The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  “A what?”

  “A favor. A favor to Edith. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.”

  “When do you think you’ll be home?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “I’m losing you,” Freddie said.

  “I’ll be back in time for dinner. How’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Dinner. I will make it home for dinner.” Enunciating each word carefully, as if that would somehow make a bad connection better.

  “Please, please be careful,” Freddie said.

  “As I may have mentioned before, Careful is my middle name.”

  “No, Tree, it isn’t,” Freddie said.

  _________

  By the time Tree saw the imposing facade of the Biltmore—its distinctive minaret-style bell tower once made the hotel the tallest building in Florida—he had to go to the bathroom. Badly. The shortcomings of age; you could never be too far from a toilet.

  Rather than hold on until he got to Vic Trinchera’s place, he veered onto the drive leading to the Biltmore’s front entrance. A sandy-haired eager-beaver wearing a dove-gray suit opened the driver’s door for him, announcing, “Welcome to the Biltmore, sir. My name is Justin. I’m at your service. How are you, today?”

  “I’m okay,” Tree said, grimacing as he eased himself out, hip aching, sciatic nerve throbbing—more disillusioning signs of age.

  “Well, sir, we’re delighted to have you with us,” Justin said with grave sincerity. “Did you know, sir, that the Biltmore was built in 1926?”

  “I’m only going to be a few minutes,” Tree said. “Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine, sir. I’m not certain you’re aware of this, but Johnny Weismuller, the world-famous Tarzan of the movies, used to be a swimming instructor here.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Tree said.

  “This was before he became Tarzan, of course. Did you know the pool where he taught is still here? It used to be the world’s largest swimming pool.”

  “It isn’t any more?” Tree said.

  This momentarily confounded Justin. “Why, I’m not sure, sir. I guess someone built a larger pool somewhere. Are you checking in with us today?”

  “I’m looking for the restroom,” Tree said, loins aching.

  “Directly through the lobby to your left, sir. Just let me know when you want the car, and I’ll bring it around for you.”

  Finally shaking off Justin, Tree hobbled into the hotel. Despite the urgency of his mission, Tree could not help but pause before the stately magnificence of the Biltmore lobby: the moist lusciousness of the plants and ferns, the massive leather arm chairs, the vault ceilings supported by a straight line of thick marble columns, the sunlight streaming in through French doors lining the far wall that could not quite dispel musty pomp and circumstance.

  He loved these great old Florida hotels—this one, the Breakers in Palm Beach, the Casa Marina in Key West—great dinosaurs from a bygone era of stately luxury that somehow survived, mostly intact, into the twenty-first century. Tree recalled reading tales of ghosts at the Biltmore. He could imagine they lingered in the dark corners of the lobby, perhaps waiting for Johnny Weismuller, Tarzan himself, to give them swimming lessons in what once had been the world’s largest swimming pool.

  But Johnny wasn’t about to show up today, and Tree Callister really did have to get to the bathroom. He found the men’s room off the lobby, went through the swinging door into its discreetly lit, marbled interior and pushed open one of the cubicles. He stood over the toilet, wondering about a life culminating in a ceaseless search, not for meaning, but for an available bathroom.

  Outside his cubicle, the bathroom door opened and someone stepped across the floor.

  “No, I’m still at the Biltmore.” The voice sounded raspy and hollow, echoing in the marble interior. “We’re having something to eat. We were starving, that’s why. We’re going over there a little later. No hurry. It’s not like he’s into hitting the South Beach clubs at night. Most days, Vic don’t even leave the house.” There was a pause, and then, “Yeah, yeah, Johnny. Not to worry. We’ll take care of it. It’s done. You want the egg broken, we break the egg. That’s what I do, that’s my business, okay? I don’t need advice on how to do my business.”

  The room went quiet. Tree stood frozen in place. Presently, there was the sound of a zipper coming down and then the splash into a urinal, accompanied by a sigh from the man with the raspy voice.

  A moment later the urinal’s automatic flushing unit went into action. Then there was the sound of water gushing into a sink. Shortly after that, Tree heard the entrance door swing open and hiss closed again.

  You want the egg broken, we break the egg.

  Did that mean what it sounded like it meant? Tree did himself up and opened the cubicle door, moving over to the sink. He took his time washing and drying his hands before re-entering the lobby. Ahead, he could see a tall man in a loose white shirt sway through a set of glass-paneled doors. Tree went past a framed sepia photograph of the actor Gene Kelly wearing a cap at a jaunty angle, posing at the Cannes Film Festival.

  Tree stepped through the glass doors and was confronted by a long, tiled concourse opening onto a pretty courtyard around a fountain. Wrought-iron tables and chairs lined the concourse. Tree watched as the man in the white shirt took an empty seat at a table occupied by two other men.

  One of the men wore a straw hat shading a pasty, pockmarked face, a member perhaps of a jazz trio that got together to play dives on weekends. The other man was bare-headed, almost bald, someone’s exhausted grandfather. The two men already at the table were drinking beer. The white-shirted man looked to be in his fifties with a puffy, tanned face, a thin mouth framed by a carefully trimmed mustache and goatee.

  Tree went back through the door and then crossed the lobby and went out to where Justin stood waiting expectantly for the next guest he could illuminate with his pocket history of the Biltmore. He flashed another eager smile as Tree approached. “Boy, that didn’t take long, sir.”

  “Justin, I need my car,” Tree said.

  “Leaving us so soon?”

  “I’m leaving right now,” Tree said.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Justin, I need the car…now.”

  Tree glanced around, half expecting the three men from the courtyard to burst out the door to confront him: what was he doing peeing in the men’s room? More to the point, why was he watching them? What was he up to? But no one came out the door. A few minutes later, the Beetle sputtered into view with Justin behind the wheel. He held the door open for Tree who handed him a ten-dollar bill. Justin frowned at it. “Come back and see us again soon, sir.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about the prospect.

  Apparently, ten dollars did not buy a lot of love at the Biltmore.

  3

  Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the guy with the goatee was talking about another Vic. But then maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the guy had been talking on his cellphone in the bathroom about Tree’s Vic—Vic Trinchera, Edith Goldman’s client whom he was supposed to meet in a few minutes. If it was the same Vic Trinchera, then he might be in trouble. What the blazes had Edith gotten him mixed up in?

  The streets of Coral Gables, neat and tidy—and empty—under the bright noontime sun, were flanked by handsome Spanish-style homes reflecting comfortable, tasteful prosperity in a lush tropical setting.

  The Anastasia Avenue address Edith had given him was less than five minutes from the Biltmore. If those three were coming for Vic Trinchera, they would not have far to travel—which meant Tree didn’t have a whole lot of time.

  He brought the Beetle to a stop in front of a Mediterranean-style bungalow with a red tile roof. It was a pleasant home but less elegant than the neighbors’ places, partially hidden behind a mixture of banyan and palm trees. Tree got out of the car, went to the door, and rang the bell.

  When no one answered after a couple of moments, he rang again. Th
e door opened and Tree found himself confronted by a tiny, gray man in a blue gym suit. The gray man’s long, horse-like face was topped by a Greek fisherman’s cap, pushed back on his forehead. He looked as though he was on his way to a bingo game at the Senior Citizen’s Home.

  He said, “Yeah?” as though annoyed at being interrupted en route to the big game.

  “Mr. Trinchera?”

  The small, dark eyes shaded by the peak of the fisherman’s cap filled with suspicion. “Who’s asking?” he demanded.

  “Edith Goldman sent me,” Tree said.

  The suspicion in Trinchera’s eyes dissolved somewhat. “You Callister?”

  Tree nodded. “I’m Tree Callister.”

  “You’re late,” Trinchera snapped. “But come on in.”

  Tree stepped into a cool interior while Vic Trinchera carefully closed the door and turned to his visitor. “You strapped?”

  “What?”

  “Strapped? You carry a gun?”

  “No,” Tree said.

  Trinchera looked surprised, and then skeptical. “I don’t like guns in the house, you understand.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “Okay then, that’s fine. Follow me.”

  They went into a darkened living room full of old furniture: a floral print sofa pushed against the wall, a couple of sickly green recliners aimed at a flatscreen television. A framed painting of a Florida bird hung above the sofa. Tree could not tell what kind of bird it was. The furniture looked scruffy and out of place, as though after the purchase of the lovely house in the elegant neighborhood, there was no money left for furniture.

  “Sit down there, Callister.” Vic Trinchera pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the sofa.

  Tree seated himself. Trinchera said, “I haven’t been well,” as though to explain the shaky finger.

  He slumped onto one of the recliners, abruptly looking tired. “This weather gets to me,” he said. “I don’t like the heat.”

  “You’re in the wrong place then,” Tree said.

  Trinchera looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that if you want to avoid the heat, you’re in the wrong place,” Tree said.

  “Right, okay. I got that.”

  “Are you all alone here?” Tree asked.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Hey, take it easy, will you? I just asked you a question.”

  “But why would you ask me that question? Why would you ask me that particular question?”

  “Okay, listen to me, Mr. Trinchera, I’m going to ask you another question. I don’t want you to get mad. I just want a simple answer.”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.” Trinchera was sitting up straight now, his body tense. “You come in here, you start asking questions. Edith never said you would be asking so many questions.”

  “What did Edith say?”

  “She said you were a private dick. You would be able to help me out.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, but I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Trinchera.”

  “I’m a Montreal businessman. That’s what I am. My brother and me, we own some funeral homes in Montreal. Who says different?”

  “Nobody, as far as I know.”

  “Okay, then. As long as that’s understood.”

  “Is there any reason why three men, maybe sent by a guy name Johnny, would be coming for you?”

  The suspicion was back in Trinchera’s eyes. “What’s that? What are you talking about?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You say three guys? Coming here?”

  “They could be, yes. They were at the Biltmore Hotel a few minutes ago. One of them was reassuring Johnny on the phone that they were coming here for you, and that everything was going to be taken care of. He said he was in the business of breaking eggs.”

  Beneath the peak of the Greek fisherman’s cap, Vic Trinchera’s hollowed-out eyes filled with worry. “You sure that’s what he said?”

  “Whoever was on the other end of the phone apparently wanted an egg broken. This guy said he knew how to break an egg. That’s what he said.”

  “You didn’t bring those rats here, did you?”

  “No, of course not,” Tree said.

  “You working for Johnny Bravo, is that it?”

  “Johnny Bravo? Who’s Johnny Bravo? I’m not working for anyone. What’s going on here? Are you in trouble?”

  “No,” Trinchera said, his voice rising. “Why would I be in trouble? I’m a Montreal businessman, I tell you. That’s all there is to it.”

  Trinchera pulled himself out of the recliner and rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked as though a strong breeze would blow him away.

  “A businessman, trying to enjoy his time in Florida, that’s all there is to it. It’s this heat. I can’t stand this heat.”

  He fumbled in his pocket, finally extracting a cellphone. “These damned things,” he said angrily.

  “What are you doing?” Tree demanded.

  “Shut up,” Vic Trinchera said.

  He poked out a number and then spoke into the phone “Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “I need you to bring a car around. Right now.”

  He put the cellphone away and inspected Tree. Having made the phone call, he appeared less agitated. His voice when he spoke was calmer. “You sure Johnny didn’t send you?”

  “I told you, I don’t even know who Johnny Bravo is.”

  “A ruthless son of a bitch is who he is,” Trinchera said. The agitation was back.

  “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? A respectable Montreal businessman. They gave me some sort of award a couple of years ago. They don’t give you no award if you’re not respectable.”

  “That’s good. If you’re respectable you don’t have to worry. You don’t need me.”

  “I need a detective.”

  “Retired,” Tree said. “I’m retired from that business. Edith should have told you.”

  “Every creep in this state is retired. I don’t need retired. I need a detective.”

  “For what?”

  Trinchera bobbed his head up and down. “Okay, I don’t have a lot of choice here. I can’t trust anyone I know. Anyone I know would as soon cut my throat as look at me. Even that broad. Can’t trust her, either.”

  “Broad?” Tree said the word as though it came from some all-but-lost ancient language. “What broad? What are you talking about?”

  The old man ignored him. “Edith sent you. I guess you’re okay. I don’t know, anymore. I don’t know about anything. I used to be able to trust certain people. But that’s all gone now. So I need you to take the dog.”

  “Dog?” Tree said. “What dog?”

  “The dog.” Trinchera’s irritation had turned into anger. “The dog you’re supposed to take care of.”

  “Edith didn’t say anything about a dog,” Tree said.

  “I’m trusting you. I don’t have any choice. I gotta get out of here. You’re taking the dog.”

  Tree was on his feet. “I came down here to talk, that’s all. Nothing was said about any dog.”

  “What kind of punk are you?” Trinchera’s long, gray face was darkening. “You’re retired. You don’t take dogs. You don’t do this. You don’t do that. Don’t give me this crap, understand? I don’t have time for it.”

  He lurched away, and as he did, his cellphone began to ring. “Are you there yet?” he snarled into the phone. “Hold on, I’ll be right out.”

  He disappeared down a corridor. Tree thought now was a good time to get out. This old guy was obviously deranged. Whatever possessed Edith to send him on this wild goose chase?

  Before Tree could do anything, Trinchera reappeared pulling a leash attached to a floppy-eared hound. Brown patches intersected white fur on a slim, arched body held by spindly legs attached to the world’s biggest paws. A brown and white kitty plush toy was lod
ged between the dog’s jaws.

  “This is Clinton,” Trinchera announced.

  Clinton looked up at Tree with big hound dog eyes before giving the plush toy in his mouth a good shake.

  “He’s a hound,” Tree said.

  “A French hound,” Trinchera corrected.

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing,” Tree said. “Why would you call a French hound Clinton?”

  “I like Bill Clinton, what can I tell you? Here, give me that.” Trinchera reached down and before the dog could stop him, he swiped the kitten plush toy away. Clinton yelped and jumped up, tail wagging furiously, anxious to get his toy back. Vic held the toy above his head and at the same time handed Tree the leash.

  “Hang onto him for a minute. I gotta get rid of this.”

  Trinchera, holding the plush toy, darted out of sight. Clinton strained at his leash, desperate to follow, making whimpering sounds. “It’s all right, boy,” Tree said. “Just stay where you are.”

  He patted the dog’s head and Clinton dropped to his haunches, panting excitedly, closely watching the door through which Trinchera had exited.

  A moment later, the old man was back saying, “Okay, so you got the dog, and you know his name. He eats two meals a day. Just feed him dry kibble. He likes that. Anything else you need?”

  “What are you talking about?” Tree said in alarm. “I can’t take this dog.”

  “What? You don’t like Bill Clinton? You’ve got something against French hounds?”

  Trinchera turned to a side table next to the couch. Clinton wagged his tail, and regarded Tree with his sad eyes. Trinchera opened a drawer and withdrew a gun.

  “What’s that?” Tree demanded.

  “What’s it look like?” Vic Trinchera said.

  He pointed the gun at the dog.

  “Here’s the thing,” Trinchera said. “You either take this dog off my hands in the next two minutes, or I’m gonna shoot him.”

  Clinton’s head turned at an angle, those big eyes fixed on Tree.

  “Come on,” Tree said. “You’re not going to shoot a dog right here in your living room.”

  “If that’s what you think, you don’t know me,” Trinchera said.