by Ron Base
“Haven’t you heard?” Edith’s voice sounded tense.
“Heard what?”
“They found Vic’s body yesterday.”
Tree felt his stomach sinking. “Where did they find him?”
“They found him in his car on the side of the highway in Miami.”
He decided to play dumb. “What was it? A heart attack?”
“It was his heart all right. Someone put a bullet in it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am,” Edith said. “They actually put three bullets in it.”
Tree had a flash of the Cadillac Escalade on the side of Coral Way. The police officer picking up the Greek fisherman’s cap.
“Tree?” Edith’s insistent voice. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here, Edith.”
“The dog,” she said.
“The dog?”
“What did you do with Vic’s dog?”
Clinton, noticing Tree was no longer following, had paced back. He stopped a few feet in front of Tree, tail twitching. He cocked his head as though to inquire why Tree wasn’t running.
Before he could even think about lying, he lied: “What dog?”
“What do you mean ‘what dog?’” Edith sounded even more exasperated. “Didn’t Vic give you his dog to look after?”
“That’s why you sent me down there? So I could babysit a dog?”
“Tree, did he give you the dog or not?”
“No,” Tree said.
“I’m going to have to call you back,” Edith said.
“Edith, don’t hang up. Tell me what’s going on.”
Edith hung up.
Tree put his phone away and looked at Clinton. “What have I just done?” he said to the dog. “I just lied through my teeth about you, and I’m not sure why I did it.”
Clinton responded with a bark, and then gave Tree another inquiring look, as if curious as to what his pal thought of his bark. Then he turned and resumed his inspection along the beach.
“What’s even worse,” Tree said, calling after him, “I’m talking to a dog.”
Clinton put his head down and began sniffing at the surf.
“Did you hear me?” Tree yelled. “I’m talking to a dog!”
6
By the time Tree arrived back at the house with Clinton, he was beginning to have serious second thoughts about what he had told Edith. Vic Trinchera was dead, shot to death shortly after he drove away from Tree. Not only was he in possession of the dead man’s dog, he also had important information pertaining to the crime—namely, the three characters he had overheard at the hotel discussing what now appeared to be Vic’s impending demise.
He should phone Edith back. He should talk to the police.
But he did neither of those things.
And he still wasn’t quite certain why—until he looked at Clinton and Clinton looked back at him with those big sad eyes as if to say, “You’re it, pal. You’re all I’ve got. So you have to protect me.”
Tree shook himself back to reality. Stop this, he thought to himself. Clinton was a dog. He wasn’t really saying anything.
Really.
But then again, he was. In his own way.
Tree turned on the television and gritted his teeth through the inane puffery of the Today show, waiting for the local news on the half hour. Vic Trinchera’s death led off the newscast.
The youthful news anchor said, “Canada’s Mafia wars apparently have spilled over into South Florida with the murder yesterday of wealthy Montreal mortician Victor Trinchera. Police say that Trinchera for many years was the powerful, ruthless head of a Montreal crime family.”
Video footage showed the Cadillac with a figure slumped in the front seat. Three bullet holes in the passenger side window were clearly visible.
“Trinchera’s body was found yesterday afternoon on Coral Way not far from his home in Coral Gables. He had been shot three times. Police don’t have any suspects. We reached Canadian crime specialist and author James Devereaux in Montreal.”
A blond-haired professorial-looking man appeared on the screen. The news anchor said, “Thanks for speaking to us this morning. We appreciate it. Tell us about this Vic Trinchera.”
Devereaux arranged an expression on his face that one adopts for television—an expression that says you know what you are talking about. “Trinchera had recently been involved in a feud with his rival, Johnny Rizzo, known as Johnny Bravo,” Devereaux said. “You have to believe this hit is related to their feud. If that’s the case, you may not have seen the last of Canadian gangster violence in Miami.”
“Jim, we don’t usually think of gangsters when we think of Canada. What gives, anyway?”
“We’ve got bad guys here, just like you,” Devereaux said. “Montreal has a particularly rich history of organized crime, not just the Mafia but biker gangs, too.”
“Now they’re coming down here?”
“Gangsters are like most Canadians, they like the Florida weather in winter. What’s a bit surprising is that they’ve started to kill each other down there.”
The anchor turned to his female co-anchor, a woman with shimmering blond hair. The anchor said, “Isn’t that great, Merilee? As if we didn’t have enough trouble with our own gangsters right here in Miami, now we’ve got the Canadians shooting one another.”
“I thought Canadians were polite, ate peameal bacon, and watched hockey,” Merilee said. Then she announced to the camera: “Canadian bad guys stay home.” She smiled, displaying the world’s whitest teeth. “Only kidding. We love Canadians, of course!”
“Except the ones with guns,” the young anchor said. “And what’s peameal bacon?”
“I’m not sure, but Canadians eat it,” said Merilee.
Terrific, Tree thought. He had gotten himself mixed up with a Canadian gangster—a dead Canadian gangster. What was Edith thinking?
The anchors did not linger on peameal bacon or bad news. The weather was a more reliable topic on local newscasts. A hot, sunny weekend was in the offing. Whatever bad things happened, they would happen in the sunshine.
Clinton bounced up onto the sofa and eased himself down beside Tree, laying his head on Tree’s lap. “Are you a Mafia dog, Clinton?” Tree asked. “Is that what you are? What kind of trouble have you landed me in?”
If Clinton could answer, Tree reasoned, the dog might point out that he hadn’t landed Tree in trouble. Tree had done that all by himself.
As usual.
“Can you even say Mafia anymore?” he said to Clinton. “Is that politically correct? Maybe I should not use the word Mafia. Maybe you are an organized-crime dog.”
Clinton regarded him with baleful eyes—the long-suffering organized-crime dog in need of affection. Tree gave him a pat. Clinton once again began playfully biting at the ends of his ears.
He thought about phoning Edith back, and then decided against it. As much as he wanted to ask her what she was doing mixed up with a Canadian gangster, he didn’t want to tell her any more lies than he already had. He was supposed to be out of the business of lying. He hadn’t lasted a day before he was right back at it.
His phone sounded. Fearing it was Edith, he pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the readout. It wasn’t Edith, but he didn’t recognize the number.
“Is this Walter Tremain Callister?” An official-sounding female voice.
“Who is this?”
“Yes, well, is this Walter Tremain Callister?” The female voice sounded less certain of itself.
“Yes,” Tree said. “Who’s calling?”
“Good, so you are Mr. Callister.” A pause. “Mr. Callister, I’m Sergeant Melora Spark . . .”
“Sergeant? Sergeant of what?”
“Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
“The what?” Tree said.
“The RCMP,” Melora Spark said. “That is the acronym for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am a member of Canada’s national police force.�
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“Sergeant Spark, is it?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Callister.” The voice in identifying itself had regained some authority.
Tree said, “It’s not every day I get a call from a Canadian police officer. What can I do for you?”
“Do for me? Okay, what I would like, I would like to have a word with you if I might.”
“What about?”
Sergeant Spark said, “What about? Yes, well, I would prefer not to talk about this on the phone. Do you mind—would it be possible to come to your house so we could talk there?”
He looked at Clinton contentedly attacking his ears. The last thing he wanted right now was a lot of fumbling around trying to explain the dog. “First of all, I’d like to know what this is about,” Tree said.
“What it’s about? Okay, it’s in connection with a case I’m working on. As I told you, I would prefer not to discuss it on the phone.”
“Tell you what,” Tree said. “Why don’t we meet at the Bubble Room? That’s just around the corner from where I am, and right now a little more convenient. Do you know where it is on Captiva?”
“The Bubble Room. That’s fine. I can find it, Mr. Callister. Shall we say in one hour?”
“An hour? You must be in a hurry.”
“Hurry? Yes. I have a limited amount of time here. Can we meet in an hour?”
“I’ll meet you at the main entrance,” Tree said.
“That’s fine,” Melora Spark said, and hung up.
Tree looked down at Clinton. “Now what? In addition to being a French hound and an organized-crime dog, you are also a Canadian. So what is it, Clinton? Are the Canadians after you as well?”
Clinton continued to nip at his ears, apparently having the time of his life.
Tree was still holding the phone when it vibrated in his hand. Clinton stopped biting his ears His head jerked up. Tree grinned. “Sorry about this, Clinton. The phone didn’t ring nearly so much before I retired.”
“How’s retirement?” Rex Baxter said. “Are you bored out of your mind yet?”
“What? You can’t live without me?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve been gone less than forty-eight hours and already tourism is up.”
“I think you miss me.”
“Not me. Are you coming to Fun Friday tonight?”
“Right, it is Friday, isn’t it?”
“See? Already you’re losing track of time. That’s not a good sign, Tree. Are you coming or not?”
Tree looked at Clinton. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought much about it.”
“Do me a favor and be there, okay?”
“Any particular reason?”
“There’s someone I want you and Freddie to meet.”
7
The Bubble Room was an island landmark. A maze of small rooms strung with Christmas tree lights, crammed with framed reminders of a pop culture era when Roy Rogers and Buster Crabbe and Gordon Scott (Tarzan of the movies when Tree was a kid) ruled, crowded with customers who could still recognize a languid Kim Novak or an intense Fred MacMurray, a somber Claudette Colbert (hand held against her heart) or recall when Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis co-starred in Sailor Beware and weren’t surprised to see William Holden in a forgotten piece of nonsense called Boots Malone.
Tree studied the photographs in the Bubble Room’s foyer. None of the staff knew who any of these people were, of course. Everyone was too young. They barely recognized the youthful John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.
The front door opened and in came a slim, frazzled-looking woman, blond hair pulled back into a pony tail, the austere air of the spinsterish grade ten teacher who gave you detentions because you didn’t have your English grammar homework done. Her mouth grimaced anxiously as she looked around. When she spotted Tree, she said, “There you are. Mr. Callister.”
“Melora Spark?”
A quick, nervous smile. “Sergeant Melora Spark.”
A frilly white blouse and unfashionable powder blue slacks did nothing to take away from the uneasy sense Tree experienced in high school when he hadn’t done his homework. Only the open-toed sandals displaying small, beautifully pedicured feet provided any fashion sense.
Tree shook the pale hand she offered and said, “Sergeant Spark.”
Sergeant Spark’s eyes—the same color as her slacks, Tree noticed—darted around the foyer, taking in the Christmas tree lights, the walls of photos. “My goodness, this is quite a place, isn’t it?” she said.
“There’s nothing quite like it,” Tree said.
“No, I suppose not.”
A hostess led them to a corner table in one of the back rooms and presented them with menus the size of the tablets in Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments, a movie Tree had yet to find represented on the walls of the Bubble Room.
Melora Spark glanced perfunctorily at the menu and then put it to one side. She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Callister.”
“I don’t want to start this off on the wrong foot or anything,” Tree said.
Sergeant Spark’s mouth produced more grimaces, and those blue eyes looked abruptly worried. “Wrong foot? What wrong foot?”
“Do you mind if I see some identification?” Tree said.
A waitress in a khaki Boy Scout uniform arrived, all smiles and brisk energy. “Hi, there folks. I’m Kim, and I’m your server today. Have you been to the Bubble Room before?”
Tree admitted that he had, while Melora Spark looked pained as she fumbled in her shoulder bag.
“What can I get you folks to drink?” Kim asked.
Melora blinked a couple of times and asked for a glass of water. Tree ordered a Diet Coke. “Okay, folks. Let me give you a couple of minutes with the menu, and I’ll be back with your drinks.”
Kim departed and Sergeant Spark slid a silver badge across the table in Tree’s direction. The badge was emblazoned with a crest. Above the crest was the word POLICE. Beneath the crest: RCMP and GRC.
What’s GRC stand for?” Tree wanted to know.
“Gendarmerie Royale du Canada,” she promptly replied. “That’s French.”
“I see,” Tree said.
“Canada being a bilingual country.”
“Yes, of course.”
She cleared her throat again and said, “Maintiens le droit. That’s French, too. Defending the law. Our motto, you see.”
“Is that what brings you to Florida? You’re here defending the law?”
She flashed a quick, nervous smile. “That’s a joke, right? I understand that. I’m trying to loosen up about these things. You know, ‘get the joke,’ as they say.”
“I’m just so funny,” Tree said, deadpan. “The point being, Sergeant Spark, I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“That’s the thing, you see, you can help me. That’s why I asked to meet you.”
Kim the server arrived with their drinks. “Have you folks had a chance to look at the menu yet?”
“Give us a few more minutes, will you, Kim?”
“Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
Tree addressed Melora. “Are you hungry?”
“No. My stomach’s all funny. I didn’t know we would be eating. I don’t usually eat lunch.” Her hands fluttered over the menu as if trying to levitate it.
“Okay, how am I supposed to help the Mounties,” Tree said.
“It’s the dog.”
Tree looked at her. “The dog?”
Kim returned, her youthful face lighting with hope. “You folks ready yet?”
Tree sighed and looked at the menu. “What about you? Sure you don’t want something?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The menu contained luncheon dishes such as Gone Fishin’ and Hook, Line and Sinker, and Anything Grows. Tree chose the Errol Fin.
“That’s the grouper filet,” Kim said, nodding approvingly and then went off.
Tree said, “You said something about dogs.”
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Melora made a face. “I don’t like dogs. I have real issues with dogs.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tree said.
She leaned forward speaking in a low voice so that the nearby diners couldn’t overhear. “Mr. Callister, the Force is aware that you met with Victor Trinchera shortly before his death.”
“What force?” Tree said.
“That’s what the Mounted Police call themselves. The Force.”
“Okay. How do you know I met with anyone?”
“We have information to that effect,” she said in her police-officer-giving-testimony voice. “So what about it, Mr. Callister? What were you doing with Vic Trinchera the morning he died?”
Tree said, “My lawyer sent me to see him.”
“Why would your lawyer do that?”
“She said he needed to talk to a private detective.”
“Are you a private detective?”
“No, I’m not.”
She looked flustered again, and spent more time clearing her throat. “Then I don’t understand. Why would your lawyer send you to him?”
“She thought I was a private detective.”
“But you are not.”
“I’m retired.”
Sergeant Spark paused before she said, “I see. But you went down there, anyway.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you know who Mr. Trinchera was?”
“You mean did I know he was a gangster? I had no idea.”
“He didn’t tell you when you got to his house?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He left shortly after I arrived.”
“Yes. Okay. And what did you do?”
“There was nothing else to do. I left.”
“What about the dog?”
“I thought you didn’t like dogs.”
“I don’t like them, but Vic did.”
“There was no dog.”
“You should know, Mr. Callister, you should know that Victor Trinchera was one of the top Mafioso in Montreal. He ran the town while his boss, Johnny Bravo, was in prison. However, when Mr. Bravo was released last year, he naturally wished to resume his position as head of the family. Vic Trinchera appeared to go along with this, but in fact was working against Mr. Bravo behind the scenes, trying to bring him down.”
