by Joss Cordero
“People who leave here don’t want anybody following them.”
“Did he share his trailer?”
“Why you asking?”
“On behalf of a client.” Smoker reached into his pocket and handed him a folded bill. “A generous client.”
Observing the face of Benjamin Franklin, the redhead said, “He lived alone. Paid on time, kept his area clean, always polite, yes sir, yes ma’am. Willing to help anybody in need. I don’t mean money, but lifting, carrying, generally obliging.”
“You remember him pretty well.”
“I have an idactic memory. You know what that is?”
“You remember me?”
“Never saw you before in my life.”
Smoker pulled up an extruded plastic lawn chair and sat down. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it.”
“I’m thinking of a misguided soul I once knew by the name of Rivenberg. I believe he turned over a new leaf when he got out of stir.”
“I’m happy to hear he was rehabilitated. It’s a touching story.”
“Let’s get back to the story of Zachariah Whitman.”
“I told you everything I know.”
“But I didn’t tell you what I know. And it’s something you’ll find personally useful.”
“So when you gonna tell me?”
“After you finish talking about Mr. Whitman. Did he have any visitors?”
“I never saw one.”
“You sure?”
“I got no reason to lie.”
“Did he get much mail?”
“Every month he got an eviction notice from me, but that’s no reflection on his character. It’s easier for me to send them out to all my tenants than to make exceptions.”
“Did he get letters from anyone but you?”
“Not unless he was paying for a mailbox someplace.”
“What did he do with himself when he wasn’t working?”
“He rode around on his bicycle. And he read. He sat outside his unit and he read.”
“Let’s have a look at his unit.”
“There’s a family living there, moved in the day Zach vacated. If he left anything behind, they already sold it.”
From the trailer in question, three shadowy figures emerged. As they came in sight of the office, Smoker saw one of them was carrying a rooster. The bird met Smoker’s glance with a defiant look, and the three men strolled on toward the street.
“You keep chickens here?”
“It gives the place a rural flavor.”
A car with a deeply dented hood pulled up, and the trio got in with their rooster.
“So Zach sat outside his unit and read,” said Smoker. “Did he talk about the books he read?”
“Yeah, he gave nightly lectures on the fall of the Roman Empire.” Red shrugged. “All I know is they were library books.”
“Which library did he belong to?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Let’s say every library within biking distance.”
“How do you know that?”
“He must’ve mentioned it.”
“Sounds like you had quite a few conversations.”
“I suppose we did. Zach spoke English, which is rare in this neighborhood. But I didn’t know him well, and nobody else did either. He went to work, he read, and he rode around on his bike. He was squeaky clean. Almost puritanical.”
Another trailer door opened, and a large black woman in a blond wig, leopard-print minidress, and high-heeled boots teetered in their direction. She greeted them in a bass baritone. “Two fine specimens sittin’ out here under the lamplight jes’ make my heart run fast.”
“Be careful out there, Antoinette.”
“No fun bein’ careful.”
They watched the intrepid transvestite sashay toward the street, square her shoulders, throw back her head, and march off to whatever the night would bring her.
“It’s a funny thing,” said Red.
“What’s a funny thing?”
“Even though Antoinette’s got his balls tucked up somewhere near his ass, they’re bigger than mine, or yours.”
Smoker nodded.
“I mean there he goes, fake tits forward on the most dangerous street in Palm Beach County, and he’s whistling a happy tune. I always ask myself, is that the last I’m gonna see of a good tenant?”
“Does he pack?”
“Johns don’t feel comfortable with a lady carrying hardware.” He paused to watch a bony cat slink past. “Antoinette’s got some kind of fucked-up lipstick that turns into pepper spray.”
They continued watching the bony cat stalking the nocturnal rodent.
“Did Zach ever mention family?” asked Smoker. “Where he came from? Where he’d been before?”
“He had no past. That’s how he wanted it. So I didn’t pursue the subject.”
Smoker handed over the surveillance photo.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“What comes to mind when you look at his face?”
“A cell block. Now you mind me asking what your client wants Zach for?”
“This has been a dress rehearsal for you, Rivenberg. Tomorrow it’ll be the cops asking questions.”
“This is what you thought I’d wanna hear?”
“It’s always good to be prepared.”
“Zach’s running from the law?”
“I think you know that.”
“I think I’ve been extremely helpful. I just hope none of my tenants has to find out we harbored a criminal in our midst. Let them have their pleasant memories.”
“Pleasant memories?”
“I told you, he always lent a helping hand.”
“You told me.”
“Don’t slight that piece of information. It could be essential. Don’t waste your time looking for some hateful character. Look for someone helpful.” Glancing at his watch he added, “Much as I’d like to discuss old times with you, I’m due at a sporting event.”
Smoker handed Red Rivenberg his card, along with another folded bill. “You think of something, you hear of anything, there’ll be more.”
“You’re my man.”
“Even if you did arrest me once,” Red added under his breath as he headed over to the cockfight to put his earnings for the evening on the great Rodriguez.
A stiff breeze was blowing up Okeechobee. Some of the motorcyclists converging on the floodlit parking lot of the International Event Center appeared to be wearing shirts whose colorfully printed sleeves billowed in the wind, but when they dismounted, Smoker saw they weren’t wearing sleeves of any kind. The illusion was caused by tattoos flapping on middle-aged arms.
There was barely an hour left until midnight. Inside the cavernous hall, music was coming from giant speakers, and a performance of some kind seemed to be taking place on a central stage. He could hear intermittent applause, but his view was blocked by rows of exhibits—tables backed by temporary walls displaying samples of the tattooer’s art.
“That’ll be ten dollars, or twenty for the weekend,” the ticket lady informed him. “If you hurry, you can still enter the beer belly contest.”
Smoker looked down, and was dismayed to see a slight paunch bulging over his belt. “You’re suggesting?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a chance. Depends on your tats, of course. Want me to look and give my opinion?”
He flashed his badge. “Here’s my tat.”
“Shit,” she said under her breath. “Don’t ruin the show, okay? And it’s still ten dollars.”
Having paid, he threaded his way toward the stage where the contest was taking place. Great expanses of tattooed belly fat were being heaved around to the music, and he realized with re
lief that his own paunch would never be a contender. His was a mere hill in the Himalayas. The judging seemed to be informal, based on the length of applause given each belly. The most applause went to a cat with upraised tail whose anus was the winner’s belly button. The cat man was awarded a case of beer from Treasure Coast Brewing.
“And now,” cried the announcer, “the beautiful butt contest!”
The music struck up again, and a line of tattooed girls in crop tops and thongs came dancing onto the stage. Smoker felt he owed it to the investigation to carefully check out each one. He put on his glasses so he could decipher the delicate calligraphy gyrating on the naked bottoms. Unable to decide which was the most beautiful, he applauded equally for all of them. The winning butt featured a clown on each cheek, drawing apart a pair of curtains beneath the legend Opening Night. She was awarded a collection of Florida State Seminoles’ thongs.
Taboo, he reminded himself, and began to walk down the aisle.
At the first booth he came to, a woman was having her children tattooed on her thigh. The kids themselves, a preschool boy and girl, were sitting on folding chairs, watching Mommy’s blood being wiped away with each new detail of their faces. The tattooist must’ve made his transfer from a studio photo, because the work was remarkably realistic, the double portrait framed in an oval, like a permanent Mother’s Day card.
The mother caught Smoker’s gaze on her leg, and he felt obliged to say, “Those are two beautiful kids.”
“They grow up so fast.”
“But you’ll always have them under your skirt.”
He moved on past other booths, stuffing his pockets with free ballpoint pens, key chains, and match flaps: Classy Tattoo, Tribal Tattoo, Miss Lou’s Tattoo, Intergalactic Tattoo . . . and then he spotted the sign he was looking for, next to a video playing the artist’s exclusive tattoos. Beneath this display sat the pirate himself.
“I’m looking for the guy who killed Megan Berry.”
“So you told me. But it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“When she came to you did she have someone with her?”
“No.”
“Did she mention a guy in her life?”
“No.”
“Why the snake?”
“She went through my books and looked at everything.” Taboo pushed the loose-leaf binders toward Smoker. “She hoped a tat would change her luck.”
“It changed her luck all right.”
“Like I said, it’s a fucking shame.” After a couple of seconds of silent mourning, he asked, “How about you, Mr. Private Eye? How’d you like a tat? A signature tattoo. A pair of binoculars. Or I could tattoo that badge and you wouldn’t have to take out your wallet.”
His gaze moved from Smoker, and his chin lifted in greeting. Smoker turned.
Megan’s brother handed Taboo the card he’d been given at the funeral home, and rolled up his sleeve. “I wanna do one in honor of Megan.”
“A feeling which I will honor to the best of my abilities.”
The brother looked at Smoker. “What about you?”
“I’m trying to honor her too.”
Taboo returned to the brother. “So what image do you want?”
“Her name.”
“This is my policy. A guy wants a woman’s name, I have to warn him some other woman down the line is gonna be jealous.”
“Of a sister?”
“Some wives are jealous of your own mother on your arm. I just covered a mother with a Hobbit.”
“If I don’t do her name, how else can I honor her?”
“Megan Berry,” mused Taboo. “How about a bunch of berries?”
“I can’t walk around with a bunch of fuckin’ fruit on my arm.” He pondered for a moment and inspiration came. “This is what I want: Revenge. She’ll know.”
Smoker thought to himself that a single word inked on an arm was all that would survive of the lovely girl he’d seen two hours before. She’d been sacrificed so some lunatic could have thirty seconds of pleasure. Thirty seconds against the rest of her life. It was a monstrously uneven exchange, and revenge was the only correct word. Megan’s body was in its casket, empty eye sockets looking at nothing, while Zachariah Whitman was out there looking for his next thirty seconds of pleasure.
“We got a wide range of fonts to choose from,” Taboo was saying. “We got your Edwardian, your Gothic, your Celtic . . .” He ran a finger down the typefaces.
“Too fancy.”
“I got it. I know what you want . . .” Taboo turned the book around and pointed to a typeface decorated with menacing black tusks. “Angryhog.”
“I like it,” said the brother. “It sends the message.”
Smoker left them to work out their design and made his way toward the door, passing tattooed ears, tattooed tongues, an entire head and face tattooed and pierced with jewelry. A melancholy young man had a scene tattooed across his chest of extraterrestrials striding across a dead Earth. There were numerous depictions of murder and mayhem: crabs tore apart flesh, an Egyptian mummy burst free from its bondage, and vampire wounds gushed from necks. But all of it was skin deep. Until you’ve had the tattoo that goes from ear to ear and the artist leaves without mopping up the blood, you haven’t been tattooed.
He understood that these young people saw their tats as social commentary. They hadn’t been around long enough to know life isn’t commentary and you don’t play violent games with it. When life is gone, it’s gone. End of comment. He thought of the little gangbangers who’d been killed in John Prince Park. Those two had seen themselves as comic book heroes, playing violent games in which they were invulnerable.
He noticed a girl wearing a short skirt with long fringes that revealed vines of bloody hands winding up her legs as she stalked along in high heels.
In front of him walked a young man whose naked back bore the screaming face of a woman dripping blood from her gashed mouth.
The whole tattoo show was beginning to look like a portrait of the netherworld Zachariah Whitman lived in.
Ordinary people had a taste for that netherworld. They liked to be scared and be scary. According to the few witnesses, Zach wasn’t tattooed. He was the thing itself.
“Did you learn anything?” asked the ticket lady. “People don’t realize it’s an ancient art form.”
Smoker nodded. “The monster is old.”
From the time he read Sherlock Holmes in childhood, Smoker knew he was going to be a consulting detective. But since there was no such profession, the closest he could get was the West Palm Beach Police Department, his subsequent work as a PI, and the annual meetings of the Palm Beach Irregulars. This evening’s gathering was in the Palm Room of the Atlantis Country Club.
The suggestion that members and their guests come in Victorian or Edwardian dress had been loosely interpreted, particularly by Dottie, whose only concession was to come at all. Her plunging V-neck red wrap dress was definitely not of the period, though it had its virtues.
A few of the more enthusiastic ladies at the Irregulars dinner wore black gowns, long lace gloves with open fingers, and puffy hairdos with a topknot. One of them even wore a Victorian mourning veil. Smoker wore the same costume each year, for which Dottie gave him a rash of shit: in three-piece suit, derby hat, and false mustache, he was Inspector Lestrade, the Scotland Yard detective who always got it wrong.
This was the first time Dottie had agreed to accompany him, in exchange for which he promised to accompany her to Menopause the Musical where, it was rumored, any man in the audience was mercilessly mocked.
They made their way to the long banquet table. Place cards told them where to sit. “I already feel trapped,” she muttered.
An officer of the society was seated to her right, wearing a white brocade vest, high wing collar, and cravat. He introduced himself to her as the Tantalus.
&
nbsp; “What’s a Tantalus?” She smiled with the full Dottie-on glow of a woman who’s going to make the evening go, no matter what.
The Tantalus rummaged beneath the table and brought out a trough-shaped wooden case holding three cut-glass decanters. “This is the Tantalus from 221B Baker Street. It has a lock, so though servants can see the alcohol they can’t get at it. Whereas we . . .” He opened the first decanter, and poured them each a shot. “In my opinion, this is the best single malt you can get in America. But only just good enough for you, dear lady,” he added, gazing at her cleavage.
She clinked her glass against his and Smoker’s.
They were joined by a bearded member who came each year as the Crooked Man, wearing a turban and leaning on a stick, with his frock coat padded to deform him like the long-suffering character in the story, as he was eager to explain to Dottie.
Another round was poured to include the Crooked Man, and they raised their glasses again.
“Here comes the Gasogene,” said the Crooked Man in Dottie’s ear. “The Gasogene was the Victorian precursor to the seltzer bottle.”
The portly Gasogene made his way down the table bearing two glass bowls, one atop the other, protected by wire mesh. “Drinks, please.”
They held out their drinks, into which he squirted soda water.
Dottie waved her glass at the decorated sash across the Gasogene’s chest. “I like your medals.”
“I like yours too,” he answered with a wink toward Dottie’s plunging neckline, and resumed his stately progress. When he reached his place at the head of the table, he called the meeting to order. “A toast to the Master!”
Everyone raised their glasses and drank.
Waiters and waitresses came around with cheap champagne. Toasts were offered to Watson, to Mrs. Hudson, to The Woman, and to Mycroft.
“I get it,” said Dottie. “It’s a drinking club.”
“That’s an official secret,” whispered the Tantalus.
Dinner was served and eaten in a haze of booze. After the plates were removed, the well-lubricated Gasogene introduced, “Our honored speaker for the evening, Dr. Arthur Applebaum, the celebrated cardiovascular surgeon practicing right here in our fair state, the heart attack capital of the nation.”
