Charles Willeford_Hoke Moseley 01

by Miami Blues

  Freddy was having an anxiety attack, but because it was his first, he didn’t know what was happening. He picked up his watch and watched the second hand sweep around as he took his pulse. He found the rate of seventy disturbing; as a rule, his pulse was a steady fifty-five. He went to the dresser, picked up Hoke’s .38 police special, cocked it, and checked both closets and the bathroom. No one. He lowered the hammer carefully and replaced the weapon in the holster. He wanted to smoke a cigarette. All he had to do was to pick up the phone and he could have a carton in the room within minutes, but he didn’t reach for the telephone. People in hell, he thought, want pina coladas, too. Their problem is that they can’t have them. My problem is that I can have everything and anything I want, but what do I want?

  He didn’t want anything, including the cigarette he had thought he wanted. What did he want? Nothing. In prison he had made mental lists of all kinds of things he would get when he was released, ranging from milk shakes to powder blue Caddy convertibles. But he didn’t like milk shakes because of the furry aftertaste, and a convertible in Florida would be too uncomfortably hot—unless he kept the top up and the air conditioning going full blast. So who would want a convertible?

  What he needed was a purpose, and then, after he had the purpose, he would need a plan.

  Freddy pulled Susan into a sitting position. “Are you awake, Susie?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then open your eyes.”

  “I’m sleepy.”

  Freddy poured a glass of water and splashed some water into Susan’s face. She rubbed her puffy eyes and blinked. “I’m awake.”

  “Tell me again,” he said, “about the Burger King franchise.”

  “What?”

  “The Burger King franchise. You and your brother, remember? How does it work? How much money do you need, and why do you want one?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, it was Marty’s. What you need, he said, is about fifty thousand dollars. Then you borrow another fifty thousand from the bank and go to the Burger King people. They tell you what’s available, and you buy it or lease it and run it by their rules. Marty wanted to build one up in Okeechobee. He even had the location picked out.”

  “But why did he want it? What was his purpose?”

  “To make a living, that’s all. You hire school kids real cheap, and you make a nice profit. All you have to do, as the manager, is hang around all the time, see that the place is clean, and count your money. When you pay back the bank loan, everything else you make from then on is gravy.”

  “What was your part supposed to be in all this?”

  “Well, he said we’d split up the work, so that one of us would be there at all times. Otherwise, these kids who work for next to nothing will steal you blind. So if he was there days and I was there nights, we could prevent that.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like such a long way off, I didn’t think much about it. Marty liked to talk about it, though. I guess I didn’t care. It would be something to do, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “Well, I think it’s stupid. I can’t see any point to hanging around a Burger King all day, no matter how much money you make. Don’t you know why it’s stupid?”

  “I never thought too much about it.”

  “I’ll tell you why. Your life would depend on the random desires of people who wanted a hamburger. So you can just forget about Burger King.”

  “Okay. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Yeah. I’m going out for a while. Don’t let anyone in while I’m gone. Do you want anything while I’m out?”

  “Uh-uh …” She was asleep.

  Freddy, carrying Hoke’s sap and handcuffs in his jacket pocket and the holstered pistol clipped to his belt in the back, and with the badge and ID case in his right trousers pocket, left the deserted lobby. He walked down Biscayne toward Sammy’s, which was open twenty-four hours. The predawn air was damp, cooler this time of morning, and there was a taste of salt in the air from the bay.

  At the corner, a tall black whore at the curb clawed at his arm with long black fingers.

  “Lookin’ for some fun?” she said.

  Freddy showed her his badge. “Call it a night.”

  “Yes, sir.” She crossed the street on the yellow light and walked swiftly away, her high heels clattering in the dark.

  Freddy continued on to Sammy’s, went into the clean, well-lighted restaurant, and took a corner booth. Power, he thought. Without the badge, he would have had an argument, and it would have been difficult to get rid of the whore unless he had decided to kick her in the ass. And that could have, might have, caused him some trouble. It was trouble he could handle but a hassle all the same. With the badge, it was so easy …

  A rangy red-haired waitress came over to take his order.

  “Coffee. Is that okay, or do I have to order something with it?”

  “Most people do, but you don’t have to.”

  “Okay. And pie, then.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m not going to eat it, so what difference does it make?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Freddy didn’t want the coffee, either. But the long walk in the cool air had allayed his anxiety somewhat, and he began to work out a plan that would lead to a purpose. What he needed to do, he decided, was to get organized and to start over. The haiku about the frog coming to Miami and making a splash of some kind made a lot of sense. Alone, with this new city and a new chance, he could do something or other if he could only figure out what it was he was meant to do. What he wanted to do was to dump Susan, but he realized that he was now stuck with her. He had, strictly by accident, caused the death of her stupid brother. The fact that it was her brother’s fault and not his didn’t make any difference. Without anyone else to look after her now, she had become Freddy’s responsibility. She would get no help from her father, that was a certainty. So now it was up to him. His first idea, about buying her a Burger King franchise, was out. She had no real interest in the idea, and she wouldn’t be capable of running a place like that if she had one. Her dumb brother, in all probability, wouldn’t have been able to run one either.

  Freddy sipped his black coffee and counted the pecan halves on top of the piece of pie the redhead had brought with the coffee. The pie was warm and smelled good, but he had eaten one hell of a dinner. He wasn’t hungry …

  A black man wearing a Raiders fedora walked into the restaurant carrying a hunting knife. He grabbed the red-haired waitress’s wrist and twisted her arm into a half-nelson. She squealed and he put the point of the knife into her neck a quarter of an inch, just far enough to draw a trickle of blood, and told her to open the register.

  There were two patrons in the restaurant besides Freddy, and they sat paralyzed at the counter. They were middle-aged Canadian tourists, getting an early breakfast before a drive to the Keys. The robber apparently hadn’t noticed Freddy in the corner booth, or else he wasn’t concerned about him. His concentration was on the waitress and the money in the till when Freddy shot him in the left kneecap. The report of the .38 was loud, but the man’s scream was piercing enough to make the Canadians shudder. He dropped the waitress’s arm and his knife, then fell, still screaming, to the floor. Freddy stopped the screaming in mid-shrill when he tapped him behind his right ear with the heavy leather sap.

  Freddy flashed his badge. “It’s okay, dear,” he said to the waitress. “I’m a police officer.” He held up the badge so the middle-aged couple at the counter could see it. Freddy smiled. “Police. Go ahead and finish your breakfast.”

  The waitress sat at the counter, put her head down on her crossed arms, and began to cry. Freddy took the billfold from the unconscious man’s hip pocket and dropped it into his own jacket pocket with the handcuffs. He took out the handcuffs, decided he didn’t need to use them, and then told the middle-aged couple to stay where they were while he made a call for an ambulance from the radio in his police
car. They both nodded, still too numb to reply.

  Freddy put a dollar bill under his coffee cup at his booth, left the restaurant, and walked back to the Omni Hotel. As he entered the lobby, he heard the police siren as the panda car hurtled down Biscayne toward Sammy’s. He sat in a red leather chair in the lobby and took out the robber’s billfold. Eighty dollars. There were three driver’s licenses in the billfold, all with different names but with the same picture. Freddy had no use for the licenses or the billfold, but he could always use another eighty dollars. He dropped the billfold into a potted plant and took the elevator up to his room. He had an idea now, on how to take care of Pablo Lhosa.

  Freddy shook Susan awake, told her to take a shower and to get dressed. He ordered coffee, orange juice, and sweet rolls from room service. The continental breakfast was at the door by the time Susan was dressed.

  “The breakfast’s for you, to wake you up,” he said. “Go ahead and eat while I tell you what to do.”

  “Want some?” she said, biting into a prune Danish.

  “If I’d wanted something I would’ve ordered it.”

  Freddy told Susan to drive back to the apartment and to pack up his purchases from the day before and to bring them to the hotel. He told her where he had hidden the coin collection in the leather case, and to bring that, too. Also, while she was home, she could pack a few things she might need herself for a few days’ stay at the hotel. “Don’t think about it too much. If you forget something, we can always buy it here at Omni. The important thing is to pack my stuff and get the money, then come back here without running into Pablo. He won’t be up this early in the morning. On your way back, make sure you aren’t followed. If you pick up a tail, lose him before you drive back to the hotel.”

  “Is somebody after us, Junior?”

  “Not us, but me, yes. I’m not a likable person, so someone is usually after me. And because you’re with me now, that means somebody’ll probably be after you, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That isn’t important. When there’s something important you really need to understand, I’ll explain it to you. Right now, when you finish your coffee, I want you to get moving. Here’s the extra room key. Change clothes when you get home, too. Wear a skirt and blouse and some saddle shoes.”

  “What saddle shoes? I don’t have any shoes with saddles. I can wear my running shoes.”

  “Okay. We’ll get you some saddle shoes later, so you’ll look like a college girl. But that’ll be after I deal with Pablo.”

  “Do I have to see Pablo again? I’m afraid of him.”

  “Did Pablo fuck you when you first went to work for him?”

  “No. I just sucked him off, is all. He wanted to see if I knew how to do it, and then he gave me some pointers, afterward. Pablo knows a lot.”

  “No, you don’t have to see Pablo again. Just beat it now, come back here, and if I’m not here, watch the TV until I get back. If you get hungry, call room service.”

  After Susan left, Freddy drank what was left of the orange juice. His mouth was still dry. He found it exhausting to talk to Susan, and he was never certain whether she understood everything he told her. Apparently she did, because so far she had done everything right, and she had also picked up on his lies when he had talked to the cop in the Brazilian steak house. But she also had the bad habit of telling the truth when a lie would have done her more good. She shouldn’t have told the detective that she was hooking at the hotel. The way she looked, no one would have ever guessed what she did for a living. Later on, when he had more time, he would talk to her about what to say and what not to say; otherwise, she would get herself—and him—into some bad situations.

  Freddy called the desk, and found out that the barber shop didn’t open until eight-thirty. He took a shower and glumly watched the “Today” show on television until eight A.M. Restless, he got dressed again, and took the elevator to the lobby, sharing the cage with a Latin family with four small children and an old lady with a hairy mole on her chin. The elevator reeked of musk and garlic, and because the rotten kids, on getting in, had pushed all the buttons, the elevator stopped at every floor on the way down.

  The barber shop was open. Freddy got a shave. After the shave, the barber combed Freddy’s hair and said:

  “You have lovely hair, but you really should let it grow. It’s much too short for today’s stylings.”

  “Your hair’s too long,” Freddy said. “You look like a fruit, and if I couldn’t tell by your hair, that Swiss army earring you’re wearing still gives you away.”

  Freddy climbed into the first cab in line, and told the old woman who was driving it to take him to the International Hotel.

  “That’s the one on Brickell, isn’t it?

  “Are there two International Hotels?”

  “Not that I know of—”

  “Then it must be the one on Brickell, right?”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  People were going to work, and the traffic was heavy. The cab’s meter ticked away with the speed of light. When she pulled up at the entrance, Freddy said:

  “I’m not going to be long. If you want to wait, you can take me over to Miami Beach.”

  “That beats going to the airport. But you can pay me now, and I’ll turn off the meter.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “As much as you trust me.”

  “Keep the meter running.” Freddy counted out four twenties. “If it gets up to this much and I’m not back, you can leave without me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Freddy made a casual tour of the enormous lobby. There were three restaurants and a coffeeshop, three bars, and a dozen specialty shops selling resort clothes and gifts. There was a small conference room next to the Zanzi Bar, with a black-lettered sign outside the door:

  BEET SUGAR INSTITUTE

  SEMINAR AT 11 A.M.

  CASH BAR IN ZANZI BAR AT 10

  The Zanzi Bar wasn’t open yet, and no one was in the small conference room, although there was a lectern, a movie screen, and thirty or more folding chairs set up for the seminar. Freddy went to a house phone, asked for the bell captain, and waited for him to get on the line.

  “Tell Pablo Lhosa,” he said to the captain, “to come to the small conference room next to the Zanzi Bar.”

  “Is anything wrong, sir?”

  “Of course not. I’m running the seminar for the beet sugar people, and if anything was wrong I’d call the manager—not Pablo.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  The 240-pound Pablo arrived in three minutes, huffing slightly, the two bottom buttons of his monkey jacket unbuttoned because of his belly. Freddy closed the door to the conference room and hit Pablo in the stomach. Pablo gasped and staggered slightly, but he didn’t fall. A knife appeared in his right hand. Freddy showed Pablo his badge.

  “Put the knife away, Pablo.”

  Pablo closed the knife and returned it to his pocket.

  “My name isn’t Gotlieb, Pablo. My name’s Sergeant Moseley, Miami Police Department. And that little girl you sent to my room, Susan Waggoner, is only fourteen years old. Your fat ass is in trouble.”

  “Her brother told me—”

  “Her brother’s dead, and he lied to you. He was killed at the airport, and it was on the news. You’re one of the suspects. Did you have Martin Waggoner hit, Pablo?”

  “Hell, no! I didn’t—I don’t know nothing about it!”

  “I’ve got a signed deposition from Susan that you’re her pimp, so your greasy ass is on the fire.”

  “Susie’s lying to you, sergeant. She’s nineteen, not fourteen. I checked on that. Sergeant Wilson knows I run a few girls here. There’s no problem. Why don’t you call Sergeant Wilson? I pay him every week. You guys ought to get together.”

  “Wilson doesn’t know you’re hustling kids. Susie told me about the pointers you gave her.”

  “Honest to God, sergeant!” Pablo raised his right ar
m. “Her brother showed me her driver’s license.”

  “Her brother’s dead, and licenses can be forged. Your Cuban ass has had it.”

  “I’m not a Cuban, I’m a Nicaraguan. I was a major in the National Guard. Sergeant Wilson told me—you know Sergeant Wilson, don’t you?”

  “Fuck Wilson, and fuck you, Pablo. How much’re you paying Wilson?”

  “Who said I was paying him anything?”

  Freddy took out his blackjack and started toward Pablo. Pablo held up his hands and backed away.

  “Don’t. Please. I give him five hundred a week.”

  “All right.” Freddy put the blackjack away. “I’ll let you off the hook, Pablo. From now on, you give Wilson two-fifty a week, and you can send the other two-fifty to me. Just put it in an envelope and send it to me, Sergeant Hoke Moseley, at the Eldorado Hotel. By messenger—not by mail.”

  Pablo shook his head. “I’ll have to talk to Sergeant Wilson first.”

  “Don’t worry about Wilson. I’m the man with Susie’s signed deposition, not Wilson.”

  “I guess you don’t know Sergeant Wilson, then. He won’t stand for any split like that.”

  “In that case, it’ll cost you seven-fifty a week instead of five hundred, won’t it?”

  “Give me a break, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I have. But I’d rather take you in and book you. There’re plenty of girls in Miami over eighteen without putting young kids into the life.”

  “I didn’t know. That holy sonofabitch! I asked Marty first thing because she looked so fucking young, but he swore that—”

  “Martin Waggoner’s dead, Pablo, and there’s no one to back you up. You can start paying today. Tonight, by ten P.M. An envelope to the Eldorado Hotel.”

  “That’s in South Beach?”

  “That’s right, on the bay side, three blocks from Joe’s Stone Crabs. Just give it to the man on the desk tonight, and tell him to put it in the safe for me.”