by Unknown
Stanley's cane had also helped to make him a fringe member of the "Wise Old Men," a small group of retirees that congregated each weekday morning in Julia Tuttle Park. This small two-acre park had been constructed by the developer as a part of his deal to get the zoning variance that he needed for Ocean Pines Terraces. There was a thatched shed in the park, where a half-dozen retirees played pinochle in the mornings, and there was a group of rusting metal chairs under a shady strangler-fig tree, where another, smaller group of elderly men sat and talked. The group that met under the tree was called the "Wise Old Men" by the pinochle players, but they meant this sarcastically. The two groups didn't mingle, and if a man went to the park every day he would eventually have to decide which one to join. Stanley didn't play pinochle, and he didn't talk much either, having little to say and a limited education, but for the first few weeks, after silently watching the boring pinochle games, he had joined the group Under the tree, to listen to the philosophers. The dean of this group was a retired judge, who always wore a starched Seersucker suit with a bow tie. The other Wise Old Men wore wash pants and sport shirts, or sometimes T-shirts, and comfortable running shoes. Except for the judge, Stanley was the only one who wore a necktie. The group had changed personnel a few times since Stanley's retirement--some of the older men had died--but the judge was still there, looking about the same as he had in the beginning. Stanley, when he looked in the mirror to shave each morning, didn't think that he had changed much either. He realized deep down that he must have aged somewhat, because the others had, but he felt better in Florida than he had ever felt back in Michigan when he had had to go to work every day.
One morning the topic under discussion was the "dirtiest thing in the world." Theories and suggestions had been tendered, but they had all been shot down by the judge. Finally, toward noon, Stanley had looked at his cane, cleared his throat, and said: "The tip of a cane is the dirtiest thing in the world."
"That's it," the judge said, nodding sagely. "There's nothing dirtier than the tip of a cane. It taps the ground indiscriminately, touching spittle, dog droppings, any and everything in its blind groping. By the end of a short walk, the septic tip of a cane probably collects enough germs to destroy a small city. I believe you've hit upon it, Mr. Sinkiewicz, and we can safely say that this is now a closed topic."
The others nodded, and they all looked at Stanley's cane, marveling at the filthy things the rubber tip had touched as Stanley had carried it through the years. After that triumph, Stanley had contributed nothing more to the morning discussions, but he was definitely considered a fringe member and was greeted by name when he sat down to listen.
But Stanley didn't go to Julia Tuttle Park every single day like the others. He was too restless. He sometimes drove to Palm Beach instead, parked, and walked along Worth Avenue, window shopping, marveling at the high prices of things. Like Maya, he visited the International Mall on U.S. 1, or parked in the visitors' lot of the West Palm Beach Public Library. He would browse through the obituaries in the Detroit Free Press, looking for the names of old acquaintances. The fact was, Stanley didn't quite know what to do with his long free mornings, yet although he was frequently bored, searching for something to do to pass the morning hours, he was unaware of his boredom. He was retired, and he knew that a man who was retired didn't have to do anything. So this was what he did: Nothing much, except for wandering around.
Once a week he cut the lawn, whether it needed it or not. In the rainy season, lawns had to have a weekly cutting; in the winter, when the weather was dry, the lawn could have gone for three weeks or more. But by mowing one day every seven, on Tuesday afternoons, he broke up the week. Maya did all the shopping and paid all the monthly bills from their joint checking account. Stanley cashed a check for thirty-five dollars every Monday at the Riviera Beach bank, allowing himself five dollars a day for spending money, but almost always had something left over at the end of the week.
In the evenings, Stanley and Maya watched television. They were hooked up to the cable, with Showtime and thirty-five other channels, but they rarely changed the channel once they were sitting down. Sometimes they watched the same movie on Showtime four or five times in a single month. Maya went to bed at ten, but Stanley always stayed up and watched the eleven o'clock news. Because of his afternoon nap, he could rarely fall asleep before midnight. He rose at six A.M., though, got the -Post-Times- from the lawn, drank some coffee, and read the paper until Maya got up to fix his breakfast.
On a Wednesday afternoon in June, Stanley was asleep on the screened porch behind the house at three-thirty when Pammi Sneider, the nine-year-old daughter of a retired U.S. Army master sergeant who leased a Union gas station out on Military Trail, came through the unlocked screen door. Pammi was a frequent visitor when Maya was home, because Maya would give the girl cookies and a glass of red Kool-Aid, or sometimes, when she had been baking, a slice of pie or cake. The Sneiders lived four doors down from the Sinkiewiczes, and once Mrs. Sneider had told Maya that if Pammi ever pestered her to just send her home. Maya had said she liked to have the little girl drop by, and that Pammi reminded her of her granddaughter back in Michigan, whose name was Tern, a name ending with an i, just like Pammi's. Despite that conversation, the two women were not friends. There was too much difference in their ages, and in just about everything else. Mrs. Sneider was only thirty-six, and she belonged to Greenpeace, the La Leche League, Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, and the West Palm Beach chapter of N.O.W. Mrs. Sneider was away from home a good deal, but this was a safe neighborhood, and Pammi was allowed to play with other children and was also authorized to go to Julia Tuttle Park in the afternoons, by herself. In the afternoons, very few of the older men went to the park. It was too hot to sit there, for one thing, and when school was out, the older men did not like to hear the small children squealing on the playground equipment and chasing each other around. There were almost always a few mothers there with smaller children, so the park was considered a safe place to send children to get them out of the house.
Pammi was barefooted, and she wore a blue-and-white striped T-shirt and a pair of red cotton shorts with an elastic waistband. She carried a leather sack in her left hand, a sack that had once contained marbles. She tiptoed over to the webbed lounger, where Stanley was sleeping on his back, and gave him a French kiss.
Stanley spluttered and sat up suddenly. Pammi giggled and held out her grubby right hand.
"Now," she said, giggling again, "you gotta give me a penny."
Stanley wiped his mouth, blinking slightly. "What did you do?"
"I gave you a kiss. Now you gotta give me a penny."
"My wife's at the store," Stanley said. "But she should be back soon. I don't know if she's got any cookies for you or not, Pammi. I haven't been in the kitchen--"
"I don't want a cookie. I want a penny for my collection." The girl held up her leather bag and shook it. The coins inside rattled.
"I didn't ask you for a kiss, and you shouldn't kiss a man like that anyway. Not at your age. Who taught you to stick out your tongue when you kissed?"
Pammi shrugged. "I don't know his name. But he comes to the park every day when it begins to get dark, and he gives me a penny for a wet kiss, and five pennies for a look. You owe me a penny now, and if you want a look you'll have to give me five more." Pammi put her sack on the terrazzo floor and stripped off her red shorts. Stanley looked, and shook his head. Pammi's hairless pudenda, which resembled a slightly dented balloon, did nothing to excite the old man.
"Put your shorts back on. What's the matter with you, anyway?"
As Stanley got off the lounger, Pammi laughed and danced away. He picked up her shorts from the floor and stalked the little girl, trying to drive her into a corner so he could put her shorts on again. Maya drove into the carport in the black Escort and parked, then came into the kitchen with a bag of groceries and looked through the sliding glass doors to the porch. By this time, Stanley had Pammi by one leg and was trying to
insert it into the shorts, while Pammi giggled and tried to get away from him.
"You owe me six cents first!" Pammi said. "You looked, you looked!" Then, when Pammi saw Maya's face through the glass doors, she stopped giggling and began to cry. Maya hurried through the living room and went out the front door, slamming it behind her. When Pammi began to cry and ceased struggling, and the front door slammed, Stanley let go of the little girl's leg. He was still holding her shorts in his right hand when Pammi ran out the back screen door and into the yard. She cut through the unfenced back yards and, bare-butted, raced home, four doors away.
Still holding Pammi's shorts, Stanley went into the kitchen. He looked into the bag of groceries on the sideboard by the sink. There was a quart of milk and a dozen eggs in the bag, as well as some canned things. He put the eggs and the milk into the refrigerator. He wondered where Maya had gone; she had, apparently, taken her handbag when she'd gone back out the front door. Maya's car keys were still on the counter beside the bag of groceries.
It did not occur to Stanley that he was in an awkward position. Instead, he was irritated because Maya had left the house without telling him where she was going. He was also a little concerned about Pammi. A girl that young shouldn't be French-kissing a man old enough to be her grandfather--or great-grandfather, for that matter--and showing off her dimpled private parts for pennies. He wondered who had taught her those games, but he couldn't think of any of the old men in the park who would do any such thing. Later on that evening, he decided, he would go down tO Mr. Sneider's house and talk to him about it.
Stanley picked up the leather bag of coins and looked inside. He dumped the pennies on the kitchen table and counted them. There were ninety-four. He guessed that Pammi had needed six more pennies to make a hundred, so that was why she had kissed him and showed him her private parts. If she had a hundred pennies, she could change them for a dollar bill.
Stanley put the rest of the groceries away and sat in the living room waiting for Maya to come back. Twenty minutes later, Maya came briskly up the walk, accompanied by Mr. Sneider. Stanley, still holding Pammi's red shorts in his lap, got out of his chair as Maya unlatched the front door. When it swung open and he saw the expression on Mr. Sneider's face, Stanley started to run out toward the back porch. Sneider, rushing past Maya, moved uncommonly fast for a man his size and he hit Stanley in the mouth before Stanley could say anything to either of them.
An hour later, Stanley was in the Palm Beach County Jail.
CHAPTER 3
Hoke Moseley spent the next three days in the back guest bedroom in his father's house. Hoke's father, Frank Moseley, had been upset when Ellita Sanchez arrived at his Singer Island home with his son, even though Bill Henderson had telephoned and explained things before Ellita drove the seventy miles up from Miami. Frank, a spry seventy-five-year-old, had rarely been sick in his life and had never missed a day of work in his hardware store and chandlery in Riviera Beach. He had been a widower for many years after Hoke's mother had died of cancer, and had then married a wealthy widow in her early forties named Helen Canlas.
Frank had called his doctor, as Bill Henderson had suggested, a physician he had known for thirty some odd years in West Palm Beach, and Dr. Ray Fairbairn, who had a dwindling practice, had driven over immediately. Dr. Fairbairn, whose breath always smelled like oil of cloves, examined Hoke privately in the guest bedroom. He then told Frank and Ellita that Hoke was all right but needed rest. Lots of rest.
"I've given him a tranquilizer, and I've written out a prescription for Equavil," Dr. Fairbairn said, handing the slip of paper to Frank. "I think he'll be okay in a few days."
"What did he say?" Frank asked.
"He didn't say anything." Dr. Fairbairn shrugged. "He's in good shape physically, but the fact that he won't talk to me indicates that he's probably decided to avoid everyday life for a while."
"I don't understand," Frank said, running his fingers through his thick white hair. "How in the hell can a man avoid everyday life? Hoke's a homicide detective in Miami, and every time I've talked to him on the phone--about once a month--he tells me how busy he is."
Ellita, who had been listening, cleared her throat. "Hoke's on a thirty-day leave without pay, Dr. Fairbairn. Will that be enough time for him to rest? I mean, if he needs additional time, Commander Henderson can probably get his leave extended."
"I haven't kept up too well with all of these new psychological theories, madame," Dr. Fairbairn said, addressing Ellita thusly because he had already forgotten her name and could see that she was pregnant. "But Hoke has what they now call 'burnout.' I've known Hoke since he was a little boy. He's always been an over-achiever, in my opinion, and these types frequently have attitude problems when they mature. Hoke's heart is fine, however, and he's as strong as a mule. So when someone like Hoke turns away from everyday life, as he's apparently decided to do, it's nature's way of telling him to slow down before something physically debilitating does happen to him. And the buzzword, according to pop psychology, is 'burnout.' I read an interesting article about it last year in -Psychology Today-."
"Then this could be partly my fault," Ellita said. "I'm his partner, and I started my maternity leave two weeks ago, so I'm not around to help him on the job anymore."
"You're a police officer?" Dr. Fairbairn raised gray eyebrows. "You don't look like a police officer."
"That's because I'm eight months pregnant. A pregnant woman, even in uniform, doesn't look like a police officer."
"Are you going to stay here with him?"
"No, I've got to get back to Miami. I share a house with Hoke and his two daughters, and I have to look after them. But I won't drive back right away if I'm needed here and can help Hoke in any way."
"Will my son need a nurse?" Frank asked. "Or should I send him to the hospital?"
"No hospital, Mr. Moseley," Ellita said, shaking her head. "If this is just a temporary condition, like Dr. Fairbairn says, it wouldn't look good on Hoke's record to have a hospital stay. Rather than do that, I'll take Hoke back to Miami with me and look after him myself."
"He doesn't need a nurse," Dr. Fairbairn said, "or hospitalization either. Just let him rest tonight, Frank, and I'll come by tomorrow and take another look at him." The doctor consulted his watch. "It's too late to go back to my office now, so I could do with a drink."
"What'll you have?" Frank asked. "Bourbon? Gin?"
"I could use a martini, but no vermouth, please. And before I leave, Frank, I'd better give you a prostate massage. You haven't been into the office for more than two months."
Frank flushed slightly and glanced sideways at Ellita. "Helen gives them to me now, Roy. That's why I haven't been in."
"In that case, I'll just settle for the martini."
"Would you like something, Miss Sanchez?"
Ellita shook her head. "Not till after the baby. I'll just go in for a second and say good-bye to Hoke. Then I'd better head back to Miami."
"Why not stay for dinner first? Helen'll be back from her Book Review Club soon, and Inocencia's cooking a roast."
"Thanks, but I'll have to fix something for the girls. And they'll want to know that their father's all right. What book are they reviewing?"
"I don't know the title, but it's something by Jackie Collins. She's Joan's sister, you know. Jackie's the writer, and Joan's the actress. We saw Joan in The Stud on cable the other night, and Helen said their new book reviewer is so good at explaining the good parts she no longer has to read the books."
"I'll just look in on Hoke."
Hoke was lying on his back on the king-sized bed, still wearing his stained boxer shorts, but he wasn't under the covers. The room was cool, and there was a whispering hiss from the central air conditioning duct above the door. The sliding glass doors to the back yard were closed, but the draperies were pulled back partially, giving Hoke a view, if he wanted to raise his head and look at it, of the swimming pool, the gently sloping back lawn, a short concrete dock, a
nd Frank's Boston Whaler tied to the pilings. Across the narrow blue-green waterway there were mangroves, and high above the mangroves black thunderclouds were billowing toward the island from the Everglades.
Ellita tapped Hoke on the arm. He flinched slightly, but didn't look at her. "The doctor said you were going to be all right, Hoke. You're going to stay here with your father for a while. I'm going back to Miami, and I'll look after the girls. If you want your car, call me, and I'll have someone drive it up. Don't worry about me or the girls. We'll be all right. Okay?"
Hoke turned on his side and looked out the window.
"Your robe's over on the chair. I put your toilet articles in the bathroom. Your teeth are in a glass in the bathroom, and there's plenty of Polident. There are slacks, sport shirts, underwear, and socks in the suitcase. I forgot to pack your shoes, but your gun and buzzer are in the bag with your wallet. Tell your father to get you some sneakers or something from his store, and I'll send up your shoes when you want your car. I guess that's it, then. I'll be in touch with your dad if you need anything." No response. "Well, good-bye, then."
Ellita closed the door behind her, said good-bye to Frank Moseley and Dr. Fairbairn, and drove back to Miami.
Later that evening, when Inocencia, the Moseleys' Cuban cook, brought Hoke's dinner in to him on a tray, Hoke was sitting in a chair by the sliding glass doors. He had taken a shower and was wearing his white terrycloth shaving robe. Inocencia put the tray on the table beside the chair and left the bedroom without trying to talk with him.
The rain was coming down hard on the patio tiles outside the sliding doors, and it was difficult to make out the mangroves across the waterway in the driving rain. Hoke put in his teeth in the bathroom, then made a roast beef sandwich with one of the rolls Inocencia had brought. He didn't touch the Waldorf salad, the broccoli, the baked potato, or the wedge of blueberry cobbler. He drank a glass of iced tea, took another Equavil, and went to sleep on top of the covers.
Later that evening, when Frank and Helen looked in to see him, Hoke was asleep on his back, breathing through his mouth and snoring.
