by Unknown
Hoke went to the front door, opened it, and beckoned to Figueras. When Figueras came in, Skinner was behind the bar, opening a bottle of Michelob. "Would you like another beer, Officer Figueras?"
Figueras looked at the paintings and the cardboard box beside the leather chair. He looked sharply at Hoke. "What the fuck's going on?"
"Last night Mr. Skinner found all this stuff on the fire stairs. He didn't turn it over to the manager immediately, because he thought they might think he took it. That's why he wanted to talk to me alone. He was about to phone the police, in fact, when you and I showed up. So what we'll do, Figueras, we'll just say we found it on the stairs ourselves. Okay? Then we can turn it all over to Carstairs, and no one'll ever know the difference. Mr. Skinner's a rich man, with his own strong room full of collectibles. He doesn't need stuff like this. But he's got a few enemies in the building, he says, and this way it won't even make the newspapers."
"If that's the way you want to handle it," Figueras said.
Skinner came gingerly from behind the bar and handed the open bottle of beer to Figueras. Figueras took it and poured the beer over the two carved wooden fish on the lacquered table. He tossed the empty bottle behind the bar and listened appraisingly as it crashed. Then he picked up the cardboard box containing the jewelry. "I'll ring for the elevator, Sergeant. Want to give me a hand?"
"Sure," Hoke said. "But I get off at the twelfth floor. You can take everything down to Carstairs, and he can return the stuff to the owners. I'm going to take that swim in the pool."
Figueras went out the door with the cardboard box.
"What about me?" Skinner said, in a hoarse whisper. "What's going to happen to me?"
Hoke hit Skinner again with a hard right fist, and Skinner, clutching his stomach, fell to the floor. Hoke picked up the skinny sculpture and opened the door, Figueras came back in for the paintings, then rejoined Hoke at the elevator. If he was curious about Skinner, writhing and groaning on the parquet, he didn't say anything.
Hoke pulled out the red knob to release the elevator; then he pushed the button for twelve.
"One of these days," Figueras said, when Hoke got off the elevator at the twelfth floor, "I'd like to drop by and talk to you some about homicide work."
"Sure. I'm home every night. You ever play Monopoly?"
"Not since I was a kid."
"The short game is still fun. But if you come by, you'll have to bring your own six-pack. I'm trying to lose some more weight, so I don't keep any beer in the fridge to tempt me." Hoke patted his stomach and walked down the hallway to 12-C.
CHAPTER 14
Dale had most of the dinner on the table already by the time Troy Louden returned to the garage apartment. Stanley watched everyone's comings and goings from his chair beside the window. Troy came in carrying a large Naugahyde suitcase in his left hand and his cowboy boots in his right. He paused for a moment and, with his eyes closed, sniffed the aroma of the steaming food. Then he disappeared into the bedroom. He was wearing a dark gray -guayabera-, pleated khaki trousers, and a new pair of gray leather running shoes with slanted purple stripes on them.
A moment later, Troy reappeared in the bedroom doorway and crooked a finger at James. As James crossed the room, Dale whispered to him, "Tell him dinner's ready any old time."
James nodded, followed Troy into the bedroom, and closed the door.
Stanley got up from his chair and surveyed the table. "Everything sure does smell good."
"That's the pork chops," Dale said. Her face was flushed, and the hair at her temples was damp. "What I do, I pepper 'em real good and dip 'em in a simple egg-and-flour batter. Then I fry 'em in bacon grease. There's candied sweet potatoes, with little marshmallows on top, turnip greens in wine vinegar, spicy applesauce, and buttermilk biscuits. I'll finish up the milk gravy now, and that'll be dinner. I've got a Mrs. Smith's apple pie warming in the oven, and that'll be dessert. Mr. Louden does so much for all the rest of us, I want him to have a decent dinner."
The table was set for four, although there were not enough matching plates, cups, and saucers. There were only three silverware forks; Dale had put a plastic one at her setting, Stanley noted. A few minutes later, Troy and James came back from the bedroom, and they sat down to eat.
James was visibly nervous during dinner. He plucked at his ears, his lips, and his eyebrows, and he only ate one pork chop. Troy praised the meal, and Dale's puffy lips twisted into a grimace of pleasure.
"I had two brothers and two little sisters," Dale said, "and Momma taught all of us how to cook. She said us girls needed to know how to catch a husband, and the boys needed to know how so they could teach their wives when they got married."
"Let's not get into your family," Troy said. "We've got our own little family, right here. We're all starting out new, and the past is past. Why, James, are you picking your nose at the table?"
"I'm just nervous... it's... it's these greens, Troy," James said. "I don't like vinegar on my greens."
"Whether you like them or not you have to eat them. Otherwise you'll hurt Dale's feelings. And in America, you don't pick your nose at the table. Everyone, from time to time, has to pick his nose. That's a given, but it's a private thing, James, and should be done where people don't have to watch you. I remember once when I was in Whittier-- that's the reform school in Orange County, California--a boy was picking his nose at the table and the guy sitting beside him jammed the boy's finger right into his nostril all the way up to the last knuckle. The kid's nose got all swollen, so fast that he couldn't pull his finger out. Finally, the matron led him out of the dining hall and took him to the clinic. It was funny to see, and we all laughed, of course, but it was a lesson in manners for us boys, too. No one after that ever picked his nose in the dining hall. Not only is it impolite, it's un-American. I realize that as a foreigner and as a black man, you'll find some of our customs strange, James, but you'll just have to abide by them."
"I'm sorry," James said. "I won't do it again."
"When you get up to New York, James," Troy continued, "you should rent a room with an American family instead of moving in with the other Bajans up there. Then you can learn our ways. Otherwise, when you have your first one-man show, and you're standing around in the gallery with two fingers up your nose, no one'll buy your paintings."
"I won't -do- it again, Troy."
"Good. Now eat your greens. At Whittier, if we didn't clean our plates, we didn't get any dessert. You could eat all you wanted, but once you put it on your plate you had to eat it."
"I didn't put the greens on my plate," James said. "Dale did."
"I'll eat your greens, James," Stanley offered. "I like the greens."
"If you want more greens, Pop," Troy said, "Dale will get them for you. James will have to eat his own greens."
James wrinkled his nose and ate.
"I'll get the pie," Dale said, rising from her chair.
"Put a scoop of ice cream on mine," Troy said.
"I don't have any ice cream," Dale said, hesitating in the doorway.
"Then cut a wedge of cheddar to go with it. I like cheese just as well."
"There isn't any cheese either." Dale put a hand over her mouth.
"In that case, skip me on the pie, and just bring me some coffee."
Dale cleared the table and served slices of pie to Stanley and James. She poured coffee for the three of them and retreated to the kitchen. James put three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and stirred it noisily. The spoon slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
"Maybe you shouldn't drink any coffee," Troy said, "if it makes you so nervous."
James glanced at Stanley, licked his lips, and looked back at Troy. "It ain't the coffee making me nervous. I'm afraid of what you want me to do."
"Do you want me to send Mr. Sinkiewicz instead? Send an old man to do a boy's job?" Troy shook his head and pulled back his lips in a lightning smile.
"I didn't say that, Troy. I want to do i
t. It's just that I've never done nothing like that before."
"What is it, James?" Stanley asked. "Maybe I can help you?"
"Please stay out of this, Pop." Troy held up a warning hand. "You've done enough already. I don't want you to be connected with this operation in any way. I told you that already. Dale, James, and I are the three who will benefit most, so we have to do the dirty work. And we each have to pull our own weight. As the head of the family and director of the operation, I've got to make the decisions on what each person has to do. You, of course, are retired, and although you are an important part of our little family-- I hope you know that--you're also our honored guest. Here, before I forget, let me give back your cards." Troy took Stanley's Visa card, Social Security card, and a folded yellow receipt out of his wallet and pushed them across the table.
Stanley put the two cards away and examined the receipt. There was a letterhead that read: Overseas Supply Company, Inc. The address was a Miami post office box. At the bottom of the yellow sheet, in italics, -Se habla Español- was printed. The bill, for "used hunting supplies," was $1,565, but the supplies were not itemized. Stanley's Visa receipt was stapled to the bill.
"Where is this place?" Stanley asked. "The Overseas Supply Company?"
Troy laughed. "It isn't a place, Pop, it's an idea. Today it's a room in the Descanso Hotel. Tomorrow it's a house in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Everybody, nowadays, needs hunting supplies."
Stanley was unable to follow this line of thinking. He looked down, folded the bill and receipt, and tucked them into his wallet.
"But as you can see, Pop, I didn't need the full two thousand. And I still got everything I needed, including these new pants, goatskin gloves, the shirt, and the running shoes. Boots look good on a man, but for running, when you have to run, they aren't worth a damn."
Stanley cleared his throat. "I been thinking, Troy. And I think five hundred's too much to give me in interest. Now that you've only used fifteen hundred, let's cut it down to maybe a hundred and fifty."
Troy shook his head and smiled at James. "Look at this guy, James. Without Pop's help, we'd be sitting here without any tools, and we'd either have to borrow money on the street at leg-breaking vig, or hold up a half-dozen liquor stores. Nothing doing, Pop. You still get your five hundred, and you get it Saturday night. But James here, who stands to benefit more than you do, is getting cold feet on a little project I gave him."
"I'll -do- it, Troy," James said quickly. "I never said I wouldn't do it. I just said I was afraid to do it because I've never done nothing like that before."
"I know you'll do it," Troy said, nodding, "because you have to. But I don't want you to be nervous. If you want me to, I'll go over everything with you again."
"Suppose I can't find one? What'll I do then?"
"All right, I will go over it again. First, I'll drive you to the Brickel! Metrorail station. You ride it down to Dadeland North station, and then walk over to the Dadeland parking lot. This time of night, there'll be at least a thousand parked cars, probably a lot more. At least one in a hundred drivers leave their keys in the car, right in the ignition. It's one of those statistical truisms, I read about it in the paper. There was this Boy Scout troop that wanted to do a good deed on a Saturday morning, so they had little cards printed up, saying, 'Don't leave your keys in your car. It invites theft.' They found that almost a fifth of the cars they looked at in the Westchester Shopping Center had keys in the ignition. They then left the little card under the windshields, you see, so the owners would find them when they came back. So when you say you don't think you'll find at least -one- car out of a -thousand- with the keys in it at Dadeland, you're simply full of shit.
"I could do it myself, and I'd be back here within an hour with a nice big car for us to use, but I want you to do it as part of your on-the-job training. I've got other things to do. Dale can't go because her face is too conspicuous, even though she'll drive the car later on. Also, because of Dale, you have to get a car with an automatic transmission. She can't drive a stick shift. What else did I tell you?"
"You said dark blue or black."
"Right. But any dark color'll do. Just don't come back with some bright yellow or red car, or I'll send you right back. I don't want any Blazer, either, all shiny with chrome and those tires with big white raised letters. Understand?"
"I'm ready," James said, getting up from the table.
"What are you doing, Troy?" Stanley asked. "Are you sending James out to steal a car?"
"I'm trying to keep you out of this, Pop. You really should save your questions till it's all over. But the answer is no, James is not going to steal a car. He's going to obtain a car for our use in the operation, which we'll drive to the airport later, on Sunday morning. The owner will be notified by postcard where we parked his car at the airport, and I'll leave a generous rental fee for the use of his vehicle in the glove compartment. I guarantee that the person whose car we use'll benefit. Are you with me? You can see I'm explaining to you as we go along on a need-to-know basis."
Stanley nodded. "Sure, Troy. I just thought, from the way you were talking, that James was going to steal a car, that's all."
"Renting is a long way from stealing, Pop. While I run James over to the Brickell station, see if you can find some hacksaw blades down there in the garage. There's a vise on the workbench where James keeps his paints, and I remember seeing a box of tools under the bench. Then, when I come back, you can help me out."
Troy and James left in the Morris, and Stanley went into the kitchen. "That was a nice dinner, Dale, and I really enjoyed it. Want me to carry that bag of garbage down to the yard?"
"No, I'd better do it myself." Tears trickled down her cheeks. "You've got to look for the hacksaw blades like Troy said. When he tells you to do something, he means it. How was I to know he wanted ice cream on his pie? If he'd said, then I could've gotten ice cream and cheese, too. If you only knew how many rejections I've had in my life, Mr. Sinkiewicz, you'd feel sorry for me."
"I feel sorry for you already, Dale. That's why I loaned Troy the money he needed."
"Did I ever tell you about the lawyer I lived with once in Coconut Grove?" Dale wiped her eyes with her wet hands and then had to use the dry edge of a dish towel to get the soap out of her eyes. "I'd been living with him for two months in his apartment, you know, and I thought he really liked me. Jesus, I used to go down on him every morning before he went to the office, and I never had any complaints. Then one night, it was after midnight, he said, 'Get your coat.' I was wearing a nightgown, so I started to get dressed. Then he said, 'No, just your coat.' I had this fur coat he'd given me, but I'd never worn it. It was a good fur--dyed rabbit--but you never need a fur coat down here. Anyway, I put it on over my nightgown, and slipped on some sandals. I didn't have on panties or pantyhose or nothing else. Just the nightgown and the fur coat. We got into his Mercedes, and he drove to Biscayne Boulevard, downtown, and then he stopped the car and told me to get out. Nothing else. Not a word of appreciation or thanks or nothing. And after two months. I didn't have my purse, my clothes, my money, anything. Lucky for me, just after he drove away, another car picked me up--an insurance man from Hialeah. We went to a motel on Seventy-ninth Street, and I was back in business again. But my life's been one rejection after another like that, and sometimes I just don't think I can stand any more of it."
"You're lucky you have Troy now." Stanley patted her on the shoulder. "I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings about the ice cream. You saw the way he made James eat his greens. That shows how sensitive he is to your feelings. Next time, you'll know to get ice cream when you fix apple pie."
"I guess I should look on the bright side, huh?" Dale's twisted, toothless smile made Stanley turn his head away. "I like you a lot, Mr. Sinkiewicz, and if you ever want a little action and Troy ain't around, you just let me know. Hear?" She reached amiably for Stanley's crotch, but he backed away before she could touch him.
"I'd better go down
to the garage and look for those blades."
Stanley found a metal toolbox beneath the bench, but the box had been left open and the unused tools were rusty from long exposure to the humidity. There were a halfdozen hacksaw blades wrapped in waxed paper, and the rusty saw was usable. The garage was well-lighted with several overhead 150-watt bulbs. One of the shadeless bulbs was directly above James's easel so he could paint at night. Stanley looked at James's paintings until Troy returned, thinking that James was lucky that he didn't need subject matter to paint. The Bajan could paint day or night, or anytime he felt like it, and it wouldn't make any difference. He wondered if they would make James paint objects of some kind when he enrolled in the Art Students League up in New York. If they did, James was going to be in trouble...
Troy returned in the Morris and parked it beside Stanley's Honda. Stanley showed him the blades, and Troy went upstairs to get what he called his "new, but used" shotgun from his suitcase. He came down to the garage again, locked the shotgun in the vise, and sawed off the barrels as close as he could to the forestock. Then he turned the gun around in the vise and sawed off the rear stock. It took him a great deal longer to get through the wood than it had to shorten the metal barrels. When Troy finished it was an odd-looking weapon. He would have to hold it like a pistol to fire it. It looked unwieldy to Stanley.
"Won't that thing kick out of your hand when you shoot it?" Stanley asked. "It won't be accurate, neither, if you go dove hunting."
"I'm not going to -fire- it, Pop. Jesus, there'll be doubleaught shells in it. If I shot it, especially at close range, it would blow great big holes in a man's body. I just sawed off the barrels so it wouldn't look like some kind of sporting gun you see in the Sears catalog, but would look like a sawed-off shotgun, which it is now. It's a psychological ploy, Pop. A person associates long barrels with bird-shooting. But he associates a sawed-off shotgun with gangster movies, and he's afraid of it. This way, you don't have to shoot anyone, all you have to do is show the thing. If I do shoot it, I'll just shoot it up at the ceiling or something, and carry a few extra shells in my jacket pocket."
