by Miami Blues
Freddy closed the door, which locked behind him, took the elevator down, and left the lobby by the side terrace French windows to avoid being seen by the domino players and the old ladies. The players could identify him, he knew, but four Latins with homemade prison tattoos wouldn’t volunteer any information about an injured cop. Not unless, Freddy grinned, someone slipped them ten bucks or so—and investigating officers didn’t put out any free money for information.
Freddy told Susan to take the Venetian Causeway back to the Omni Hotel in Miami. When they reached DiLido Island, he told her to stop on the other side of the island by the bridge. When she stopped the car, he got out and threw the teeth in the bay. He climbed into the front seat again.
“What did you throw away?” Susan said.
“None of your business. If you needed to know, I would’ve told you. How many times do I have to tell you not to ask questions?”
“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I forgot.”
They turned the car over to valet parking, and when Freddy showed his room key to the doorman, a bellman came out with a cart and brought Susan’s prepared dinner up to their room. Freddy dialed room service and ordered a bottle of champagne, a pot of coffee, and table service for two. They ate the stuffed pork chops and still-warm sweet potatoes by candlelight in the handsomely appointed room, with a magnificent view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami Beach skyline.
Freddy complimented Susan on the pork chops and biscuits, even though they were cold.
If Susan was still curious, she kept her questions to herself.
14
When Hoke moved his right leg it hurt more than his jaw, but at least he could move it. The top of his head seemed to rise and fall eerily with each breath. His head was immobilized by two pillows so that he could not move it more than an inch or two to either side. His wrists were tied loosely to the bedrails with gauze, which prevented him from feeling his face or poking at the bandages. There were tubes and racks with bottles on each side of his bed, and clear fluids dripped into both arms. Perhaps that was why his arms were restrained.
Hoke’s lower face was completely numb. From his position on the bed, with his head raised slightly, all he could see was a gray steel contraption on the wall. He wondered vaguely what it was, but it was two more days before he found out that the steel frame was a bracket for a television set, and that if he signed a piece of paper he could have a TV set brought in so he could watch the tube instead of the bracket.
By the end of the first week, when Hoke could sit up and go to the bathroom without help, he considered ordering the TV set, but he never did. As he recalled, there were too many commercials about food, in color, on TV, and he knew that the commercials would make him hungrier than he was already. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could visualize the Burger King double cheeseburger with the bacon sizzling on top. He was hungry all the time.
There were four beds in the ward, but Hoke was the only occupant. This was a special oral surgeon’s ward in St. Mary’s Hospital in Miami Shores, and it was used exclusively by dentists and oral surgeons who had patients with special problems. Except for a fourteen-year-old Jewish American Prince whose mother had him checked in overnight to have a back tooth extracted, Hoke had the small ward to himself throughout his stay. Hoke disliked the room, hated the hospital, and detested the gay male nurse, a Canary Islander who took an unseemly pleasure in giving Hoke an enema.
Hoke had been operated on by an oral surgeon named Murray Goldstein, and by his own dentist of several years standing, Dr. David Rubin. Dr. Rubin professed sympathy for Hoke, but he had never forgiven him for having Doc Evans pull his teeth out in the morgue. Still, he seemed elated by the fact that Hoke’s damaged jaw would be able to support a new set of false teeth. But the new teeth had to be held off until Hoke’s jaw had healed and all of the bone splinters came out. Meanwhile, his mandible was immobilized, wired here and there, and he drank his meals through a glass straw. The bruise on top of his right leg was the size and shape of a football, and he limped for several days after he was up and into his bedside chair.
While he was still punchy from the drugs and unable to talk, Red Farris visited him and brought Louise along. He could remember Red’s droopy red mustache hanging over him, and Louise’s white face and rain-dark hair hovering ghostily in the doorway. He couldn’t remember what Red Farris had said, but Red had left a note with his presents, all of which Hoke found later in his bedside table. There was a bottle of Smirnoff vodka and a one-pound package of fudge wrapped in gold paper with the note:
Use the vodka for mouthwash. It’s breathless. Louise made you some fudge. When I get settled in Sebring, you can come up for recuperation and we’ll go dove hunting. Take care.
“Red”
When Farris didn’t come back later, after Hoke could have visitors, Hoke assumed that he had left for Sebring. But Hoke knew that he would never go dove hunting with Red Farris; once a man left Miami, that was the end of it, and Red knew it as well as he did.
Although his jaw was still wired and he could talk only with difficulty, Hoke was glad to see Bill Henderson. Bill told Hoke that the case of the four dead Colombians had been solved.
Henderson had borrowed a skycap’s uniform and cap, put them on one of his black detectives, and had him falsely finger the Colombian woman as the person in a purple Cadillac who had dropped off two men at the Miami International Airport. Confronted by this direct, if false, identification, she had broken down. The child, as it turned out, was the maid’s, not her own, and the child was not supposed to be killed. She was upset about that, which helped to make up her mind, too. The killers were back safely in Cartagena and would never be extradited. But at least their names were known now, so it was unlikely that the same pair would be used in Miami for more assassinations.
“I knew she was in on it for sure, Hoke, when you told me there were no packages in the trunk. The woman had nine hundred bucks in her purse, and there is no way that a woman could shop for two hours with that kind of money and not buy something.”
Henderson shrugged. “But she hasn’t been arraigned yet. I’ve got a hunch that they’ll set bail for a hundred thousand and let her skip back to Colombia. That’s what usually happens.”
Hoke nodded, and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Henderson pulled his chair closer to the bed.
“You got any idea who did this to you, Hoke?”
“Uh-uh.” Hoke rolled his head back and forth on the pillow.
“Got any ideas?”
Hoke nodded and then shrugged. He was tired, and he wanted Henderson to leave.
“I talked some to Eddie Cohen, the old fart on the desk, and he says he didn’t see any strangers in the hotel. The manager questioned some of the old ladies who sit around the TV set in the lobby, and they didn’t notice anyone either.”
Henderson got up, and walked to the window. He looked down into the parking lot. “I—ah—I checked your room, Hoke, and I really don’t think you should be living in a crummy place like that. All those social security types and Marielitos—it’s depressing as shit, Hoke. When you get out of here, you’ll have to recuperate for a couple of weeks. I can put you up at my house. We can put a cot out in the Florida room, and Marie’ll look after you.”
“No dice, Bill.” Hoke closed his eyes. After a few seconds, Henderson tapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, think about it anyway, old sport. I’d better get outta here and let you get some rest. If you need anything, let me know.”
After Henderson left, Hoke found the carton of Kools and the new Bic lighter his partner had left in a paper sack on the floor beside his bed. Hoke had lost his desire to smoke; if he was lucky, maybe the desire wouldn’t return.
Captain Willie Brownley was Hoke’s third visitor. The captain had been there to look in on him a couple of times before. Brownley was black, and it was the first time Hoke had seen the Homicide chief in civilian clothes. He always wore his uniform in the offic
e, complete with buttoned-up jacket. Now he wore a pink Golden Bear knitted shirt, mauve corduroy jeans, a white belt, and white shoes. With his gold-rimmed glasses, Brownley looked more like a Liberty City dentist than a police captain. Hoke had known Brownley for ten years, and at one time had worked for Brownley when he commanded the Traffic Division. Although Brownley had little aptitude for Homicide work, he had been placed in charge of that division so that he could eventually be promoted to major. The black caucus in the union had been demanding a black major for several years, and Brownley was being groomed.
Brownley opened his briefcase on the bed and handed Hoke a one-pound box of fudge that had been wrapped in gold paper and tied with a flexible gold string.
“My wife made some fudge for you, Hoke,” he said. “And if you can’t eat it now, you’ll be able to later. And the boys asked me to bring you this card.” He handed Hoke a Hallmark get-well card that had been signed by forty of the forty-seven members of the Homicide Division, including Captain Brownley.
Without thinking, Hoke had counted the signatures and was wondering why the other seven hadn’t signed. Then he felt ashamed of himself. There were a hundred reasons—sickness, leave, shift changes—why they all couldn’t sign the card.
“For a while there,” Captain Brownley said, “we were worried about you, but Dr. Goldstein said you’re going to be fine. The only immediate problem is to take care of the paperwork on your lost gun and shield. I hate to lay it on you, Hoke, but we’ve got to protect you.
“I’ve brought the forms along and a legal pad, and you can take care of the paperwork now. It’s been about six years since a Homicide cop lost his shield and gun, but the big question to answer in your case is why you were living in Miami Beach instead of Miami in the first place. I knew you were living in the Eldorado, and I okayed it as a temporary residence. But you’ve been there for almost a year now, and that puts both of us in a spot. As you know, all Miami cops are supposed to live in Miami—”
“I know at least a dozen who don’t—”
“I know more than that, Hoke, including a city commissioner who commutes down here from Boca Raton. But he has an official address in Miami to beat the system, and we can do the same. Henderson told me your official address is his house, so put that down on the forms.”
“There’s no way I can live with Henderson and his wife.”
“I’m not asking you to; all I want you to do is use his address on the forms so we can cover our ass. First, fill out the Victim’s Report so I can get a cop from Robbery to begin an investigation. Next, you’ve got to send me a red-liner memo explaining the circumstances, and third, you need to fill in this Lost and Damaged Equipment form. As soon as you’ve done this, I’ll get the badge and gun numbers into the computer. Just write the info on the yellow pad and sign the forms. I can have them typed at the station. It’s a legitimate loss, so the city’ll replace your gun and badge at no cost to you, and that’s about it. I’ll do everything I can to prevent an investigation of why you were living in the Eldorado instead of Miami.”
“That rule’s never enforced,” Hoke said. “There’re guys with condos in Hialeah and Kendall, captain.”
“Nothing is enforced until something happens. Then it’s a different story. A black division chief isn’t allowed to make any mistakes. I gave you temporary permission to live on the Beach, and you stayed for a year. It’s my mistake for not following up on you, because now there’s a thief running around Dade County with your gun and buzzer. If he ever realizes the kind of power that represents, the department’ll be in a lot of trouble.”
Hoke shrugged and reached for the ball point pen. “When do you want all this info?”
“Why don’t you do it now? I’ll go down to the cafeteria downstairs and get a sandwich and some coffee. I want to get that info into the computer.” Brownley turned in the doorway. “You want anything? Coffee?”
Hoke shook his head, and pulled his wheeled tray closer to the bed.
“Okay, then, Hoke, I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t let the nurse or no one else touch my briefcase.”
Hoke filled in the forms, and wrote the red-liner memo. Although it was possible for a cop to be suspended with pay for not living in Miami, the rule was never enforced, and he thought Brownley was a little paranoid about it. But then, Brownley wanted that promotion, and Hoke didn’t want to jeopardize it. Perhaps he would, after all, have to move away from the Eldorado—but he sure as hell wouldn’t move in with Henderson. Hoke didn’t like Marie Henderson, and he liked Henderson’s kids even less.
When Captain Brownley returned for the forms, Hoke told him to thank his wife for the fudge.
“I’ll tell her. D’you want any visitors, Hoke?”
“I’d rather not, captain. I look like hell, and it hurts me to talk.”
“Okay, I’ll pass the word, but I’ll be back ex officio. One other thing, Hoke, you’ll have a new partner when you come back to duty. I let Henderson stay with you when he was promoted to sergeant because you guys work well together, but things’ve changed lately. I’m getting five new investigators, all Cubans, all bilingual, and neither you nor Henderson speak Spanish. I’ve put Lopez with Henderson, and you’ll have a bilingual partner when you get back. Even if you and Henderson were bilingual, I’d have to break you up. I’m too short on experienced people to let two sergeants work together any longer.”
“I’m not surprised,” Hoke said. “Did you know that Red Farris resigned?”
“In Robbery?”
“Yeah, and he had ten years in. He was in Homicide before you came in as chief.”
“I knew Red. I didn’t know him well, but I knew him enough to talk to him. He was a good man. We’re losing too many good people, Hoke.”
With his memory refreshed by the reports he had just written, Hoke went over again in his mind what had happened. There had been a knock on the door. Was it timid or imperious? Was it three raps or two? He couldn’t remember. Masculine or feminine—he felt, somehow, that it was feminine, but he wasn’t sure. His response had been so automatic, it was as if he had known the caller. He had hidden his drink behind the photograph of his two daughters. Why? He was entitled, for Christ’s sake, to have a drink in his own room and to answer his door with a drink in his hand. It wasn’t the Dominican maid, he knew her timid, tentative knock; and it wasn’t Mr. Bennett. If that bastard Bennett had wanted to clobber him, he would have gypped the assailant on the fee, and the job wouldn’t have been so thorough.
That left the Marielitos, but Hoke felt that the resident Cubans could be eliminated. When Hoke had first moved into the Eldorado, the refugees had been a continual problem. There had been twenty of them all in one room, and Mr. Bennett had charged them three bucks a night to sleep on mattresses on the floor. They got drunk, they fought, they were loud, and they brought women in, terrifying the Jewish retirees who lived there on social security. Hoke had shaken down their room a couple of times and picked up a .32 pistol (no one had claimed it or knew how it got there) and three knives. Finally, when Reagan took away their $115-a-month government checks, the refugees without jobs had moved out, unable to pay the three bucks a night. Hoke had then persuaded Mr. Bennett to get rid of the worst offenders, so now there were only five or six Marielitos left, and they all had jobs of some kind. Hoke figured they all liked him. He would pass out a dollar now and then—to wash his car or to bring him a sandwich from Gold’s Deli. So if his attacker was a Marielito, it had to be one that he had evicted. But the attack wasn’t in the Latin manner. When a Latin wanted revenge, he also wanted you to know all about it, and he would tell you at great length precisely what he was going to do to you and why before he got around to doing it.
Hoke knew that he had his share of enemies. What policeman hasn’t? He had put his quota of people away, and the parole board released them faster than they were incarcerated. There were bound to be a few who might keep their promise to get him when they were released. On the other hand, a stre
tch in prison had a way of cooling people off. There was ample time for reflection in prison, and time, if it didn’t eliminate animosity, at least ameliorated it. Hoke, like most men, considered himself a good guy. He couldn’t conceive how anyone who knew him could attack him in such a cruel, impersonal way.
Hoke came to the conclusion that he had been mistaken for someone else, and the incident was some kind of crazy mixup.
He also thought it was peculiar that both boxes of fudge, the one from Louise and the one from Captain Brownley, had been wrapped in the same gold paper and tied with the same kind of flexible gold string. A few days later, when he was limping around the hospital corridors, just to get out of his room, he went into the hospital gift shop. There was a pyramid of fudge on the counter, each pound wrapped in gold paper. Hoke looked at a box and saw the sticker on the bottom: Gray Lady Fudge—$4.95.
15
Freddy had always been a light sleeper, but noise had seldom interrupted his sleep. In prison, he could sleep soundly while two men in the same cell argued at the top of their voices, and with bars clanging throughout the block. But if there was a change in the pattern of the usual noises he would awake immediately, as alert as an animal, until he discovered what had disturbed the pattern. He could then drop back to sleep as easily as he had awakened.
He awoke now, at four-thirty A.M., but heard nothing except the gentle hissing of the cold air from the wall ducts. Susan, her left thumb in her mouth, slept soundlessly beside him, naked except for the sheet they had pulled waist-high over themselves. There was a gentle flurry in Freddy’s stomach, as though mice were scrambling around inside. His mouth was dry, and despite the air conditioning, there was a light film of perspiration on his forehead. His right leg began to jerk involuntarily, and it took him a moment or two to control the tic. He threw off the sheet and sat on the edge of the bed. To his surprise, he was a little dizzy. He poured a glass of water from the bedside carafe and ate the piece of chocolate that the maid had left on his pillow when she had turned down the bedcovers.
