and three large cans of Dinty Moore stew. He also picked out a large Spanish onion, which he planned to dice and add to the canned stew for extra flavor. Back in the suite, he heated water on the hot plate for instant coffee, and when it boiled he woke the girls for breakfast. Then he walked down the hall and knocked on Ellita's door, telling her to join them in his suite for bagels and coffee.
Ellita wasn't wearing pantyhose with her skirt when she joined Hoke a few minutes later, and when she sat down and crossed her legs, he caught a glimpse of the inner side of her thighs. Her soft thighs were as white as ivory, which surprised Hoke so much he stared a little longer than he had intended. Hoke had always assumed that Ellita was the same golden tan all over--like her exposed face, neck, and arms. Hoke knew that most Cubans thought of themselves as white, but he had always considered them as Third Worlders--an island mixture of Spanish, Caribe Indian, and black--and as being brown all over. For that reason, he had never objected to the department Affirmative Action program, which gave preference to minorities, both in hiring practices and on promotion lists. In Miami, however, although the majority of the population was Latin, they were still counted as a minority group. If Ellita was white as well as Cuban, Hoke figured, maybe she hadn't really descrved a promotion to a detective's slot in the Homicide Division. Ellita's white thighs were a revelation to him, opening up a whole line of new thoughts. One of these days, he'd have to talk to Bill Henderson about this as something that should be discussed at the P.B.A. On the other hand, even though Ellita had been given preference, as a Cuban, over several WASP policemen who also deserved to be detectives, she had paid her dues after working all those years as a police dispatcher. So what difference did it make? None at all. It was just nice to know that Ellita was a white woman, after all--even if she was a Cuban. Henderson liked her, and so did he, and they could hardly blame her for taking advantage of the program to get out of a boring, dead-end job.
The girls were still in the bedroom, and taking turns in the bathroom. Ellita stirred her coffee and sat back a little in the desk chair.
"I called Patsy last night, Hoke," Ellita said. "Collect. Sue Ellen also talked to her for a few minutes. She said she'd send a check to the girls to make up the difference between what you gave them as an allowance and what she usually gave them. Sue Ellen told her you were giving them a dollar a week, so she said she'd send them each a check for forty-six dollars every month."
"What else did she say?"
"She wanted to know who I was, so I told her I was your partner. But then, when Sue Ellen talked to her and told her we were all living here together, she probably got the wrong idea."
"Does it bother you?"
"What a woman who deserts her children thinks of me is not worth bothering about." Ellita added more Sweet 'n' Low to her coffee.
"She's probably relieved that there's a woman around to look after the girls, but I'm sorry she got the wrong idea about you."
The girls emerged sleepily from the bedroom and mixed their coffee in the red plastic cups Ellita had brought from her room.
"I don't see why we have to get up so early on a Sunday," Sue Ellen said.
"There're bagels and cream cheese in the sack," Hoke explained. "This evening I'll cook some beef stew, and we'll still have enough bagels to go with it. Do you think, Sue Ellen, that your mother'll send you allowance checks, like she said?"
"I know she will."
"In that case, I'll lend both of you girls five dollars, and you can pay me back when you get your checks. That way, if you want, you can buy some cigarettes." Hoke gave them five dollars apiece. Aileen put her money into her pocket, then soaked her bagel in her coffee to soften it.
"How're your teeth this morning?" Hoke asked.
"Fine, Daddy. But I slept awful hard. I don't think I moved all night."
"Good. But if they start to hurt again, and they might, ask Ellita for another T-3."
Aileen nodded.
"How about you, Ellita?" Hoke said. "Did you call your mother too?"
"Three times, but each time my father answered, so I hung up. Then I called my cousin Louisa and asked her to tell my mother I was staying here, and that I'd call her Monday."
Hoke opened his notebook and tore out a page. "I went to the office last night and took a look at the Mary Rollins file. Here's the address of that woman up in Boca Raton. Her name is Wanda Fridley, Mrs. Fridley. If you don't have anything else planned today, why not take the girls and drive up there and talk to her? Mrs. Fridley's the woman who called the department and said she saw Mary Rollins in Delray Beach. Then when MacGellicot drove up and talked to her about it, she changed her story and said she wasn't sure. His notes, that she probably didn't like him because he was a man, may or may not be valid. But maybe she'll talk to you. I was going to send you up there tomorrow, but it might be best to get this interview out of
the way today, so we can work on our other cases tomorrow. This way, we can at least tell Brownley we're working on the Rollins case. I'll drive out to the site where they found her shorts and T-shirt and look around the area. I know I won't find anything out there now, but it'll be something else to add to the report. But if you don't want to go today, that's all right, too. You can buy a bathing suit, and you girls can spend the day on the beach."
"That's no choice at all." Ellita laughed. "You couldn't pay me enough money to wear a bathing suit!"
"Why not?"
Ellita patted the top of her leg. "Fat thighs. Cellulite. I don't wear a bikini, and I don't go to the beach."
"I know you can swim. You had to pass the swimming test at the academy."
"I did. But then I sat on my ass for seven years developing cellulite. I don't mind driving up to Boca. We should be back by noon or a little later, and the girls can still go to the beach. I'll go with them and watch them from a chickee."
"Okay, that's settled. I'm going to check on that apartment in the Grove for you, and then see if I can run down Jerry Hickey's former landlady. I got the address you left on my desk last night."
"What can she tell you?"
"I don't know. I just wonder where he got the money and the white lady, that's all. There's something weird about this case, and I'm not ready to close the file on it yet. Don't you think it's a little unusual for a white boy to take a room in a black woman's house in the black Grove?"
Ellita smiled. "Not for a junkie. Besides, aren't you trying to get me a garage apartment in the black Grove?"
"But you'll be paid for living there. It isn't the same thing." Hoke recalled his reflections of a moment before, about Ellita's color, but decided to keep his counsel.
"Maybe Jerry was paid to live there, too," Ellita said.
"That's another question I could ask, I suppose. Well, look, I'll be back this afternoon, and if I'm not back, I'll call the desk and give Eddie a number where you can call me. Then tonight we'll fix the stew and all have dinner, the way we did last night. I enjoyed that."
Hoke turned to Sue Ellen and Aileen. "Remember, Ellita's going to be on police business. So you do whatever she tells you, understand?"
Hoke's daughters assured him that they did.
Hoke parked in front of the Coconut Grove Library, the only attractive public building in the Grove. With its fieldstone facade, curving wooden walkway, and the shady branches overhanging the weathered steps, the building looked as though it had grown out of the ground. A police officer was sitting in his squad car reading -Penthouse-. The officer, still in his early twenties, was so absorbed by the magazine he didn't look up until Hoke tapped him on the shoulder.
"Open the back door." Hoke showed the officer his shield. "I'm Sergeant Moseley. Homicide."
The officer clicked up the door lock, and Hoke slid into the back seat. The officer picked his cap up from the seat, slapped it on his head, and shoved his magazine under the front seat.
"What's up, Sarge?"
Hoke looked across the street to Peacock Park. A women's softball game was in progress. The harbor was filled with anchored Hobie Cats and other small sailboats with furled sails. Two bearded, shirtless men holding their shirts in their laps, their faces raised to the sun, sat on the stone wall that bordered the park. Hoke looked back at the officer. "How long you been assigned to the Grove?"
"About six weeks now. I like it better'n Liberty City. I got hit with a rock during a fracas at Northside Shopping Center." The patrolman pointed to a jagged red scar on his chin. "Fourteen stitches. After that, my squad leader thought I might be a little prejudiced, so he had me transferred to the Grove. Best thing that ever happened to me. I been working days, and things've been pretty quiet compared to Liberty City. Some chain and purse snatching, a little loitering, that's about it. On Friday nights there's been a kind of teenage invasion from all over, but I haven't been on nights yet."
"Did you know a kid named Jerry Hickey?"
"Uh-uh, but my partner might. He's been in the Grove for 'most three years."
"Where is he?"
"Up at Lum's." The officer pointed up the sloping street. "He's getting himself a Lumberjack burger. At first, we used to eat together, but now, when we take a break for a sandwich or coffee, we take turns. That way, Red said, somebody's always with the radio."
"In other words, you two don't get along."
"I didn't say that, Sergeant. We get along fine. I've learned a lot from old Red."
"Okay. You go up to Lum's and get old Red and tell him I want to talk to him. Then you can stay in Lum's and get your own Lumberjack burger."
"I was plannin' on a tuna fish."
The officer started up the mild incline, and Hoke wondered how this incredibly stupid young officer had managed to get through the police academy. But perhaps he expected too much; the kid wasn't so much dumb as he was young, that was all.
The police car was nosed into the curb, so Hoke recognized "old" Red as he limped down the street from Lum's. Red Halstead was thirty-nine, and he had been shot in the foot by a woman he had tried to disarm before she could pump her last bullet into her husband's inert body. As a consequence, Halstead had worked in Property for more than a year. The woman's husband had died, and she had been given ten years' probation by a sympathetic judge. But Halstead, after narrowly missing out on a disability discharge, had endured the necessary therapy and the boring job in the Property office and had finally regained his old job on the street. The widow had married a man a lot wealthier than her dead husband. Now she lived in a condo in Bal Harbour.
Hoke got out of the car and shook hands with Halstead. "Hoke Moseley, Red. I remember you from Property. How's the foot?"
"Fine, Sergeant, 'cept when it gets cold, but I haven't had to worry much about cold weather lately. It's eightyeight already, and it's only ten A.M."
"Sorry to interrupt your break."
"That's okay. I was finished anyway. Who's dead?"
"A kid named Jerry Hickey. He died from an overdose at home. But he used to hang out around Peacock Park. I thought you might know him, or know someone who did."
Halstead nodded. "I knew him. He had an allowance of some kind from his father, the drug lawyer. Some of the kids around here would hit him up for small change once in a while. He also sold weed, but I never caught him with any, and I must've shook him down three or four times. He was also a junkie, and he hung out sometimes with Harry Jordan. Jordan used to be a Hare Krishna, but was kicked out of the cult for skimming off the top, or something like that. But he kept his yellow robes, and now he's in business for himself. Instead of just skimming, he keeps everything he begs now." Haistead laughed. "They should've kept him on and just let him take his percentage. But Jordan's straight--I mean he's not into dope. I don't think he even drinks. He's something of a guru around the Grove. He lives on Peralta, over in the black section."
"1309 Peralta?"
"I don't know if that's the number, but I know where he lives on Peralta. He lives in a garage out back."
"A garage apartment?"
"No." Halstead shook his head and grinned. "A garage. What's going down?"
"Not much of anything. I'm doing a little backtracking, that's all."
"You just want to talk to somebody who knew Hickey, right?"
"That's it."
"Well, Harry Jordan knew him as well as anybody. He used to crash at Harry's, but I think he had a room somewhere here in the Grove besides. I could tell you how to get to Harry's, but the easiest way would be to just drive by. You could follow me. When I pass the house I'll flash my turn signal once and keep going. The garage'll be around to the back. I won't stop, because if I did, everyone in the neighborhood would know you were a cop."
"Okay. And thanks, Red."
Hoke trailed two hundred yards behind the police car and followed it down Main Highway, parallel with Grand Avenue. Halstead signaled and made a right turn into the black Grove. After two more bl
ocks, Halstead slowed, flashed his signal, and then accelerated. Hoke made a sharp turn into a dirt driveway beside a pink two-bedroom house and parked in the backyard.
A girl, sixteen or seventeen, was sitting in a webbed beach chair, nursing a baby. Her heavy bare breasts seemed disproportionately large for her slender body. Her acorn-brown hair reached almost to her waist, and she wore a soiled eggshell-colored skirt down to her ankles. Her dirty, slender feet were bare. A blue T-shirt was draped over the arm of the chair. As Hoke got out of his car, she looked at him incuriously with sienna eyes and drummed on the baby's bare back with the tips of her fingers. Her left eye was black and swollen, and there were mottled black-and-blue marks on her puffy left cheek.
The fenced-in backyard also contained a redwood table and two benches, a drooping clothesline hung with drying diapers, and several rows of vegetables--carrots, green peppers, and plum tomatoes. The garage at the end of the dirt driveway was being used as a residence. The wide garage door was missing, and the unpainted front of the small building, except for a normal door-sized entrance covered by a dusty blue velvet curtain, was composed of plywood and other odd-sized pieces of scrap lumber. The garage had an unpainted corrugated-iron roof that looked new.
A monk came through the blue velvet curtain. He was wearing a clean saffron robe and leather sandals without socks. He was about thirty, and his head, except for a short tuft of blond hair at the crown, was shaved. Despite his shaven head, he was noticeably balding. He looked at Hoke with narrowed blue eyes.
"Get in the house, Moira," he said.
The girl, carrying her baby and the blue T-shirt, got up from the chair and sidled through the curtain.
"How old's the girl, Harry?"
"Old enough to have a baby."
