Done Deal

by Les Standiford

  Deal stared at the receiver for a moment. What on earth had happened to the calm, together lady who’d backed down a Miami cop, bailed him out of a jam? He had the feeling that if he so much as mentioned Alcazar’s name, he’d lose her. “Look, Barbara, I need your help.”

  “My help?” She broke off for a moment, laughing. “You must be desperate.” He could hear the sound of ice falling into a glass. “Shit.”

  “Barbara, I’d rather not talk over the phone…”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come over,” she said. “We’ll have a drink to dear, departed Mr. Penfield.”

  “Great,” he said. “That’d be great. Just tell me how to get there.”

  He repeated the directions out loud, motioning for Homer to pay attention. When he hung up, he held out his hand to the little man.

  “Give me the keys.”

  Homer stared at his hand, thought a moment. He looked up at Deal, shaking his head. “I’ll drive,” he said. “I’m the designated driver.”

  “Stop fucking around, Homer. I’m going to find Alcazar. You don’t want to be in the middle.”

  “You told her ten minutes,” Homer said, and was out the door before Deal could stop him.

  ***

  It was actually closer to twenty minutes before they were pulling up in front of a high-rise off Brickell. Sheets of rain had swept in off the bay, slowing even Homer’s driving. Street lamps up and down the boulevard were dark and the wind had begun to shred the canvas canopy that shielded the front door. A matronly lady in an evening gown was holding onto her permed hair, tottering toward the entrance while the parking attendant drove off in her Town Car.

  Deal knew the neighborhood well. His father had built one of the towers next door. It was a dozen years or so ago, when developers were in a contest to see who could cram the most accouterments into huge condos aimed at the South American market. Construction costs were running about two hundred dollars a square foot, sales prices twice that. Things had long since cooled off in South America, but this was still pricey territory.

  “Just leave it,” Deal told Homer, clambering out of the backseat. “Take the keys.”

  When he got out of the car, the air surprised him. At least ten degrees cooler, and the spray whipped under the canopy by the wind made it seem twice that. He thought of the mountains. Fly fishing. Him in a pair of leaky waders, struggling against some heavy current in the middle of a stream, Janice watching from the rocks on shore, chewing on one knuckle in concern. A trip from another life.

  They’d spent that evening on the balcony of a hotel room, watching an evening storm rumble down a New Mexico mountainside a few hundred yards away. Gray mist erasing the pines in a placid smoke, the rush of cool air, the first chilling drops that hit them, sent them diving under the covers of the big, Inn-of-the-Mountain-Gods bed…

  “We goin’ in or what?” It was Homer looking up at him, wiping droplets of water off his chin.

  “Yeah,” Deal said, as a bolt of lightning blew everything white, the crack of thunder instantaneous, deafening. “We’re going in.”

  There was an ironwork sculpture in a flagstone and waterfall garden, cast-bronze doors for the entryway, a chandelier they could have used in Versailles just inside. The matronly lady had disappeared. A guy at a desk in the lobby wearing a suit and tie gave Homer a squinty look, but buzzed them through an inner gate after he called upstairs.

  “We’re going to the top,” Homer said, watching the steady blips on the elevator’s control panel. Deal nodded, feeling his ears popping as they rose.

  “How do you know she didn’t call the cops?”

  Deal glanced at him. “I don’t.”

  “Then why are we doing this?”

  “Because I’m fresh out of choices, Homer.”

  Homer nodded grudgingly.

  The elevator opened onto a marble foyer with a smaller version of the chandelier downstairs, all of it surrounded by mirrors that bounced the light and crystal back and forth in a way meant to hurt your eyes, but in a subtle way. There was a set of doors opposite the elevator, but they were looking for “A.”

  Homer stood in the foyer, his eyes about level with an odd-shaped marble table bearing a vase of cut flowers. “Reminds me of my place,” Homer said.

  Deal glanced down a long hallway on his right. There was a door open at the end, a square of light falling out into the dim corridor.

  The sound of breaking glass echoed down the hallway toward them. Deal moved toward the open door, Homer on his heels, his gait rolling like a tiny sailor’s.

  “What’s this lady do?” Homer called after him.

  “She’s a clerk-typist,” Deal said. “Isn’t that what it looks like?” He felt his jaw tightening as he spoke.

  When he got to the doorway, Barbara was on her knees in the marbled entryway of her condo, trying to pick up shards of glass in her bare hands. She was wearing a long robe, silk, a dark maroon, the kind of thing you paid a couple hundred dollars for, would make you comfortable just thinking about putting it on. He wondered what it was to feel comfortable. She glanced up at Deal, one slender leg sticking out, the front of her robe gaping open. She met Deal’s gaze, then gathered her robe as Homer joined him.

  “Damn,” she said, staring down at her fingers. A bright thread of blood trickled to her wrist. She stood, weaving, licking the blood away.

  “You scared me.” She was smiling now, but her eyes were hooded and glassy. Her gaze went back on Homer, uncertain.

  “This is Homer,” Deal said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Well,” she said. “Come on in.”

  She moved unsteadily down the hallway, her shoulder pushing a painting askew—it showed a man poised in middive over a swimming pool, the back of a pristine suburban home—everything so perfect you knew it was impossible to breathe there, Deal thought.

  They followed her into a vast living room, black marble floors, white Natuzzi sofas and chairs, a bar that seemed to have grown out of the dark stone and mirrors of the place like live crystal.

  “Sheee-ee,” Homer whispered. His gaze held on a bank of windows overlooking the city to the west.

  Lightning was spidering the horizon out by the Everglades and an evil-looking bank of clouds smothered everything to the south. A pair of EMS vehicles blinked the wet ribbon of I-95, sirens lost at this distance.

  “What can I get you?” Barbara was at the bar, dropping ice into some glasses.

  Homer turned, interested.

  “Nothing,” Deal said. “We’re kind of pressed for time.”

  “Right,” Barbara said, eyeballing the vodka she was pouring into her glass. She swished the liquid around, had a taste. She stared over at Deal, working for a moment to get him into focus. “You needed some help.” Humoring him.

  There was a door cut out of the mirrored wall behind her. A bedroom. Carpeted, but more of the black and white. Drawers pulled out of the dresser. A couple of bags on the bed, trailing clothes.

  “Mr. Penfield was into black and white, huh?” Deal ran his hand over a sofa back. End of a hard day, you could sink into something like this, have a beer, forget about whether your subs were going to show up in the morning.

  When he looked back at her, she’d put her glass down, some of the blear gone from her face. There was color in her cheeks now. Anger? Embarrassment? Homer edged backward, his shitstorm antennae starting to quiver.

  Finally, she looked away, shrugging. “He bought it this way. From the previous owners.” She allowed herself a smile. “If he’d had it decorated, it’d look like the goddamn Hunt Club in here.”

  Deal came to the bar, sat on a white leather stool, watched her staring out the windows for a moment. Finally, she turned back to him, her smile still there, but sad now. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  Deal shrugged. “It’s a nice place.” He looked at her, watching the mist burning away. “You deserve it.”

  She laughed
again. “I doubt my mother would agree with you on that one.”

  “So,” he nodded at the bedroom door. “You’re going somewhere.”

  She followed his gaze toward the half-packed bags. “Yeah,” her voice resigned. After a moment she turned back to him. “It’s not like I’m paying the rent for this.”

  Deal nodded. She gave him a weak smile. “He was nice enough, even after Maria came along.” She broke off, taking a swallow of her drink. “You met Maria, right? Maria with all the hair and teeth?”

  “The one downstairs. The week you were off,” Deal said.

  “That was her,” she nodded, finishing her drink. “Five years, Thornton and I were together. His wife had been sick a long time, you know. And then she died…and then, just when I thought we could finally be together, Maria came in. Like some hurricane.”

  She smiled and swept her hand about them. “But I got to keep the place.” She glanced at Deal. “Until now.”

  Deal nodded. “Is that why you told me about Penfield and Alcazar that day?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Like I said, I’m fed up with lawyers.”

  “Could I have a beer or something?” Homer called from his place near the hall.

  “Barbara,” Deal began, “I need to find Raoul Alcazar.”

  She stared at him.

  “It’s important,” he said. “He’s got a place out in the islands, right? It’s not like I can go around asking a bunch of people right now and I figured you might know where he lived.”

  She shrugged. “Thornton knew. He went out there a few times.” She glanced at Deal. “I guess that doesn’t help you right now, does it?”

  Deal stared at her. “Maybe it’s on the Rolodex, or some of those papers you were talking about, down at the office.”

  “You want me to go down there?” She looked at him, incredulous.

  “Like, now?”

  Deal shrugged.

  “I don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said, reaching for her glass.

  Deal put his hand atop hers. “Janice is alive.”

  Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute…”

  “She called me,” he said. “Somebody has her. She didn’t get a chance to tell me where she was. But I think Alcazar might know.”

  “You think Alcazar kidnapped your wife?” Barbara shook her head, dazed.

  “I’ve got to find him,” Deal said. “Will you get the address for me?”

  She took a breath, her eyes somewhere else for a moment. “I told Thornton,” she said, softly. “I told him not to trust that bastard.” She turned to Deal. “But Thornton was desperate for the money. That’s what they all love, more than anything, you know?”

  Deal stared at her, waiting.

  Finally, she dropped her gaze, wiping at her eyes. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  He nodded. She pulled her robe tightly around her once again and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Chapter 29

  “Doc Hammer,” Leon said, his voice booming out of the darkness.

  “Got-damn,” the old man gasped.

  Leon had been waiting the better part of an hour for the old bastard to lock up, duck into the scrungy back room of his pharmacy for a fix. The syringe flew out of Hammer’s hand, skittered out of sight.

  Leon flipped on the lights and the old man lunged for the syringe, which was lying in the middle of a linoleumed aisleway. Leon grabbed him by his flapping white coat and pulled him back. He kicked the syringe out of sight, underneath a rack of shelves piled with pill bottles and dusty merchandise.

  “Damn, Doc,” he said. “Here’s your old friend Leon, come calling, you don’t even say hello, kiss my ass, nothing?”

  Hammer stared mournfully toward the spot where the syringe had disappeared, then glanced back at Leon through his thick glasses. His bleary eyes came gradually into focus.

  “Yeah, Leon,” he said finally, trying to pull from his grasp. “Christ. You scare shit out of me.”

  The doctor tried a laugh, wanting to see how that would go.

  “That why you’re shaking, Doc?” Leon smiled at him. A few more minutes, the guy would be a puddle on the floor.

  “Bad neighborhood here, you know? Got-damn bastards broke in last month, steal every-ting.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Leon said. “They get your stash, too?”

  Hammer stared at him, offended. Christ, he’d caught the dumb bastard shooting up, he still wanted to pretend. Leon let him go.

  “So, there’s something I can do for you, some strength medicine, huh?” The doc was jittering around, anxious to get rid of him, would do anything he asked.

  “No, Doc. Not that.”

  “Something else? Pills? You got pains in your leg again?”

  Leon smiled, shaking his head. He still had pains, but he’d learned to listen to them. Better that than what had happened. Get an injury, tell your agent, First Round Odoms, who says he’ll handle it. Meantime, play with pain, son. Once we get you through training camp, we can renegotiate, cut a better deal. But if you have to sit down, we’re lost. So, go see Doc Hammer, he’ll fix you up. Get good and numb so you can keep going, fuck everything up, once and for all.

  “Too bad about your leg, you know.” The old fart trying his sympathy routine. “One hell of a ball player, you were.”

  A fucking quack, ruined Leon’s career, and what was there to do about it? Sue Doc Hammer? Would have been like suing a turnip.

  Leon pointed to one of Hammer’s reference books he had lying open on the counter. Had taken him a while, using a flashlight and all, but he finally figured out how to read the damn thing. He tapped an entry with his big finger.

  Hammer glanced at the page. “Ergotomine?” he said, turning to Leon. “You have some lady in trouble? Don’t fuck around with this, Leon. Take her to doctor.”

  “These pills do what it says there?” Leon asked. He had hold of the doctor’s arm again.

  Hammer writhed in his grip. “Yah. Sure. If it isn’t very late. They work.”

  “Good,” Leon said. “Then that’s what I want.”

  He gave Hammer a shove toward his pill shelves and waited for him to try to fill a bottle. After watching the sonofabitch spill half the tablets on the floor, Leon swept him aside, turned the container over, dumped a handful in his pocket.

  “Thanks, Doc.” He turned back to Hammer, something else in his hand now. “And just to show you what a good guy I am, I brought you a present.”

  He held up another syringe, look like something you’d use on a horse, gave Hammer his finest grin.

  “That’s okay, Leon.” Hammer was backing away. “You don’t owe me nothing.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” Leon said, moving in on him. He had the skinny old fart slung over the counter in an instant, his arm—all those needle tracks up and down it—laid out straight, the big syringe poised, needle puckering the skin now.

  “Best load of your fucking life, Doc,” Leon said. “Send your ass to Polack heaven.”

  “Leon…” his eyes watery now. “Please…”

  “There’s guys on the team now, make a half million a year, Doc. So fat they can’t see shoe leather. So slow they run backward. Too dumb to make a half a person. What do you think of that?”

  The doctor stared up at him, shaking his head from side to side in fright.

  “I said, what do you think about that?” Leon jabbed with the needle, brought up a bright dot of blood.

  “Not right…” the doctor croaked.

  “Say what, Doc?” Jabbing him again.

  “Not fair,” the old man gasped. “You were good. A got-damn shame.”

  “You ain’t got it yet, Doc.” Leon leaning hard on top of him now, could feel the man struggling to breathe. Heart thumping to beat the band. “We’re talking about your part in the story, what you did. Big dumb nigger with a bad knee, Doc Hammer gives him a shot, says, ‘Put some heat on it, Leon. Run it out.’” Le
on leaned in harder. “You remember that, Doc? You got enough brain cells ain’t too juiced to think?”

  “Sorry…” His voice a bare whisper now.

  “What?” Leon eased up a bit. “You’re not talking too good.”

  “I’m said, I’m sorry…” There were tears leaking out of the old man’s eyes now.

  Leon paused, stared down at the pitiful bastard. Finally, he shook his head. “Well, you sure to hell ought to be,” he said.

  He lifted the needle, brought it in front of Hammer’s weepy eyes, suddenly pressed the plunger. Hammer squeezed his eyes shut, tried to turn away as the liquid streamed against his forehead, ran down his cheeks.

  “Just tap water, Doc,” Leon said, straightening up, dusting himself off. He tossed the empty syringe aside.

  Hammer stared up at him, his mouth popping open and closed like some fish wiggling on the counter to clean.

  “But keep it in mind,” Leon said, moving toward the back. “Anybody ever come around, asking questions, just remember.” He was at the door now. “Hot load come along anytime.” He nodded before he went out. “Fucking drugs can kill you.”

  Chapter 30

  As Deal expected, the cops had sealed Penfield’s offices. Homer parked the Rivolta in one of the Bayfront Park turnouts, catercorner from the bank plaza, and they sat watching as Barbara, wearing a hooded raincoat and her go-to-work clothes now, picked her way through the puddles on the broad boulevard. She ran up the steps, and spoke to the cop at the door. After a little hand waving and pointing upstairs, the cop shrugged and let her go inside.

  “Suppose she tells somebody you’re out here,” Homer said.

  “She won’t,” Deal said.

  “What if she does?”

  “I have the best getaway driver in the state.”

  “That’d make me an accessory,” Homer said.

  “What are you now?”

  Homer considered that as a metro cruiser swung around the corner and passed them, hustling north, leaving rooster tails in its wake. The thunder and lightning had abated, but the rain was still pouring, whipped into sheets now and then by the wind.