“First things first, Johnny. I held onto that fish camp out in the Everglades. There’s food there, the skiff, everything you need for a few days until we can make some arrangements. I got a buddy down in Curaçao I’ll get hold of. He can take care of you a while, get you into South America if we have to. I’ll be here to look after things…”
“Cal,” he said, “I’m not running off somewhere. I’m going to find Janice.”
It was Cal’s turn to stare. “You leave that to the police, son. You call them up and tell them about this phone call and then you get the hell out of Dodge or there won’t be any you for Janice to come home to.”
Deal shook his head. A big breath now, fanning the flames. He would find her. He would find her if he had to walk across water to do it.
“If I call the cops, they’ll just think I’m crazy, like you do,” he said.
Deal saw the hurt spring up in Cal’s eyes and he had to turn away. It wasn’t Cal’s fault. Anybody might think the same. Unless they’d heard her voice. Excuse me, officer, I think my wife’s been kidnapped. We all thought she drove her car off a bridge but somehow she didn’t die, and by the way I’m the guy who blew up Alcazar’s showroom, that’s how I know…
Deal stood then, and walked out onto the little porch. It had cooled off a bit, though you could still eat the air with a spoon.
He gripped the railing, leaning back momentarily to stretch the taut muscles in his back. The exhaustion he’d felt for the last endless days was gone, replaced by a wild anxiety, a jittery energy aching to be given some place to go.
Far out to sea were a series of dimly lit freighters, drifting, killing time until morning when they could head into port. So maybe Janice had been swept out to sea by the current, where she was picked up by a banana boat bound for Haiti with a cargo of stolen bicycles. The captain is not about to call in the Coast Guard, so he steams on to Port-au-Prince and stashes her until he can figure out what to do. Meantime, Janice sees a television broadcast bounced off the satellite into Port-au-Prince, figures out Deal’s in big trouble, escapes, makes her way to a phone and…
…and my ass is a short-wave radio, Deal thought, as Cal joined him on the porch.
“Hey, Johnny…” Cal began, but Deal cut him off.
“It’s okay, Cal. I’d think I was crazy too. Besides, what are they supposed to do? Put a wall up around the islands? I’m not even sure that’s where she was calling from.”
“Maybe the phone company could do something.”
“I already tried that.”
“Well, shit,” Cal said, shaking his big head. He gazed out across the water and nodded. “Sun’s going to come up pretty soon. Things always look better in the morning.”
Deal followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was the barest hint of pink at the horizon where the sun was getting ready. The “sun fist,” he found himself thinking. The two guys in the background of Janice’s conversation, jabbering about the “sun fist.” What the hell was that in Spanish, anyway? Sun fist? Pidgin English for Sunfish? Two guys talking about a little sailboat?
Deal tossed the idle thoughts aside, turned and looked inside the apartment. Cal had wandered back in to the bar where he stood, his shoulders slumped, hefting the bottle of Wild Turkey, checking it against the Coke he held in his other hand, weighing things.
Deal was about to go back inside and give Cal some help on the Wild Turkey, when he stopped short. Sun fist. Sunfist. Sunfest. He felt a little jolt. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was what they were talking about. Sunfest.
Deal went inside the apartment, took the bottle out of Cal’s hands. “Where’s your paper, Cal?”
Cal looked at him, puzzled, then pointed to a stack in the corner. Deal went over, pawed through the pile until he came to a Weekender, the entertainment supplement for the Herald. It took him a minute, but there it was in the music section, a double-page layout: SUNFEST TO ROCK MONTEGO BAY, plenty of pictures from last year’s reggae festival in Jamaica, a hundred thousand or more from all over the world, and the story predicting twice as many visitors this time around. Seven days of party, mon. Irie. Ganja city. No problem. Starting tomorrow night.
Deal looked up from the paper and met Cal’s questioning gaze. He held up the story.
“That’s what the two guys I heard in the background were talking about. And the other woman, with the British accent. Jamaica. Maybe she’s in Jamaica, Cal.”
Cal rolled it over in his mind. “Yeah,” he admitted, “it could be. Or she was calling from Pismo Beach and the lines got crossed up.”
Deal felt the excitement go out of him as quickly as it had come. Of course, it was crazy. And even if she were on some island in the Caribbean, what could he do about it? Conduct a house-to-house search? He sighed, feeling very tired. “You’re right, Cal. But what am I supposed to do, for Christ’s sake? Somebody took Janice somewhere. Somebody knows where she is. The same somebody told her what happened tonight.”
Deal had an image of himself, waving his newspaper under the nose of some Jamaican desk sergeant. They’d lock him up. His head had begun to ache. Maybe Penfield had some connections in the islands. Maybe Penfield…
…and then he stopped, unwilling to consider the possibility that had suddenly occurred to him, but unable to let it go. Fuck your baseball, Alcazar had said.
“I need to borrow your car, Cal.”
Cal looked at him dourly. “What’s on your mind, Johnny? You gonna drive over to Montego Bay?”
“Forget Jamaica, Cal. I need to see Thornton Penfield.”
Cal raised a shaggy eyebrow, but shrugged acquiescence. “All right. I’ll go with you.”
Deal glanced at him: a man in his sixties, veins crisscrossing his florid face, his breathing raspy, ready to walk in front of a truck if he asked. If what he’d suspected were true, that’s about what he’d done, Deal thought. Propped him up in front of a thundering, free-wheeling semi. Cal and anybody else crazy enough to get in the way.
“It’s okay, Cal,” he said. “You’ve done enough.”
“I haven’t done anything,” Cal said.
“Really,” Deal said. “I have to handle this one myself.”
Deal saw the hurt look in Cal’s eyes and reached to clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll call you.”
Finally Cal nodded. “I’ll be here, Deal.”
“I know you will, Cal.”
He embraced the old man, felt the answering squeeze. For a moment, he wanted to give it all up. Call Driscoll, hope for the best.
“I know you will,” he repeated. And then it was time to go.
Chapter 24
Deal spent most of the thirty minutes it took him to get from Hollywood to Miami Beach nurturing the memory of Janice’s voice, the one clear beacon amid a welter of confusing thoughts. He didn’t want to believe Penfield could have anything to do with Janice’s disappearance. Couldn’t believe it. But he would find out.
It was still dark, and he stayed on A1A all the way south, avoiding any freeway traffic, letting the thump of the tires on the old pavement fill his mind, savoring the ride of the powerful car, the empty streets, the traffic lights that for once stayed in sync, the look of old Florida in the store-fronts of one oceanfront hamlet after another.
In a few hours there would be more than you could want of orange juice, beach towels, T-shirts, and suntan oil for sale, as it had been since God made Florida, he thought. Most of the places hadn’t seen the need for renovation, save for the occasional crudely printed sign reading Bienvenidos! or Parlez-Vous Français? tacked above the awnings or wedged in the windows between the inflatable alligators and killer whale floats. The signs had been added over the past few years to comfort the waves of South American and French Canadian tourists who’d replaced the American tourists here. Different accents, but business as usual once the sun came up. Right now, everything was shut tight, and Deal was taking an odd comfort in the quiet.
A shower had s
wept in from the Atlantic, leaving the streets gleaming in the vapor lights that switched from orange to blue once he hit Dania. He found himself speeding then, hurrying past the stretch of antiques shops there, a place Janice had loved to browse, although Deal had always favored sturdy and comfortable over frail and delicate. He saw a lamp stand holding up a huge Boston fern spotlighted in one shop window and felt a sudden jab in his gut, remembering talking her out of a similar piece the last time they’d come to window shop. It had been a year or more ago, but he could still remember the look of disappointment in her face.
“For Christ’s sake,” Deal said aloud. He switched off the air-conditioning and sent the window of the Rivolta down, willing his attention to the hiss of his tires through the rain, catching some spray from the streets as he leaned his face out into the breeze. Most couples their age were supposed to splurge once in a while, wasn’t that so? And here he was, back to square one, trying to parlay his last little building into a decent life and somebody trying to screw even that up.
He tightened his grip on the thick wood steering wheel, squeezing the anger out, forcing himself to calm. He was south of Dania now, moving along a broad dark stretch where the shops fell away. The highway was being widened here, and the streetlights were still waiting to be hooked up. Gulfstream Park, where Cal’s horseman dreams had come to ruin, lay across the highway on Deal’s left. Deal could see a few lights far off in the stairwells and maintenance sheds, although the horses and trainers were long gone, not to return until October, when with luck, the weather would begin to break. Yes, Deal thought. Things would be better by then. The weather and everything else.
There was a guard on duty at the entrance to Sunrise Island, a Venetian-styled bridge that arched over the narrow cut separating the million-dollar homes on the island from the rest of Miami Beach. The guard was a guy in green fatigues and a visored cap who’d come out of his little shack to lean on the rail of the bridge and stare down at the flat gray water like something might be ready to rise up there.
The guy turned when he heard Deal’s footsteps whacking on the pavement, his hand moving automatically to the holster at his belt. He wore thick glasses that glittered in the gray, predawn light. Deal imagined his effective range with the pistol to be about a foot and a half. Still there was that foot and a half.
“Morning,” Deal said, holding his jogger’s pace.
He’d parked the car a couple of blocks back, on a side street just off Alton Road and stripped down to a pair of Cal’s baggy swim trunks and T-shirt.
The cop moved his hand off his holster and grunted as Deal ran past him and up the incline of the bridge. Try to drive past the guy and there were probably land mines in the pavement that would blow you sky high, Deal thought, chugging over the crest of the bridge. But put on some running gear, Charles Manson and Squeaky could jog past, no problem, go out and hack up all the millionaires they wanted.
Deal was headed for the second island, which had never seemed much of a drive before. And it probably wasn’t much of a drive, he thought, his lungs beginning to burn. He had slowed to a geezer’s pace by the time he crossed the little bridge—no guard on this one, of course—that took him out onto the familiar winding boulevard, but he kept his legs pumping. Everything would be easier if he got there before the sun came up.
His toes were practically dragging the asphalt now. Past the sprawling colonial that housed (or had, the last time Deal had been here) the president’s nephew, then beyond that, on the landlocked side of the street, the former Beach mayor’s stone-and-glass compound (the mayor had to resign after a prostitute’s diary had come to light).
Finally, past the still-unfinished mansion of a Kuwaiti prince. The place was sealed off behind a six-foot fence with a padlock and a couple of judgment liens stapled to the gate. Deal had seen aerial shots on local television: tennis courts, two pools, three major buildings, a pool house, nothing that had a finished roof. A local bank had been into it for three million when the Gulf War broke out and the prince disappeared.
Deal staggered over the curb and beneath the limbs of the enormous banyan tree taking up most of the vacant lot between the prince’s compound and the place he was headed. He held himself up by one of the tendrils that dropped from a limb, getting his breath back, taking a close look at the house before him.
A green and white antebellum mansion, it looked like something plucked off of St. Charles Street and dropped down a thousand miles away on the verge of the Intracoastal Waterway. The Intracoastal was dead calm this morning, like the waters of some bayou, and only the fact that it was gumbo limbo and banyan instead of live oak lining the circular driveway gave away the fact Deal wasn’t in New Orleans.
From where he stood, he could see the rear corner of the house as well as the front. The driveway was empty and there was no sign of activity inside. He had a moment of uncertainty. He could have called ahead, pretended a wrong number had anyone answered, but that might have sounded an alert. He’d just have to trust his luck.
Deal found the strength to give up his hold on the tree and was edging toward the rear of the place when he saw a light come on in the kitchen. He eased back into the shadows of the enormous tree. Napoleon’s army had once camped under the base of a huge banyan, he found himself thinking. Now how had their battle gone?
After a moment, there was the sound of a door latch working and then wood shuddering open. A black cat darted across the lawn toward the pool overlooking the Intracoastal. Somebody letting the cat out. Deal was about to step forward when the kitchen door swung open again and a thin black woman in a white dress and shoes emerged onto the back steps.
She stood there a moment, arranging a string bag on her arm, then getting her purse settled, then squinting at a piece of paper she held up in the dim light. Finally, she stuck the paper in her purse and walked across a strip of lawn and disappeared behind the garage that stood between Deal and the house. There was the sound of a garage door grinding open, then a car starting. After a moment, Deal saw a station wagon jounce down from the driveway onto the broad boulevard and pull away, retracing his route in.
Fine, Deal thought. By the time she got back from Publix, he would be long gone.
He came out from under the limbs of the banyan, glancing about the grounds to be sure no eager gardener was already at work, but there was only the cat moving about, now bending at the edge of the pool to lap up a drink. He took the knob of the kitchen door, ready to punch out one of the windowpanes with his elbow, then stopped. He smiled as the knob turned easily in his hand. That’s what happens when you have a moat and a guard shack, he thought.
He slipped inside, hesitating at a strange whining sound. Some high-tech alarm? His heart was thundering. Then the smell of percolating coffee hit him. Just the last sigh of a Braun machine on the counter across from him, getting things ready for the master’s breakfast when she got back.
Deal allowed himself a nervous smile, then started across the kitchen. The place had been renovated, of course, beech planks laid over the top of the Cuban tiled floor, a bank of appliances that looked like they could handle the dinner rush at Chef Allen’s replacing the old stuff Deal remembered from his childhood—and there, a greenhouse window filled with herbs where the dining nook had once looked out…
Deal was nearly into the dining room, the ghost of some long ago breakfast glimmering in his mind, when he saw the man coming toward him. Deal ducked back into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the white Formica, the glittering steel surfaces, for anyplace to hide. Now there were steps across the dining room floor, which still uttered their familiar creaks and groans…
Deal edged into a nook that partitioned the enormous freezer and refrigerator from the rest of the kitchen, knowing it wasn’t good enough, all the guy had to do was look his way and…And then what?
Oh hi, I’m the exterminator. There’s something wrong with your ice maker…
The guy came out into the kitchen then, a
n older black man who might have been the twin brother of the woman he’d seen drive off in the station wagon. The guy was talking to himself as he shuffled along, shaking his head. He went straight to the door that Deal hoped still led to the pantry, a place he’d often chosen as a hiding place. The old man opened it and disappeared inside.
Deal was across the kitchen in seconds, closing the door behind the black man, slipping home the old-fashioned bolt. He was through the dining room and headed for the stairwell before he heard the first muffled thumps. By the time he was halfway up the stairs, you couldn’t even hear the old guy’s shouts.
Chapter 25
Cal Saltz had fallen asleep in his chair, the bottle of Wild Turkey cradled between his legs, the seal still untouched. He was dreaming, his lips curled into a smile as Fighting City Hall, one of his more notable losers in real life, moved out from the rail and closed the gap on Alydar. The two horses fought it out down the final stretch but any fool could see Fighting City Hall was destined. Billy Shoes on Alydar, Johnny Deal on City Hall, Shoes looking panicked, Deal merely grim. This one was for the little guy.
Though the race seemed to be the Florida Stakes, Saltz noticed that the venue had been moved. Jagged mountains lined the horizon to the south. There was a pitch-and-putt golf course set up in the infield of the track. A mustached man moved down the aisle near Saltz offering Tecate and Bohemia beer from his shoulder tray.
So they were running the Florida Stakes at the Juarez race track. Who gave a shit? Fighting City Hall was pulling ahead. Shoes was up, laying on the whip, but Alydar was fading. The fans rose, screaming, sensing the upset of the century, and even the golfers in the infield turned to stare as the horses pounded toward the pole, great clods of earth flying in their wake as if from cannon shot.
“Oh Sweet Jesus,” Saltz murmured, clutching at his chest. Fighting City Hall’s nose crossed the finish line, and his eye froze the moment, a photo finish, and for once things had gone his way. “Oh my God,” Saltz said. Then his eyes flickered open as the bottle of Wild Turkey, drawn by some inexplicable force, slipped upward from between his legs.
Done Deal Page 18
