Miami Noir

by Les Standiford

  Now, in the Publix parking lot, Isolde dried her eyes and turned the ignition. She checked the fuel gauge. Half a tank. Not enough. She needed a full tank of gas. A Texaco station was just around the corner. That would be her final stop.

  Woody, Chip, and Perry began putting up the remainder of the metal shutters on the front and back porches. These faced south and north, respectively, and had tall jalousie windows on three sides. The three men set to work exchanging hearty remarks such as, “That’s it! Great! Okay. We’ll soon get this sucker done,” but the afternoon was hot and windless, the sun oppressive. Chip and Perry soon tired. They paused, smoked cigarettes, scratched themselves, wandered into the yard to stare at the road.

  Woody finished the metal shutters by himself, while the others set up the wooden saw horses and carried out the plywood from the garage. Woody had five big sheets, which, cut in half, would cover ten windows.

  “Men,” he said, “here’s the plan. We cut the plywood with this electric saw. With this,” he held up an electric drill, “we drill holes in the four corners of each sheet. We hold the plywood sheet up over the window and mark the holes on the wall. Then we drill half-inch holes in the masonry and insert expansion anchors. We bolt the plywood over the windows with these three-eighth-inch lag bolts and then we tighten them with this—” Woody held up a wrench and saw that neither Chip nor Perry was paying attention.

  Woody tested the electric saw and the other two flinched. They laid the first plywood sheet onto the wooden horses and Woody began to saw it in half.

  When Isolde came back, everybody helped her unload the supplies and carry them into the kitchen. Chip and Perry drifted into the yard and exercised the cell phone.

  A little while later, Woody went into the kitchen to drink water. Isolde was filling every container she could find at the tap. She embraced him, saying, “You don’t know how much I love you.”

  “As much as I love you, I hope.”

  “More. Much more.”

  Woody pointed toward the yard. “Our junkies be waiting for The Man.”

  Isolde said, “Not in my house.” Then, realizing that she wanted Perry happy, not strung out, for the next few days, she said, “Maybe we’d better let them.”

  “We don’t want them freaking out during the hurricane.”

  Isolde said, “They can smoke and whatever in the guest room.” Woody nodded and drank three glasses of tap water.

  On his way outside, Woody paused at his desk in the living room and stared at a partially opened drawer. He’d shut it three weeks before. He pulled the drawer out farther. Inside were four unused checkbooks. Woody picked them up, telling himself, Think like Chip. He opened the fourth checkbook. The last check was missing.

  Woody put back the checkbooks, closed the drawer, and went outside, calling for Chip and Perry. They came running around the corner like little boys and halted in front of him, winded and laughing. He asked them what was so funny.

  Chip said, “We just made sure that Mrs. McCracken’s still alive.”

  “Oh shit,” Woody said. “The alligator’s out of the pool?” Chip and Perry looked at Woody and broke into fresh fits of laughter and coughing and shook their heads, and then lit fresh cigarettes. “You bozos,” Woody said. “That alligator’s no fucking joke.” He reminded them that they had a lot of hurricane shutters to put up.

  But the three of them lacked coordination. They messed up the first two windows, drilling extra holes in the plywood and in the stucco before they managed to bolt the plywood to the wall. Chip and Perry were weak, clumsy, unfocused, and they stank. They gave off a sharp, sweet, rotten odor, a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco, and God only knows what else that startled Woody every time he got close.

  What Chip and Perry did best was watch Woody work. This allowed them time to talk in their jittery way, chain smoke, scratch themselves, dial the cell phone, wander out to stare at the road, or fade inside the house. Woody finally suggested that only one of them at a time help him. Chip and Perry could trade off. They liked this idea.

  Isolde was at the kitchen table, listening to the weather channel on the radio and filling their hurricane lamps with kerosene, when Perry came in. His beautiful blue eyes locked onto hers and he said, “Darling, I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

  She felt a thump of dread. Had she loved him? Not this Perry. This one was like a Martian to her, strange and dangerous. She said, “I’m sorry you were shot. I didn’t know about it until today.”

  Perry said, “It was Hoyt and his posse. They shut me down.”

  Isolde said again that she was sorry.

  Perry said, “You disappeared.” Isolde said she’d wanted to. Perry said, “Your mother told me she didn’t know where you were.”

  Isolde said, “That’s right.” Isolde picked up a wine bottle she’d filled with cool water.

  Perry frowned at it as if he didn’t recognize it and said, “I lost everything.”

  Isolde said, “So did I.” She carried the bottle of water past him and outside to Woody.

  Woody took Chip aside and said that he was missing the last check from his checkbook. He told Chip to give it back. Chip said, “What?” He looked offended. He said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Woody said, “Don’t bullshit me.”

  Perry came into the kitchen and said to Isolde, “Woody doesn’t know who I am, does he?”

  Isolde, chopping tomatoes for the pasta sauce, said, “He knows you’re a junkie.” A voice on the radio was saying, “ … now expected to come ashore between Palm Beach and the Florida Keys some time around 3 a.m.”

  “I mean to say, you haven’t told him anything about us.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Isolde said.

  Perry looked delighted. He said, “How delicious.”

  Isolde stepped to the door and shouted, “Woody! Perry’s going to put the patio furniture into the pool!”

  “Okay, honey!” Woody shouted.

  Isolde pointed the knife at Perry. She said, “Put it all in the shallow end.” Perry watched her chop tomatoes. She added, “That alligator hates junkies.”

  “Jolly old Mrs. McCracken?”

  Isolde glanced up. “What does my mother have to do with it?”

  Woody noticed that just about every time Perry went into the house, Isolde came out to check on how he, Woody, was doing, or to bring him water, give him encouragement and a kiss and the latest hurricane news. Like figures in a Swiss clock, Woody thought. One goes in, the other comes out.

  Isolde served up pasta with vegetable sauce and salad on plastic plates. Chip and Perry took folding chairs out to the pool deck and ate and smoked and scratched themselves. Isolde and Woody ate in the living room, watching the hurricane news.

  Woody said to her, “You knew Perry before, didn’t you?”

  She frowned down at her plate of pasta and nodded, and Woody waited. She was thinking, Now? Tell him now? But her nerve failed her. She panicked at the thought of telling him about Fiona. Isolde said, “He was famous in Jamaica.”

  Woody said, “Was he a junkie then?”

  She said, “He used a lot of drugs, but he was different then. Everyone liked him. His bar was a success. The drug thing didn’t seem so bad—” She paused, then said, “I guess it was bad. Really bad. But no one realized until it was too late.”

  Woody said, “That’s all you have to tell me?”

  Isolde felt herself beginning to shake. “I’ll try to remember more,” she said. She picked up their empty supper plates and carried them into the kitchen.

  Woody went back to putting up the shutters. The sun had set, but there was light enough to see. It was very hot and humid. The others took turns helping him. Meanwhile, they cleared the yard of branches, coconuts, and other debris, brought plants and orchids into the garage, lowered patio furniture gingerly into the shallow end of the pool. Chip and Perry acted increasingly strung out and irritated. Woody tried to ignore them.

  P
erry and Chip came outside, and Isolde, who’d been helping Woody, went back into the kitchen. Chip lit up a cigarette. Perry signaled to Woody that he had something to say. Woody turned off the electric drill. Perry said, “You’ve got the words wrong, you know.”

  Woody said, “Words?” He asked what words Perry was talking about. The words, Perry said with irritation, to the Rolling Stones song Woody was singing over and over and over.

  “Song?” Woody said.

  Chip said, “‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’”

  Woody apologized. He’d been concentrating on what he was doing.

  “Well, I can tell you,” Perry said, now very angry, “it’s not ‘I was standing in line with Mr. Jitters.’ The correct version is, ‘I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy.’”

  Woody said that he liked the other version. Perry said, “It’s wrong.” He’d gone red in the face. He said with shocking force, “And you’re a bloody awful singer.”

  Chip said, “Hey, Perry, cool it.”

  Woody raised the electric drill to about an inch from Perry’s heart and clicked it on and off, saying, “Fuck you. I’ll sing whatever I want. You keep singing ‘Danke shon, darling, danke shon/Thank you for all the joy and pain.’ Now that’s bloody awful.”

  Woody and Perry stared at each other, until Chip pulled Perry away.

  Lord Jitters, Woody thought. Fuck him.

  It was almost dark when a battered white Lincoln turned into Woody’s driveway. The driver blew the horn. Chip trotted down the drive, followed by Perry. Two large black men climbed from the front seat of the Lincoln and stood behind their open doors, looking bored while Chip chattered away. Then Chip and one of the men walked into the street and out of sight, returning almost immediately. The black men got into their Lincoln, shut the doors, reversed down the drive, and were gone. Chip and Perry sauntered past Woody, who called after Chip, “Found my check yet?”

  Some time later, Chip and Perry carried their two folding chairs and a jar lid ashtray back out onto the pool deck. Woody found them there, smoking and chatting, their air of tension gone. Perry was saying to Chip, “Oh, it was the usual, fraudulent trading, false pretences, fraud against a gaming casino, purchasing a Rolls-Royce with a worthless check. But I knew they were going to arrest me two days in advance. A detective came round and said that for fifty thousand pounds the case against me would be dropped. Because I believe in God and England, I told him to get stuffed. Then I packed my bag and hopped it to Brazil. I met Ronnie Biggs there—” He noticed Woody and paused.

  Chip looked around, saw Woody, and jumped to his feet. He stepped over and dropped the cell phone into Woody’s shirt pocket with an air of irritation, saying, “Take it. I’ve been carrying that damn thing around all afternoon.”

  “We’re almost done with the shutters,” Woody said. “Isolde’s pretty pooped.” He told them they could smoke in the guest room too, as long as they closed the door.

  Perry thanked him, but said that the guest room was hot, so he’d smoke out here by the pool as long as he could. Woody could tell that Perry regretted his earlier outburst.

  Isolde slipped into the master bedroom and opened her closet door. From the top shelf she brought down an old tin cash box. Inside were loose photos of her grandparents, father, mother. And five photos of Fiona: Isolde looked at them now, imagining herself coming from that shower wrapped in a towel and taking the rabbit-ear antennae out of Fiona’s hands, saying, “No, little darling, those are not for you,” and Fiona giving them up, grumbling a little…Isolde imagined this scene every day before she went to sleep, but sometimes it came to her when she was driving or in school or cooking. The scene was so real to her. Isolde kissed a photo of Fiona and said, “Sleep tight.”

  Woody found Isolde lying on the bed. She’d been remembering when she met Perry, at his bar. Those amazing blue eyes, that English accent. She’d gone after him…Woody said he needed her help again outside. She told him she was too tired to move. He said that Chip and Perry were so relaxed now they were even less useful than when they’d been strung out. The good news was that only three shutters remained to be put up.

  Isolde told Woody that they had to talk. Woody felt his heart skip. He said, “Talk now?” Isolde was silent, then told him it could wait until the storm was over. He saw ashes falling all around him like dead snow. She was going to leave him, just as his first wife had. Woody thought that when it came to the human heart, he was so blind, he was an idiot. He’d been astounded when his first wife left him for a middle-aged veterinarian.

  The noise of the wind grew louder and rain gusted against the house, ceased, and gusted again. The weatherman said that the western edge of Hurricane Ernestine was coming ashore in the Miami area. Perry brought in the folding chairs from the pool deck and Woody closed all the doors. Isolde and Woody split a bottle of Cabernet and everybody watched a film on video, though Chip and Perry had to take regular cigarette breaks, going into the guest bedroom and shutting the door, so they missed a lot. The film was La Nuit de Varennes, with Hanna Schygulla and Marcello Mastroianni. The characters are passengers in a coach driving through the French countryside during the revolution. Mastroianni plays the aged Casanova. He’s wonderfully gallant with Hanna Schygulla, but thinks, Too late. He has difficulty peeing and remarks afterwards to Hanna Schygulla that “God punishes us where we have sinned the most.”

  Suddenly, they heard an explosion nearby; the electricity went off. Isolde and Woody lit the lamps and passed one over to Chip and Perry, and for a moment the four of them sat in the flickering lamplight, unspeaking, Woody watching Perry, who was watching Isolde, who seemed to be listening to something special in the noise of the storm. Chip was wearing his dark glasses, so nobody could tell what he was looking at.

  “I love boy-meets-girl stories,” Perry said to Woody. “How did you and Isolde meet?”

  “It’s the old story.” Woody, scenting danger, got to his feet. He picked up their lamp, saying in a bad Bogart imitation, “Of all the rooms in all the museums in the world, she had to walk into the room where I was standing.”

  “Waiting for me?” Isolde said, getting to her feet.

  Woody nodded.

  Chip slowly clapped his hands. It was, for Woody, an appalling sound. He noticed the dim smile on Perry’s face as he looked from Woody to Isolde. Woody imagined braining his brother with the empty Cabernet bottle. Chip finally stopped clapping and Woody held out his hand for Isolde and said that now they were both too tired for words and needed to say goodnight. He led Isolde into their bedroom and shut the door. They lay on their bed, holding hands.

  The hurricane moved over them. Water and debris pelted the house. The noise was big, and it was everywhere. It sounded to Isolde as if they were caught inside the engine of an insane machine. Then she felt the pressure change and saw the doors creak and strain against their fastenings. The house was breathing like a giant lung.

  Around 4:00 in the morning, as the eye of the hurricane was passing and the other side of the storm approaching, Isolde got up to use the bathroom and felt damp air blowing through the house. She walked onto the back porch and saw that the door to the patio was open. She walked outside. The wind was rising. It was dark, dank, humid; there was a strong smell of earth and brine. Perry had brought a folding chair out to the pool deck and was sitting alone, smoking. She touched his shoulder.

  The fresh, moist air awoke Woody too. He sat up, looked around, then slipped out of bed. Wondering about Isolde, he walked onto the back porch. He heard voices outside, from the pool deck. Isolde was talking to Perry. Woody saw them and stepped back inside the dark open doorway, where he could listen and see, but not be seen.

  Isolde was saying, “It’s no joke.” Her voice was raised against the noise of the wind. “You can’t stay out here. The hurricane’s coming back.”

  Perry got up and moved closer to her. He said, “I love you.”

  “I don’t love you,” she said.

  Per
ry said, half-shouting, “Four bullets, Isolde. Not many people survive four bullets. What kept me alive in that Kingston hospital was the determination that we’d meet and I’d apologize for the terrible things that happened, and we’d live together again.”

  “Perry, I divorced you.”

  “I didn’t divorce you.”

  “We are divorced. This is my life.”

  “I got four bullets. You got our Miami bank account. That’s fair, is it?”

  “I didn’t know you’d been shot,” Isolde said. “Anyway, it was a joint bank account.”

  “For emergencies only.”

  “I needed medical treatment, money to live on. I knew that money was all the settlement I’d get from you.”

  “Half this house belongs to me,” Perry said. “Your paramour—husband, whatever you choose to call him—should know that. I will tell him.”

  “If it makes you happy, tell him.”

  “I’ll do it. And I’ll tell him that you are my wife.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I’m perfectly sane!” Perry shouted into the wind. He reached out and took her arm. She tried to jerk away, but he held on and leaned in closer, raising his voice to be heard, saying, “Please listen, darling, you’ve got to listen,” but she wrinkled up her nose and shouted, “God, Perry, you stink, you’re disgusting!” and she pushed him hard toward the pool, saying, “Go take a bath.” Perry lost his balance, stepped back, and went feet first into the water, still holding onto her arm and pulling her into the pool with him.

  Perry’s feet, descending, landed on the alligator’s back. The alligator had been asleep underwater and now it erupted off the bottom, all four hundred pounds of it, snapped its mouth shut around Perry’s right foot, rolled over, and dragged him back down to the bottom of the pool. Isolde was dragged down too, and then Perry’s hand, which had been gripping her forearm, was yanked away.

  In its frenzy, the alligator tore off Perry’s right foot, then fastened its jaws around Perry’s left thigh and began twisting and banging its head with terrific force back and forth on the concrete pool bottom.