The Meter Maid Murders

by Andrew Delaplaine

  His cell phone rang. He rolled his eyes as he answered.

  “Yes, Rwanda?”

  “Where you be, butt-wipe?” Rwanda asked in her usual dulcet tones. “The Gables?” she asked with a sneer.

  “As a matter of fact, not that it’s any of your business, I’m on the MacArthur Causeway coming back from the Design District.”

  “And whatchu doin’ ova ‘dere?”

  “Maybe, sweetie pie, you didn’t hear the part where I said, ‘not that it’s any of your business.’”

  “I ain’t yo’ sweetie pie, Brick-bat.”

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call, Rwanda?”

  “Chief wants you ... now!”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Sump’n ‘bout the gov’ner comin’ down fer that news conf’rence. Puttin’ together a team to brief ’im.”

  “And he wants me on the team?” Bricker said, straightening his shoulders.

  “Yeah, go figure,” she said, unceremoniously hanging up.

  Seconds later, Boobs’s cell phone rang and she brought it over, not even bothering to answer it.

  “Guess who?”

  “Le me ask you something, Boobs.”

  “Ask away, Romeo.”

  “Why doesn’t that bitch of a girlfriend of yours ever tell the chief that I spend half my waking hours holding up this bar instead of working? She’s never said a word. Never squealed on me. She could have my ass in a sling if she wanted to.”

  Boobs looked genuinely hurt, surprised. She leaned over and touched his hand tenderly.

  “Lissen, honey, for all the hassle I give you, I really like you.” Here she became firmer, harder; well, more dyke-like, tough as nails. “If that bitch Rwanda ever ratted you out, you—my biggest tipper—there would be one juicy pussy her tongue won’t be lickin’ no time soon, lemme tell ya.”

  The cell phone rang away insistently.

  “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  He ran out, the image of Rwanda ... well, he didn’t want to think about it because he didn’t want to vomit all over the new seat covers in his Crown Vicky.

  When Bricker got to the station house and went up to the chief’s office, he saw people scurrying around ready to leave.

  “Motherfuck!” said an exasperated Ramirez to Rwanda as he barged out of his office, his uniform jacket halfway on as he pulled it over his shoulders.

  “What is it, Chief?” came from a suddenly solicitous Rwanda.

  Wow, what an actress, thought Bricker.

  “Sons-a bitches moved the meeting to Scilly Hall. The governor wanted to make his speech here, but Germane moved it there, grandstanding sonofabitch!”

  “You called me, Chief?” Bricker interrupted.

  “Yeah. Figured they might want to ask you something since you were the first cop on the scene at the meter maid killing behind the Deuce.”

  “Just happened to be there,” said Bricker.

  “Yeah, you looked pretty good on TV, Bricker.”

  “I look pretty good anytime, Chief.”

  “Shut the fuck up and let’s get going.”

  When they got to Scilly Hall, Mayor Germane was already standing outside by the helipad as the governor’s chopper, a UH-60 Black Hawk, descended. His staff was lined up behind him, and a huge media contingent pushed and shoved like a bunch of unruly children the way they always do.

  The governor left the chopper with a few aides and more poured out of a second chopper, a Bell UH-1 Iroquois that landed after the Black Hawk. Bricker held on tight to his Trilby as the rotors settled down.

  Germane greeted the governor and they all moved up to a hastily erected platform in front of some palm bushes to begin the press conference.

  Bricker followed the chief onto the platform where he positioned himself behind the chief who stood directly behind the mayor.

  “I didn’t know the National Guard had Black Hawks, Chief.”

  “They don’t. They use the Iroquois cast off by the Army. Don’t know where the fuck Kudzue got that Black Hawk. Fine lookin’ machine.”

  “I’ll say,” Bricker said.

  “Musta borrowed it from the Feds.”

  Germane moved right to the lectern as the uniformed cops let the media rush up below the platform. He raised his hands for quiet.

  “On behalf of the City of Miami Beach, I’d like to welcome Governor Kudzue to our little sandbar. As you know, we’ve had a little bad news recently with the untimely deaths of two or three—”

  “Seven!” yelled a reporter.

  “Whatsamatter? Can’t ya count?” yelled another one.

  Germane held up his hand.

  “I know we’re all a little on edge...”

  “No we’re not. We’re not meter maids!” shouted another reporter.

  They were giggles in the crowd. Not a good sign.

  Germane limped along for a few minutes, and the governor moved forward, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “I brought with me Colonel Peto Mouldy of the Florida National Guard, and as we speak, a full battalion, fifteen hundred men and women, are moving into the city to help protect our citizens from this vicious serial killer—”

  “It’s not the citizens getting killed! It’s meter maids!” yelled a reporter. “What can the National Guard do about that?”

  This question came from none other than Billy, who Bricker could tell wanted to throttle him. Right now, however, he was just drilling holes in Bricker’s head with his beady little eyes. Bricker dreaded having to face him later.

  Bricker noticed an awkward pause as Governor Kudzue thought it over, but he chose not to answer any question too directly. Being a politician and answering a direct question did not seem to go together.

  “Is the National Guard gonna write tickets when all the meter maids are dead?” another media person screamed.

  More laughter.

  “We are taking this matter very seriously,” Kudzue spoke up louder. “As you all know, President Quince has called on all state and local municipalities where these incidents have occurred to pull out all the stops, spare no expense, to capture those involved.”

  And so forth and so on, thought Bricker.

  Kudzue looked like a fancier, slicker version of Germane. He had a nicer suit, probably from a real tailor, which meant he probably wanted to run for Congress after his stint as governor was over and he was forced out by term limits. Bricker thought Kudzue wore his sideburns a little on the long side, but not by much. They weren’t as noticeable since Kudzue had white hair. Or, well, it was whiter now than when he took office three years ago, thought Bricker. He was convinced that these politicos started working on their hair the minute they got elected, gently transforming it from whatever color it was when they got elected to white. So that by the time they got to Congress, it was whiter than white. Santa Claus white. There’s simply no way so many guys in Congress could have such snowy white hair. What were they thinking? Bricker wondered. That it made them look more honest?

  Finally, the whole charade was over and people began dispersing, drifting back to their cars.

  Bricker walked with the chief over to Germane, who was in the middle of a heated exchange with Kudzue.

  “Well, Ken, I positively do not see why you have to fly in here in that chopper like you’re fuckin’ Arnold Schwarzenegger or Batman or somebody.”

  “I don’t think you’ve done enough to give the people confidence, Johnny, honestly I don’t. That’s why I brought in Colonel Mouldy and the National Guard.”

  Germane wagged a finger in the governor’s face.

  “You brought in Colonel Mouldy and the National Guard so you could generate press, you son of a bitch, and don’t stand there and deny it.”

  “Can we do this somewhere else, Johnny? People are starting to notice.”

  “Let’s go back to my office where I can get all this shit off my chest.”

  “We have to arrange for troop deployment with the good colonel here.
”

  Mayor Germane looked over his shoulder and saw the chief.

  “Handle all this crap with the colonel, willya Chief?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Kudzue and German slithered away with their hangers-on and Bricker slipped away from the chief and moseyed back to his car.

  “Hey, Bricker!” the chief called out.

  Bricker trotted, like a baseball player returning to the field, back to the chief’s side.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ramirez moved away from everybody else so he could speak confidentially.

  “Where were you last night?”

  Bricker had to admit it: he was taken aback. In fact, the very last thing he’d expected Ramirez to ask him was, “Where were you last night?”

  “Last night?”

  “Yeah, last night when the meter maid got bumped off at Solid Tin.”

  “Why, I was home. Home watching an old movie. Why?”

  Without giving him a chance to think about it, Ramirez asked:

  “What was the name of the movie?”

  “Sleuth,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation, “with Michael Caine and Laurence Olivier. But it’s an old film, you might not remember it.”

  Ramirez smiled.

  “I do remember it. Ya know, when it turned out Michael Caine was that inspector, I almost shit my pants. They totally fooled me. Totally.”

  “So what about last night?”

  Those weren’t butterflies Bricker felt fluttering in his stomach. They were an angry herd of African elephants thundering down the jungle path of his gut, running for fear of their lives.

  “Seems we have a witness from Solid Tin that got your license number when the suspect fled the scene.”

  “Wow,” Bricker whispered. “That’s weird, huh?”

  “And he said the guy was driving a Crown Vick, just like yours, same color even.”

  “That’s impossible, I was home drinking beer and watching Michael Caine.”

  “Well, there were two other witnesses who said they got the plate down, but those numbers were different. But still, a witness with the same tag number and the same kind of car. It’s odd.”

  “Well, yeah, weird is right. But what the hell would I be doin’ way out there in Doral?”

  “You could say the same thing about the meter maid murderer, but we know what he was doin’ there,” Ramirez said as he abruptly walked away.

  Bricker went straight back to the Deuce where he had a couple more drinks to steady his nerves. He called Billy.

  “What’s up, shit hole?” said Billy.

  “Now, just be nice. I can explain everything.”

  “I can’t talk here—too many people.”

  “Steaks at my house, tonight, I’ll explain.”

  “Okay, I can make it by seven-thirty.”

  Bricker watched the relentless media coverage on TV, switching the channel every few minutes, from local affiliates, to CNN, to MSNBC, XYZ, CBS and all the rest.

  The left wing radicals on MSNBC were decrying a pattern of meter maid oppression, and even paraded out a team of psychologists who argued that the meter maids were part of a nationwide right wing conspiracy to invade each person’s privacy till none remained.

  The right wingers on Fox News of course took the opposite tack: they brought out a truckload of conservatives who advised that the meter maids be armed with AK-47 assault rifles and be permitted to mow down “any deadbeat who looked at them funny.”

  One commentator sniped: “If you don’t have quarters to feed meters when you leave home, then maybe you better think twice about whether you should leave your home at all!”

  The country was on the brink of turning into a police state, ruled by irate meter maids hell-bent on revenge.

  After “work” at the Deuce, he swung by the Whole Foods market at Tenth and Alton to pick up a couple of grass fed inch-thick Porterhouses. This was no time to scrimp on the steaks. Only the finest for his pal Billy-Boy. He also bought a dozen extra large shrimp. They would do well on the grill and would complement the steaks. He grabbed a bag of baby spinach, an onion, a ripe tomato, a container of blue cheese crumbles, a bottle of Bertolli olive oil, two bottles of a cheap but good Chilean cabernet, and he was all set.

  The Whole Foods market was only a couple of blocks from his bungalow at Eighth and Lenox, so he was home in a flash. He jumped in the shower to wash the day away and went over what he wanted to tell Billy-Boy. How he wanted to put it.

  Billy came through the screen door at 7:30 sharp and, giving Bricker a death glance, went right to the fridge to get a cold Amstel, which he drank straightaway, three gulps max.

  Then he sat down with a great big plop and put his hands on his knees, very formally.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well,” Bricker started.

  “How could you fuck this up? How, how, how?”

  Now Billy was on his feet, rampaging around the room in a frenzy.

  “Well, things happen,” Bricker mumbled.

  “Oh, do they now?” Billy leered at him, incredulous. “Things happen?” He sat back down and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

  While he was putting the salad together and grilling the steaks and shrimp, Bricker told him the whole story just the way it happened, leaving nothing out. At the end, when they were finishing the wine and their stomachs full of good food, Billy was just as exhausted as Bricker.

  “Well, I don’t know what to say, except: who’s the next one?”

  “Fatty Farhat. This one’ll work out, don’t you worry, Billy-Boy, I can tell.”

  “Let’s fuckin’ hope so. We’re already into August.”

  “Wanna watch a movie,” asked Bricker.

  “Sure. I think we oughta watch Sleuth, just one more time.”

  14 – Calendar Girls

  A few days later, Missy Cuthbert and Wimpy Wimpole took a coffee break at the open street window at David’s Café just off Lincoln Road on Meridian. While there was a Starbucks directly across the street, they never went there because Starbucks didn’t sell Cuban coffee like David’s. Starbucks was strictly for the tourist. (And besides tasting like sewage swill, it was three times the cost of a coffee at David’s, or anyway, that’s what Missy Cuthbert thought, God damn it.)

  Missy heaved her tired body out of her Cushman and went up to the window. (She was exhausted, having spent every night fucking Slimy Salazar by way of consoling him for losing Pretty.) Her normally straggly hair was even stragglier. Instead of looking like it hadn’t been washed in two weeks, it looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month!

  Wimpy, looking warily over her shoulder left and right, pulled up right behind her.

  “You want some coffee, Wimpy?”

  “Of course I want coffee, Missy. Why do we meet here every day when we work the same shift?” she said in her rough Cockney accent.

  “For coffee.”

  “Then let’s have some coffee.”

  Missy turned her attention to one of the Cuban girls behind the window counter.

  “Hola, Maria, café con leche, por favor, y una colada para mi amiga. I don’t know how you drink those coladas, Wimpy. You’re so petite.” She looked at her friend with her pinched nose, her hair with its hideous henna color in a bob cut curling around to her lips.

  “I like ‘em.”

  “Those things’ll burn a hole in your stomach someday.”

  “Well, I don’t think the milk is good for you, Missy. You use too much.”

  Maria was pushing their coffees through the window.

  “Let me have a Cuban sandwich, Maria,” said Missy, adding three sugars to her café con leche. “What’s wrong with milk?”

  “Did you know that humans are the only species on earth that drink milk after they grow up?”

  “Naw! Go on.”

  “Yep, it’s true,” Wimpy said, her henna curls bouncing with her head. “I saw it on the Discovery Channel. After other animals grow up, they
quit drinking milk. They get weaned off milk. That’s the word they used: weaned.”

  “Well,” said Missy, taking a long, satisfying drink from her café con leche, “it’s obvious why they don’t.”

  “It’s their instinct, that’s all.”

  “They’d drink milk if they could, but they can’t.”

  “So, why can’t they drink milk?”

  “Because when they grow up, they can’t get under their mother’s belly or whatever and start sucking on her tits. Not after they grow up. Can you see a grown-up giraffe or an elephant trying to crawl under his mother to drink her milk? I don’t think so.”

  “Never mind all that, Missy. I’m getting worried.”

  “Not again. I don’t wanna hear it, Wimpy. I tell ya, there’s nuthin’ to worry about. Absolutely nuthin’.”

  “You’d think they’d give us some kind of protection.”

  “I’m not wearin’ no gun or nuthin’ like that, no fuckin’ way.”

  “But maybe we should think about it, talk to Major Bunstable.”

  “No way. I’d be pullin’ it out all day long and pistol-whipping all these damn motorists. Assholes. Way they treat us. It’s humiliating. Naw... with my temper, I’d end up in jail.”

  “All we’re doing is enforcing the laws.”

  “That’s what I tell ‘em all day long, Wimpy. I don’t write the laws, buster, I write the tickets.”

  “Do you think Colonel Mouldy and the National Guard will scare the killer away?”

  “Well, that pussy colonel isn’t scaring anybody away, Wimpy. But it won’t hurt having a Guardsman stationed on every corner. It’s gotta make the killer think twice.”

  “Plus, they oughta think about getting us air conditioned scooters, don’t you think? We have to work out in this heat, sweating like pigs.”

  “Wimpy, they think we are pigs, don’t-cha get it?”

  Wimpy took dainty sips from her Styrofoam cup.

  “You know,” she whined, “I was driving down Collins through Bal Harbour the oher day.”

  “Yeah?” said Missy unenthusiastically, swiping away a couple of buzzing flies mating in her unwashed straggly hair.

  “I was thinkin’ of quittin’ and maybe gettin’ a job up there.”