by Tom Corcoran
“Why this visit?”
“Intimidate you. You’re tight with Liska, the political opponent.”
“How are you with your boss? Out there campaigning for him?”
“A year ago I went into Tommy Tucker’s office to point out that my Kevlar bulletproof vest did not provide optimum protection. He told me, ‘Even with elective surgery, our health plan’s an easier tap than the county commission.’ He meant a breastreduction operation, so I’d fit the vest instead of the other way around. I told him the manufacturers made vests to fit women. He said, ‘We don’t have them, and they cost thirty percent more than the basic style, and they’re not in the budget.’ Tommy Tucker is not my favorite boy. Matter of fact, he’s my least favorite. And it sucks that I don’t dare campaign for his worthy opponent.”
“You think his kid killed his own wife?”
“I’m not assigned to that case. From the sidelines, there isn’t an adult in Monroe County who doesn’t know the pipehead’s rep for gutter swimming. Course, the little fart grew up in hell, in a house like a boot camp.”
“This used to be the lazy time of year.”
“Summertime. Tourists roll in with a twenty-dollar bill and a pair of underwear. Three days later they go back north, they haven’t changed either one. They’re like the gumbo-limbo tree, when its skin turns red and peels. It’s still better than snowbird season.
“We through?”
“No. Did you, by any chance, send a fax from Kinko’s on Truman to your friend Claire Cahill at her home in Winnetka?”
“Yes,” I said. “Something from the Herald. A list of Web sites I thought might interest her, all relating to imported fabrics.”
Bobbi Lewis said, “Thoughtful.”
I looked through the screening. Bohner now stood near his car, supporting the entire upper part of his body on his forearm. The forearm rested on his gun belt. Just then Carmen’s daughter, Maria Rolley, still in her school uniform, walked up and said something to the deputy. Bohner ignored the young girl. He stared down the lane, bored and impatient. Puzzled, frightened, Maria again addressed the deputy. He continued to ignore her.
“Now we through?” I said.
“One last thing. You get to double-dip the photographs you took in the cemetery. Sheriff Tucker wants a set of prints. Between you and me, he was relieved to learn you’d backed up Ortega and Forsythe. Send the bill to my attention. Wish I had time for two more of these.” She handed me the empty Coke can and pulled a thin packet of gum from her shorts pocket. “I better chew a stick before I get in the tattletale’s front seat.”
I followed the detective outside. “What’s the problem, Maria?”
“I wanted to know if anybody broke into your house again, Alex. The man wouldn’t answer me.”
“Don’t worry, honey. He’s not allowed to have good manners on duty. He’s probably rude all weekend, too.”
Billy Bohner looked around at the ground as if looking for a dog pile to kick, then took a step toward me. “Put you on notice, bubba,” he said. “It takes more cojones than you got to fight in the center ring.”
“So maybe the bulk of yours is full of bullets in your holster.”
“Guns and badges aside, bubba, it’d take two of you to fuck with me.”
“Nah, it’d take four or five of me. I like to see a job done right. And if you talk like that again in front of the little girl, we’ll play this one out.”
Bohner didn’t have a quick backshot, so he gave me a steely glare that served warning. The next time he had a chance, I’d be fair game.
Bobbi Lewis had elected not to witness the pissing match. She’d gotten into the squad car’s passenger seat and started the engine for the benefit of air-conditioning. As Bohner yanked open his door I looked beyond him to see Dubbie Tanner coast slowly into the lane on a corrosion-encrusted balloon-tire bicycle. Tanner put his head down—the street version of making himself invisible—then U-turned and fled down Fleming Street.
“Was that policeman in a bad mood, Alex?” said Maria Rolley.
“Too bad he had to share it with us, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern in her forehead. “Did anyone try to burglarize your house again?”
“That bad man won’t be back, honey.”
“I dreamed he came to my house.”
“No way. He’s afraid of your granddaddy.”
Maria smiled. The lines in her face blew away. She ran off to her grandparents’ house.
Five minutes later her mother knocked as she entered my porch. Still in her work uniform, her hair damp, face flushed. “Can I borrow a cotton T-shirt? I’m sweating like a fat shrimper on a Saturday night. Why I wear polyester, I’ll never fathom.”
I went into the bedroom and brought out an oversized number from a Duval Street boutique that had gone broke during the Carter administration. Carmen removed her uniform shirt. Her shape was a combo of well-endowed and slightly chunky. She shook her upper body, teasing, daring me to ogle her generous bra, dive into her cleavage. Showing less skin than she would for strangers at the beach. And she knew it.
She pulled on my shirt. “Let’s get down to business. We’re talking a female traffic jam. I represent the Dredgers Lane morals committee. Can I ask a few personal questions?”
“I answer, I wind up taking a ration of crap. Didn’t we cover all this last night?”
“We got sidetracked, talking about Sam’s love triangle. We still got to talk about your overnight visit to elsewhere. Maybe it’s a good thing you found somebody new. They say it’s a danger, that carpal-tunnel syndrome, playing with yourself.”
“Will this mean we can’t share any more evenings in your Jacuzzi?”
She plopped down in the rocker. “You still dream about feeling me up?”
“More than that. I try to throw a proposition your way, every two or three weeks. You blow me off like a speck of dust on your sunglasses. You always slam the door. I figure I’ll be patient. You’ll get loose enough to proposition me, and I’ll have to give in.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve built yourself a Catch-22. You don’t want a long-term relationship with a man who can’t accept your daughter. And you refuse to include Maria in your relationships because, if they don’t work out, she could get her heart broken, too.”
Carmen attempted to look matter-of-fact, but couldn’t hide a certain pain. “This’d be easier if we weren’t neighbors. Why don’t you sell your house? We can start seeing each other.”
“What brought on this funk?”
“The other night I was in bed with a glass of wine, eight pillows, and a bag of expensive cookies. I didn’t know the name of the TV show, didn’t know a single actor, I couldn’t remember what had happened the past ten minutes. I wanted to blame it on fatigue.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No. I’m tired of being alone.”
“I never thought I’d ever hear these words.”
“Don’t start on me.”
“I would like to help. But I have a houseguest and a new lover, and my home has been a recent target of burglary.”
“You don’t have to do anything. I just want a human in the bed with me.”
When it rains it pours.
Carmen changed the topic. “This is none of my business. But Sam told me last night the details, all the intrigue.”
I shrugged. “I got a problem.”
“Maria’s got a book, supposed to help kids understand nightmares. My viewpoint, it’s low-rent psychology. But it makes one good point. It says, ‘You can’t fight back if you don’t know the enemy.’”
“But they’re not my enemy.”
“So who did my father shoot? Some junkie prowler picked your house at random?”
She was right. I’d been an inquisitive spectator, but I’d graduated. “I don’t know what all these people are after. All I know is, they’re slick at covering tracks and destroying evidence.”
“Well, it
’s bound to be one of three things: an item of value, information of value, or a person. Can you think of any other category?”
“Where did you get all this analytical expertise?”
She said, “Trying to figure out your social calendar.”
“Yuk city.”
“Sorry.”
“Think criminal,” I said. “If we cross out revenge, cross out hatred, what’s the rule? The money trail’s the superhighway. A person leads to information that leads to money. The other way around, information leads to a person who leads to money. Either way, money rules.”
“Now you’re thinking with your upstairs brain.”
“And the amount of money we’re talking about probably can’t be carried around by one person. So they’re after the person who has access to the money. That’s Zack. We’ve analyzed ourselves back to the obvious.”
“But Sam said his objective was to distribute the money. Those old dope smugglers are going to get their payoff.”
“Someone outside the original group knows about the agreement and wants to snarf the money before it gets passed around.”
“Hypothetical,” said Carmen. “Who could know about the agreement?”
“I suppose, members of the original group, their family members, friends. There’s cell mates and lawyers. Of course, telling lawyers about money gives them too good a reason to raise their fees. Outside the original trio, there’s Zack and Abby and Jesse Spence.”
“Okay. Now the same list, in order of probability.”
“Lemme think. Leave out the lawyers. Leave out family members, because they’ll benefit sooner or later.”
“Leave out your friend Zack. He wouldn’t be hiding from himself.”
“That leaves Jesse and Abby, and old cell mates of Makksy, Auguie, and Burch. Cell mates of Jesse Spence, too. There’s no way to know anything about their friends. That could be any one.”
Carmen opened the screen door and stepped off the porch. “Glad I could help. Come over if you want arroz con pollo, anytime after six.”
I’d been ambushed by the close-to-home syndrome. Slamdunked by the reasoning of a woman of above-average intelligence whose résumé highlight was “Mother of a ten-year-old.” Which made sense. Because anyone who can keep up with the whims and inventions of a ten-year-old ought to be able to second-guess crooks.
My gut told me that Jesse, the victim of a thorough search, classified as a person who could lead to information that could lead to money. That put him on the defensive squad, not the offense. The attack on Abby forced a different question. If someone after the money considered her a source of information, why would they want to kill her?
Two messages waited for me. Kim, from Louie’s Backyard: “Probably not important. If you get a chance, call me at work after setup time. Six-ten, six-fifteen’d be perfect.”
Then a surprise. Abby Womack: “How can we be a team if I don’t tell you how to reach me? I’m way at the end of Simonton, at the Green Dolphin, room 443. Say hi to Claire. Can you two join me for dinner tonight? Call.”
17
Dinner invitations were stacking up. So were the odds that my next decent meal would be in Louisiana. Gumbo, for the soul.
It made no sense to surprise Ernest Makksy, aka Tazzy Gucci. I opened my false cabinet to check the page Claire had found in the Cahill home safe. Based on the address, New Orleans information gave me a home number. An answering machine invited me to try another number. I’d have to convince the man of my friendship with Zack Cahill, retell the four-day saga for the hundredth time, express my intentions regarding their retirement fund.
He answered on ring two. “Imperial Limo; Ernest here to help you.”
“Alex Rutledge, in Key West.”
“Rutledge. I picture you on this gold-colored bicycle, uphigh handlebar, khaki shorts, Staniel Key Yacht Club T-shirt, and a camera around your neck.” Makksy’s southern accent was overlaid with a New Orleans twang. “Always, that camera. What’s going on down there?”
“I’m not sure.” I could hear a sax-trumpet combo. Easy to suspect that the Chamber of Commerce required background jazz on all calls into the “504” area code.
“For sure, I got no idea, mon ami. Four FBI dickweeds in ten-dollar ties knocking at my place of business, interrogating me on the death of my former employee. Boy named Omar the Hun. Very ugly man. Got himself zipped down there in Key West. I’ve been sayin‘, like, maybe Omar hooked up with an old friend of ours. What’s up with that?”
“An old friend of yours, or mine?”
“Mostly yours, I’d say.”
Even the co-conspirators suspected Zack of the murder. “So, we’re talking about …”
“Banker.”
“Gotcha,” I said. Old smugglers still don’t say names on the phone.
“Like I say, what’s going on down there?”
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“You wanna come up here, we talk about it on the sidelines?”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
“How about that. You call when you get in, awright.” He clicked off.
The only flights from Key West to New Orleans connect in Orlando, and the next day’s flights to Orlando were booked. My only choice was Key West to Orlando at eight-fifteen P.M., spend the night, and connect to New Orleans on any of four flights during the day. I booked the ticket, open return, and made a crapshoot reservation at a motel that the airline ticketing agent recommended.
Welcome to the outside world. I returned the Shelby to its garage and packed a duffel before I rode the bicycle to Schooner Wharf. No surprise: no Dubbie Tanner. The cocktail hour crowd had shaped up for fun. A full bar, the usual maniacs, not a tourist in sight. The folksinger performed a perfect version of Danny O‘Keefe’s “Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues.” I sat back with a Mount Gay and soda and tried to run a pre-travel check-off list through my brain—not so much things to accomplish on the trip, but things to get done in the two hours before I left. I wasn’t swamped with loose ends, but wanted to assure myself that I hadn’t missed any angles.
After five minutes, I’d drained the drink. No revelations had visited. The entertainer took a short break. I blanked my brain and paid attention, for a moment or two, to the still air, the subtle sounds of the docks. Automatic bilge pumps called into action, spouting for ten seconds, going silent. Soft slaps of the water’s surface displaced by rolling lapstrake hulls, dull clicks of shrouds going tight, then slack with sailboat motion in dozens of slips. Deck shoes patting wood planks, the squeaks of cylindrical PVC boat fenders, muffled VHF radio traffic. I even heard a train whistle, then calculated that the last train had pulled out of Key West in 1935. The cruise ship leaving the harbor reminded me that Claire and Marnie had gone to Miami. I couldn’t begin to speculate on what success they may have had. I hoped they’d return before I left to catch my flight. On the other hand, I felt more comfortable knowing that Claire was out of town. The picker, back onstage, began a lazy version of J. J. Cale’s “Crazy Mama.”
“New in town, sailor?” Olivia Jones stepped off the boardwalk, a letter-sized Federal Express packet under her arm.
“You sit with me, sweetie, because I’m your authentic Key West pirate. I will tell you stories from the Seven Seas.”
“More like Tales of Thirty Thousand Fruitcakes. This goddamn island.” She took the slat chair next to mine, and the last sip of my drink.
“Look at you, with a rush package. Hustling out hurry jobs for wealthy and anxious clients.”
“I wish. This is my off-season briefcase, for just that reason. I keep it with me all the time. Makes me look important. Helps me drum up business.”
“Soon the season will begin. Money will flow again.”
“Well, speakin’ of pirate activities … I’ll take one of these. Paybacks are hell.”
I signaled two more to the bartender.
“Your phone number came up,” she said. “Weirdest damned job, paid in advanc
e. It’ll cover a year’s worth of Yellow Pages.”
“My phone?”
“This lady got my number from the book and left me a message yesterday afternoon. I called back and she had me come to the Green Dolphin to pick up a picture. I designed this thing.”
Olivia pulled a “Wanted” poster from the FedEx envelope. In its center, a black-and-white head shot of Zack Cahill. A formal portrait, perhaps clipped from a corporation annual report. Under the picture, the phrase HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? A short paragraph explained that he may be disoriented, fotgetful, fantastical, or depressed. A two-hundred-dollar reward was offered, with a phone number to call in case of a sighting.
“She wants me to print a hundred and tack them up all over town. If anyone claims the reward, I get a hundred-dollar bonus.”
I stood to get our drinks. “Whose phone number is that?”
“Mine. She gave me an extra hundred to take messages. Not bad for the off-season.”
“Where does my number come in?”
“She said to call you if someone has a tip and I can’t reach her.” Olivia put her glass to her lips. “I can almost feel that bonus money in my hand.”
Maybe Abby was a team player, after all. But I didn’t want to risk missing out. “I know how you can double it.”
She said, “Call you first?”
“You’re a genius.”
“It’s easy in the off-season.”
I finished my drink and started toward Louie’s Backyard. Olivia wanted to stick around for a while. Crossing Eaton, I felt several fat raindrops, the kind that announce a downpour capable of lifting sea level. I hurried back to the house, dodged the squall, and made two phone calls. Kim, at Louie’s, was still in the chefs meeting, the mandatory daily menu-and-specials preview for servers and bartenders. I requested that she call me back, if possible, before seven forty-five.
I dialed Teresa Barga, caught her just getting home, drenched. The squall was moving west-to-east. She made me wait while she took off her shoes and wet slacks. “I’m back.”
