Cold Florida

by Phillip DePoy

  THIRTY-ONE

  Of course, I had no idea which condo belonged to Henderson, but I headed out of Yudda’s and toward the art deco building where he made his Fry’s Bay home. If I was lucky, there wouldn’t be a security guard or concierge to give me trouble.

  The building itself was beautiful, and there were some things about it that reminded me of the Chrysler Building, only shorter. The rain was now an icy drizzle, and I was still not dried out from previous forays into the weather, so I was shivering pretty good.

  Rodney’s gun was a little disappointing. He carried a Colt Official Police revolver, which, in its day, was something of a big deal but had become something of a joke. I had it tucked away in the right outside pocket of my very wet suit coat.

  I drew near to the front door of the building. It was a strange looking revolving number in glass and copper. I saw, to my dismay, that there was, indeed, a security guard. He appeared to be asleep in his chair, but it was a good bet that the revolving door would wake him up.

  I took a deep breath and shoved through the door. There was a whooshing sound, and I was in the lobby, which was small but choice. There were paintings on the walls of women in blue dresses playing musical instruments. There was a kind of angular sunburst design on the floor. The ceiling was mostly hidden by a huge chandelier.

  And the security guard woke up.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he began, before he was even on his feet. ‘Turn right around and go out. This ain’t a public building.’

  I zipped out my wallet and flashed my so-called badge. ‘Florida Child Protective Services,’ I said, in my official voice. ‘We’ve had a complaint that somebody is beating a young person somewhere on the premises. I’m going to need to see a roster of current residents. Now.’

  ‘I … you’re what? Florida child what?’ He squinted at my badge.

  ‘You actually want to go on record as a guy who’d protect a child beater?’ I asked him.

  ‘Child beater? What?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I demanded.

  ‘My name?’

  ‘That’s right, just keep repeating everything I say. You may be able to tell that I’m wet and cold. This has put me in a really bad mood. In a bad mood, I might cite you for obstruction. If you keep stalling, I’ll get into a terrible mood. That will get you a charge of collusion. Do you want to be known as a person who colludes with a child beater? What kind of a job do you think you could get after that? Once you’re out of prison, I mean.’

  ‘Prison?’ He was beginning to wake up.

  ‘Show me the damned residents list now.’

  ‘Yes. Right. I got it right here.’ He scrambled.

  There was a kind of podium thing behind him. He reached into some inner recess and pulled out a clipboard, which he offered me.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s the list.’

  ‘How many floors you got here,’ I asked, looking at the list. ‘Three?’

  ‘Yeah. Three. That’s all. Just three.’ He was shifting his weight form side-to-side – very nervous.

  I took a good look at him. He was sixty or so and about that many pounds overweight. He was wearing a uniform, but it wasn’t from any company. It came from an army surplus store, was my guess. He had a name badge that said Ralph. His head was almost completely bald, and beads of sweat were beginning to form there.

  There were only three names on the list, including Redhawk, but I found that Henderson was not one of them.

  ‘Penthouse?’ I asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he replied.

  ‘Does this place have a penthouse?’

  ‘Oh. Sure. Yes. That’s Mr Henderson, of course. He owns the building. The other tenants are, you know, mostly summer types – except Mister Redhawk, of course. I live in the basement. Mr Henderson lives on the top. He owns the building.’

  ‘You said that,’ I told him. ‘Is this Mr Henderson in?’

  ‘In?’ The sweat on the guy’s head got thicker.

  ‘Yes. As the owner of the building, I think he’d like to know what’s going on under his roof, don’t you?’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know if he’s in?’

  ‘No, he’s in all right. It’s just that he never … I get the impression that he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Ever. So, I don’t know if he wants to know what goes on in this building or not. I mean, nothing goes on, but I don’t think he wants to bother with … Jesus. Are you going to arrest me?’

  ‘Well, you did obstruct my investigation. Just a little.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I get that. Look, I’m probably just tired and wet and all. How about this: how about if you were at Yudda’s – you know Yudda’s?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I eat there every night.’

  ‘So, what if you were there, like on a coffee break. How could I arrest you then?’

  ‘If I wasn’t here? When you came in, I wasn’t here?’

  ‘Right.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. Thanks. I could use some coffee.’

  He shot out through the revolving door like he was blown out of a cannon. Didn’t even bother to put on a coat. I watched him go, and then I saw flashing lights and I figured Rodney’s ambulance had arrived at Yudda’s. Good. Maybe Henderson would see that; flashing lights can make people nervous.

  A quick glance around the lobby told me that one of the elevators was for the hoi polloi and the other required a key, which meant that it was for the penthouse. So I began to worry about how I was going to get to Henderson’s Shangri-La. I wondered if Ralph had the key, and I thought about skittering after him to fetch it. Then I thought to myself that maybe I could hotwire the elevator the way I hotwired a car. How different could it be?

  I motored over to the Otis doors and took a second to glare at the lock. Turned out to be one of those big, loose jobs that was as much a button as a keyhole. That being the case, I fished in my pants pockets for a few small items that I always kept there for such occasions. Suffice it to say that a few slips and clicks and a little gentle pressure did the trick. Within thirty seconds, I heard the elevator gliding my way.

  I took out the pistol I had in my suit coat and I stepped to one side, just in case. But the elevator doors opened up and the car was empty. So, just like Daniel into the lion’s den, I stepped inside. The doors closed very genteelly. I felt a tug and, in no time at all, the doors opened again on to a stately pleasure dome like I had never seen before in my life.

  In keeping with the exterior of the building, the penthouse was a very extravagant version of the same art deco style. Just from inside the elevator I could see the living room was something out of a movie set – it even had a beautiful 1930s Phillips radio, wood polished to the hilt, shaped like the top of a bullet, sitting under a poster of Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel. I knew this particular radio because my aunt Shayna had one just like it, only not in such good shape. And I knew Greta Garbo because my aunt Shayna wanted to be Greta Garbo.

  What with the plush carpets here and the lush sofas there and the mood lighting and the silence and all, I was a little nervous to step off the elevator. But then I heard a noise and I decided I did not wish to be trapped in a moveable box roughly the size of two coffins. So I stepped out, into the foyer.

  Even the foyer was fine. It had the same kind of sunburst pattern on its floor as the lobby. The columns that pretended to hold up the entrance into the apartment were Greek goddesses or some such, resting the arched doorway on their curvy shoulders.

  I was on tiptoe, even thought I was certain that the noise of the elevator had alerted anyone in the apartment to my presence. But I tried for stealth. I peered into the living room. It was huge – more than twice the size of my entire apartment. One wall was windows that looked out on to the ocean. The opposite wall was mostly a mirror, which made the place disconcertingly gigantic. Straight ahead there was a dining room, which was half the size of the living room. Beyon
d that I thought was maybe the kitchen.

  I continued to tiptoe into the living room, and then I heard something that sounded like the world’s tiniest washing machine. Then it hits me: martinis!

  I made it through the living room and peered around the wall to my left, opposite the window wall, and saw yet another in a series of surreal enclaves. Seated quite comfortably in a nice-sized den, with a fire going in the fireplace, I saw Mister Redhawk, Philip, Jody the drug pusher, and Ronald Colman – the older incarnation, graying at the temples.

  I realized right away that Ronald Colman had died nearly twenty years previous to that particular night, so the fourth of the strange quartet would most likely be Pascal Henderson. At any rate, they were all holding martini glasses.

  I put away my gun – it seemed rude at that point – and I stepped boldly into the den. The actual den, not the lion’s den, although it was probably an equally risky enterprise.

  ‘I apologize for busting in like this,’ I said cordially, ‘but I waited at Yudda’s for a while, and when the police came, I had to kill them, so naturally I didn’t want to wait there anymore. Ralph the security guy downstairs is dead too. I’m in a really bad mood. I’m wet and cold and I’m the only one in the place without a martini in my hand. So.’

  Enter bold, that is one of the lessons I learned from Red Levine. Just saying a phrase like, ‘I had to kill them’ with a straight face, it can get you a long way in the respect department.

  Oddly, Mister Redhawk and Philip seemed the most startled.

  Philip sat forward so fast that he almost spilled his drink. ‘You killed a cop?’ He could hardly believe it.

  ‘Two,’ I corrected him. ‘Rodney and some other goon. Can I have a martini or not?’

  Ronald Colman smiled. ‘Jody?’ That’s all he said.

  Jody nodded, not smiling, and got up from the leather sofa where she and Ronald had been sitting. She stepped very quickly to a convenient bar close to the fireplace, where she began to make me a drink.

  Philip and Mister Redhawk were stunned, it seemed. They said exactly nothing.

  I circled around the furniture, making an obvious show of not turning my back on anyone, and ended up in front of the fireplace. The heat felt so good I considered jumping in.

  Nobody said a word. Jody finished her concoction and brought me a glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  She did not rejoin. She merely returned to the sofa and sat beside Henderson

  I sipped. ‘Nice.’

  Still no response from anyone. I decided to continue my modest onslaught.

  ‘McReedy also paid me a visit,’ I said casually, ‘over at my office. Sharon’s office, actually. Sharon’s in the hospital. McReedy? He’s switched sides. I mean, obviously he did not kill me because, as you can see, I’m not dead.’

  I held out both arms.

  Ronald Colman set down his drink. He did not use a coaster.

  ‘Sharon’s in the hospital?’ he asked, trying to sound calm, but not completely succeeding.

  ‘And you are?’ I asked, mostly to irritate him.

  ‘My name is Pascal Henderson,’ he said, ‘but you already know that, I’m sure. Now about Sharon.’

  ‘McReedy shoots people,’ I said, ‘but you already know that, I’m sure. Sharon’s alive but was bleeding very badly when last I saw her. So is Mister Redhawk’s friend Joseph – bleeding, I mean. They’re both over at the hospital.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Henderson said, ‘McReedy is where?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ I sipped.

  ‘And you have gone on a sort of killing spree,’ he said to me, all the while still smiling. ‘Somewhat uncharacteristic of your usual behavior.’

  ‘Desperate times, pal.’ I sipped a third time, and my martini was almost gone. ‘It was them or me. I prefer me.’

  ‘McReedy shot Joseph?’ Philip finally managed to say.

  ‘In the leg,’ I told him. ‘He’ll be fine. He could use a joint, he says, but otherwise all is well. Sharon, on the other hand, has a head wound.’

  ‘Why would McReedy shoot Sharon?’ Henderson wanted to know.

  ‘He was going for me,’ I answered.

  Henderson folded his hands in his lap. He was dressed in a killer black pinstripe suit and a perfectly pressed pale blue shirt, no tie, unbuttoned at the collar. He sported a little gold chain around his neck.

  Jody was still wearing her giant grey sweatshirt, only now she also had on jeans and pink rubber boots.

  After another bit of silence, which you could slice with a knife, Henderson spoke.

  ‘Mr Moscowitz,’ he said, ‘you may not be the person I thought you were.’

  I finished my martini in one last gulp, set the glass on the mantle, also sans coaster, and said, ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘I thought you were an inconsequential criminal and an accidental murderer,’ he told me crisply. ‘A person who could be used and then tossed away, a little like a paper towel. Now I see that you may be more valuable than that.’

  ‘Like a paper towel?’ I asked. ‘That’s the best you can come up with? A man with your kind of money ought to have the sophistication to go with it. Only yesterday, John Horse and I were speaking about metaphorical language. Now there’s a guy, John Horse, who has no formal education, no money, even was in prison for a while, but he is something of a genius in metaphorical conversation. And you give me paper towel. Well, that just shows to go you.’

  I was deliberately trying to provoke the guy because I wanted to see what kind of a person he really was.

  ‘Look, Foggy,’ Philip began.

  ‘And you guys!’ I turned my attention to the Seminole faction. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘We’re working out an arrangement,’ Mister Redhawk said, straining to be patient. ‘Or we were trying to before you came in.’

  ‘Yeah, here’s what I figure,’ I said to Mister Redhawk. ‘You talked me into going to my office, Sharon’s office, in the hope that McReedy would show up and ice me. I let you talk me into it because I was confused about who’s on what side in this little fracas. Although, I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that sides don’t matter, and maybe there are no sides. But be that as it may, you can see that McReedy did not pop me, I am not dead, so I am still a problem for all concerned.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mister Redhawk said confidently.

  ‘I’m not finished,’ I told him. ‘Then, just in case McReedy didn’t do his job, you told Mr Henderson, here, that you’re supposed to meet me at Yudda’s. Mr Henderson then called on the police force in Fry’s Bay, a group that he has bought and paid for, and two of their finest came to menace me. What you don’t get is that they’re idiots, and I’m not. What you don’t get is that McReedy is no match for me. I’m King Kong.’

  Keep up the bravado, that’s what you were supposed to do, especially when you had very little to lose.

  ‘Are you finished?’ Henderson asked me.

  ‘Let me think.’ I thought. ‘Yes, I’m finished.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘then we can move right along. As Mister Redhawk was just saying, he and I are on the verge of an understanding. He had nothing to do with McReedy showing up at your office or with the police bothering you at Yudda’s. McReedy was staking out your apartment and your office, because those are the main two places you might go. The police have kept their eyes on the pool hall bar, the donut shop, and Yudda’s, because those are the other places in Fry’s Bay that see you very often. It wasn’t exactly the riddle of the ages. You are in some ways a very predictable man.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but you didn’t figure on me to deal with McReedy, kill some cops, show up here, and drink your martinis. Not all in one night, you didn’t.’

  Henderson leaned back and crossed his legs, chin up. ‘I don’t believe you’ve killed anyone … tonight. I can’t imagine what’s happened to McReedy. But as to your being here, that is a surprise.’


  The other three people seated on nice leather sofas, they didn’t move – like they were frozen.

  ‘And yet,’ I said, ‘here I am.’

  ‘Yes, here you are.’ He smiled, an expression that reminded me of the alligators I imagined in the swamp. ‘So. What can I do for you?’

  I nodded. ‘Right, well, I haven’t quite got that worked out.’

  ‘I generally find that when people visit me like this,’ he said, very comfortably, ‘they end up asking for money in one way or another. That’s why Mister Redhawk is here, certainly. And Jody, of course.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a puzzler,’ I admitted. ‘Why exactly is Jody here?’

  ‘Luck of the draw, actually,’ he said. ‘She was here on a personal matter.’

  ‘What, you’re her counselor?’ I asked.

  Jody blew up out of her seat. ‘Can I go?’

  ‘No,’ said Henderson.

  Jody fumed, arms crossed, moving away from the rest of the group. It was easy to see that part of her problem was that she hadn’t had a shot in a while, and she was getting itchy.

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ she hissed in my direction.

  I leaned a little on the mantle. The martini had hit me in a very nice way.

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific than that,’ I told Jody. ‘A lot of things are my fault – but not everything.’

  ‘I mean,’ she snapped, ‘how do you even know that greasy little spoon, Gerard? You’re a queer?’

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘I try not to affiliate myself with any political party.’

  ‘No,’ she said, confused by what I’d told her.

  ‘What happened? Why are you here talking to Mr Henderson about Gerard, who is a great guy, by the way. He’s not greasy at all, and he is by no means shaped like a spoon.’

  ‘He got Belinda fired!’ she shouted, nearly over the edge.

  ‘Wait.’ I cranked the gears in my brain about two clicks. ‘Belinda is your girlfriend. Gerard said something about the club where they both work. Belinda got fired?’

  ‘You know good and well,’ she said, beginning to grind her teeth. ‘You told Gerard all about Lynette. He told everyone at the club. And Belinda got fired!’