by Tom Corcoran
“Who sold us those shares in that development project?”
“Some dock jockey at the yacht club.”
“Where were our brains?”
“We must’ve thought we were flush,” said Sam. “I remember those men on the fuel dock, Norman Wood, his friend Foster, the can-opener tycoon, and the dockmaster, Jabe. They looked at us like we were nuts. Of course, we thought Norman was crazy for investing in Treasure Salvors. What the hell did we know?”
“What’d we give them, two grand apiece?”
“You did, but I doubled-up. I never told you that.”
“I remember thinking for about a year and a half, I was going to make a killing. I was going to pay off my mortgage twenty-seven years ahead of time. I finally, mentally, wrote off my riches. I hadn’t thought of it in fifteen years.”
“I don’t even know if that company still exists.”
“I was getting to that.” I told him about the issue coming before the city commission. I explained Marnie’s heads-up regarding our names appearing on the list of owners, the circled BBDC mention in Marlow’s newspaper.
“I don’t remember Marlow the bad cop.”
“Me either,” I said. “If he was on the take—what cop wasn’t back then?—he had money to burn. If the stock was sold before he got fired, maybe he invested cash he needed to hide.”
“You or Marnie would’ve seen his name on that list.”
“He could’ve used a corporate name. You recall any more about the guy who sold us those shares? Wasn’t he a townie?”
“A blip in the back of my head says he was a Cuban Conch who left town for a while, then came back. He knew a lot of locals, but he was connected to Miami money.”
“Miami money came in funny flavors back then,” I said. “Maybe some of the investors would rather forget their involvement.”
“You better believe just as many are hoping for that big payoff in the sky. Once again, I’m glad I fish.”
“You could write a book about your past five days.”
“I’d have to think about things I would rather forget,” said Sam. “I tried to write a book in the early Seventies. On active duty.”
“How did you find time?”
“I did my last two years at a desk in Fort Knox. I was supposed to train recruits, but some lieutenant colonel thought I was too extreme, too over-the-top. They put me in charge of filing psychological profiles. I supervised a civilian, a widow with three young kids. She did all the work. She was great. I didn’t have to do squat, but I turned into a slug. I reached a point where my eyelids were tired, my legs were tired, and my brain was in overdrive. It was making me loopy, so I wrote to save my sanity.”
“A book about what?”
“My best friend in Vietnam. Boy who didn’t get out.”
“Did you write a whole book?” I said.
“I didn’t finish. I made it fiction, because I didn’t want to tell stories and name names. I can’t remember, but I think Crumley’s One to Count Cadence was the only fiction out there. This was before Going After Cacciato and Dog Soldiers and Fields of Fire. Anyway, I got my discharge papers when it was half done.”
“You never thought about going back to it?”
“I came to Key West, and one of my first charters was two men from Elyria, Ohio. After the first day’s fishing they invited me to join them for a beer at Cow Key Marina. One of them began to shoot pool, and I got into telling the other guy about my book. I think he brought up the subject. Anyway, I gave him background, a few combat details. The man says, ‘You’re talking about the Foster boy, aren’t you?’ He pointed to the pool shooter. ‘You’re talking about his son.’ I didn’t see that one coming. The man playing pool was my friend’s father.”
“Small world we live in.”
“I thought for a few days that meeting his father would inspire me to get back into it. It worked the opposite. The father was an asshole. He got drunk and begged me to find him a hooker. I decided my friend died to escape his old man. I took my manuscript to the far end of the Northwest Channel and gave it the float test.”
“And?”
“It failed. Sank like sledge. Come to think of it, I taped it to a sledge.”
“Your friend in Nam was a hero?” I said.
“No more than fifty-eight thousand others. He was just another story.”
“What’s a hero’s secret?”
“You take abject fear, fight it back with a death wish, and people think you’re courageous.”
“In other words…”
Sam said, “In other words, you fight crazy people with crazy logic, you force the other guy to share the fear. It’s all they respect, and if you’re lucky it takes them by surprise.” He changed the subject. “Christ, look at the price of gas.”
“Every ten miles it goes up a nickel a gallon.”
“And the closer you get to Key West,” said Sam, “the more people live for today and to hell with tomorrow.”
Full circle. He was back to memories and revenge.
* * *
I called Liska’s office from Murray’s Food Mart on Summerland Key.
“Gone for the day,” said the dispatcher. “He left you a message, bubba. ‘Keep the car. See you A.M.’ I also got another for you, ten minutes ago.”
“What’s that?”
“From Agent Simmons, Miami FDLE. He said, ‘Very funny.’ I assume you know what that means. He wasn’t laughing.”
I went into the market, bought a six-pack. It was gone before we reached Searstown. Key West was oddly quiet for a Friday night. Elizabeth Street smelled like a valley of frangipani.
Sam’s house was dark. “Marnie’s cashed it in for the night,” he said. “Teresa going to be waiting?”
“You’ve been in Lauderdale, you missed the soap opera. I should have bought a T-shirt that said, IF YOU LIVED HERE YOU’D BE HOME BY NOW.”
“Didn’t she just move in?”
“Remember, ‘If you love somebody, set them free’? It’s a crock of shit.”
“Ask her to wear a zapper collar. You can install an Invisible Fence.”
“Too late. The best I can do is call Animal Control.”
“Looks like it’s back to Annie Minnette,” said Sam.
“Jesus. I forgot about her.”
“Ah, subconscious smarts. By the way, your meddling saved my ass. Thanks.”
“Blew their sting to shit, though.”
“Flatter yourself, bubba. We don’t have that kind of power. No matter what they say, they blew it themselves. Can you imagine trying to catch a fish from inside my house? They thought having an Ops Box would cause bad people to wave white flags. That’s what smart people call caca.”
“I almost forgot to ask you,” I said. “What went down between you and Liska when he came to the hospital this morning?”
“Never saw him. They yanked me out of the hospital at dawn. When you got to the Ops Box, I’d been sitting there eight hours.”
* * *
My house was dark, too. I went in, locked the door behind me. Teresa’s packed bags were next to the door, her squash racquet and snorkeling gear stacked on top. She had taken two prints from the bedroom wall, cheap prints unworthy of their frames. Also the Isabelle Gros painting, which I would miss. Two boxes of books were there, too, mysteries she had kept to reread. Right on top was one named Love for Sale.
Honey, you could write the sequel.
I blew off my messages and opened the only beer in the fridge. I would learn in the morning that I drank maybe two sips before I passed out fully clothed.
29
WOODPECKERS AND A BAR fight. Roofers’ hammers, brass gongs, a hardball through a window. Twenty people shuffled on my porch. The cast of River Dance had decided I wasn’t supposed to sleep late. Why couldn’t I live on a peaceful dead-end lane on a tropical island where everyone slept late? I had wasted my money on an alarm clock.
Empty space on the dressing table. Her knickknacks were gone
, her eaux de toilette, ceramic alligators packed in boxes, ready to roll. They had been there only a few days, but they had added a secure touch to the room. Safe to assume that Teresa would move back to her old condo and Whit Randolph would gain a roommate. Or vice versa, depending on their arrangement. She preferred to be on top. I didn’t know if that position applied to her business deals.
Good morning and look at the bright side, I thought.
You are not manacled to floorboards.
Someone peered through a pane in the French door. I hit the bathroom. My hair looked like an explosion in a wire factory. I would have to wear a ball cap to greet visitors. My face looked like a topological chart of northern Montana. They would have to suffer that. I brushed my teeth—for myself, so my jaw wouldn’t stick shut. Baking soda toothpastes make your mouth feel like you’ve chewed a handful of sand, though there are times when that can be an improvement.
I walked outside. No one spoke.
Marnie, Monty, and Liska had made themselves at home. Coffee for the men, a Sprite for Marnie, nothing for me. The porch air smelled wet and warm. Birds sang, late-season gray catbirds, tree swallows. Fat April foliage blocked traffic noise on Fleming. Monty’s ketchup-red rental convertible was snugged behind the Lexus. Marnie’s Jeep was parked behind the ragtop.
Chicken Neck resembled a tourist in a yellow mesh T-shirt and tan shorts with fifteen pockets. He chewed his coffee stirrer, appeared taciturn, almost smug. Had he forgotten that he’d set me up for an FDLE beating? And why would he be with Monty on a Saturday morning?
Monty looked grim. He had succeeded in getting a deep tan, had slicked his hair back to expose a balding pattern I never had noticed. The style did him no favor. He looked like a junior Soviet diplomat in a Cold War newsreel.
Marnie stared at Liska as if he was a crazy man who could go berserk without warning. She wasn’t too placid, herself. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
I wanted to stare at my magenta bougainvillea, ignore them all. I felt like a fat mango, ripe to pick. I hoped that Marnie didn’t want to discuss the Borroto Brinas Development Corporation in front of the sheriff. I didn’t want to explain my part ownership that early in the morning.
Liska said, “Nice pants.”
I had slept in the trousers that Macho had torn apart in the C-store parking lot in Dania Beach.
“Bad dreams last night,” I said.
Liska nodded. “Saw your name in the paper this morning.”
So much for keeping my BBDC investment under wraps.
“The Citizen or the Herald?”
“Does it matter? They spelled your name right.”
“Top of the day to you, too,” I said. “I just woke up, recovering from a long day yesterday. If you came for snappy chatter…”
Monty said, “Why don’t we let Marnie take care of her business first?”
“Good,” I said. “The tank’s full. I’ll get Liska’s keys for you.”
Monty shook his head. “We have much to discuss.”
“Okay,” I said. “Your slot’s in fifteen minutes. You’re better off that way, because I’m barely awake right now. Maybe you could run to the Sunshine Market, buy me a newspaper and a greasy glazed doughnut.”
Liska appeared frightened at the prospect of exercise. Monty sneered. He led the way out the door.
I caught myself staring at Marnie’s Jeep. “Sorry about the tire.”
“Why? You didn’t poke a hole in it. But I like your sense of duty. Make your coffee while you can, and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”
She followed me to the kitchen, glanced for a moment at Teresa Barga’s belongings inside the door. “Shouldn’t that go to the curb?”
“If she doesn’t come back, I’ll auction it to benefit the homeless. Have you recovered from getting scooped?”
“I buried myself in work. I dug into old newspapers, county tax records, and state corporate papers. I spent eleven hours online. I’ve done fifteen telephone interviews. It’s like untangling a hair ball.”
“Because time has passed, or people made it complicated?”
“Both,” she said. “I learned yesterday that Borroto Brinas was started by a Miami architect, Manuel Reyes Silveria. He came up with a concept, then brought in advisors and investors.”
“I know there’s a chapter two.”
She pulled a Spiral notepad from her back pocket. “From the October seventh, 1983, Miami Herald: ‘Reyes took his life with a shotgun yesterday at the canal edge behind his Coral Gables home. A friend said he had been despondent, “embroiled in a war of lawyers and financiers for control of his company.” A BBDC spokesman, Artemio Fernandez, expressed his colleagues’ “infinite grief and sense of loss.” He noted that the company’s projects in Dade and Monroe counties would move ahead “in keeping with our founder’s dreams.”’”
“Jesus,” I said. “Identical suicides, a generation apart, under the dark cloud of BBDC. Do we know anything about the company’s other projects?”
“Nope,” she said. “Just that island. They wanted condos and gift shops within swimming distance of North Roosevelt. I can’t find the corporate name attached to anything else. It was a one-pony circus.”
I said, “Why didn’t they build back then? Or do we know that?”
“They had everything in place by 1978. They got a hundred-year lease from the city, hired marine engineers, got all the permits, all the financing. Then Florida threw a wrench in the works. The state said the land was bay bottom. It wasn’t attached to the main island, so it didn’t belong to the city in the first place. It belonged to Florida, so all those permits were useless. Everything stopped in early ’seventy-nine.”
“Let me guess. That land is part of the big parcel the feds made the state give back to the city. When, two years ago?”
“Right,” said Marnie. “The district court said that the state’s land policy back then was illegal.”
“Should I be foolish enough to ask about environment?” I said.
“Our city attorney thinks that the project’s grandfathered in. Even if it screws the water and kills baby birds, there’s no way to stop it.”
“When the dreamer died by his canal, who inherited BBDC?”
Marnie checked her notepad. “His fifty-one percent went to a nephew and two nieces. They all live in Coral Gables, and the nephew’s an attorney. He campaigned for years to get the feds to declare the land grab void, and won. He’s the one who’s been pushing this deal into the city commission’s face. You want to guess his name?”
“The spokesman who bubbled over with grief?” I said.
“You got it. Artemio Fernandez.”
“Maybe Artie’s our expert in neat suicides. Who owns the rest of it?”
“Forty-four percent is held by Remigio Partners. Either the partners went by fake names, or they’re all dead. I found one reference to Remigio in the archives. It was an old DEA district court filing. The government wanted the company’s bank records during a big drug sweep called Operation Grouper. That was when the cops busted a hundred people, then the cops got busted, too. They got greedy with confiscated cash.”
“What you’ve told me adds up to ninety-five percent.”
“BBDC’s last five percent was sold to people in Key West prior to 1979. People who might have helped promote the project. Even quarter shares were sold on the docks and in bars. That’s where you and Sam and eighteen others came in, including five dead ones on that list, too.”
“Who were Borroto and Brinas?”
“I couldn’t find them in the corporate records, or anywhere else,” she said. “They may have been ancestors honored by the company name.”
I carried my coffee to the porch. Marnie followed, sat across from me.
“You said the other night that Gomez’s vote would’ve cost Sam and me our investments. Let’s say it passes now. Where’s that leave us?”
“I can only begin to guess,” she said. “With current land value
s, growth restrictions that this project could ignore, and future rents, we’re talking hundreds of millions. Even with your fractional ownership, you could be into the high five-, low six-figure range. Sam, twice as much. Who knows? It could be triple that. You two could sit back and take dividends and be set for life.”
“I had no idea…”
My phone rang. At the crack of dawn on Saturday?
Marnie said, “Don’t answer it. The Herald is running down that list of BBDC names. There’s nothing you can say that will sound good.”
“How is that different from the way I look and feel?”
“Let’s talk about your pity problem.”
I decided not to mention her bemoaning the Miami Herald’s scoop. “All this research, and we still don’t know who murdered Steve Gomez.”
“If we knew that, we could celebrate. Spend the day in the Snipe Keys.”
“We should do it anyway,” I said.
“On whose boat?” said Marnie. “Sam blew out the door at six-thirty. He took his skiff keys, but not his fly kit. He rolled his gun into a raincoat. It’s not going to rain today.”
Two possibilities. If he found Marlow, Sam would call the FDLE, give precision coordinates to a SWAT helo. Or else no one would ever again see that Fountain with its Yamaha motor.
“He needed to escape,” I said. “What does he call it, hydrotherapy? A trip to the backcountry and home by noon.”
“Too fast an answer, Alex. He doesn’t have a charter. He didn’t get any calls from friends in broken-down boats who needed to be towed in. What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know, for sure.”
“You’re holding back.”
I wanted to sip an endless coffee so I wouldn’t have to speak. It was too hot to put near my mouth. “I try not to be a gossip or a tattletale.”
“I just handed you three days of research, you bastard. Talk.”
“The man who probably killed Lorie Wheeler is a fugitive. He could be anywhere in America, but he ditched his car and owns a boat. Sam knows what the boat looks like…”
“Searching the ocean? That fucker. Is that why he took his gun?”
“We’re talking about a heartbroken man, Marnie.”
“You are so full of shit. He’s my partner and he’s shutting me out.”
