The Mango Opera

by Tom Corcoran

  The backyard reeked of cat spray. Showering under the unmoving trees, I stared at the mildew on the back of the house. I could not muster much in the way of analytic thought. A commercial jet pierced the island sunrise on final approach. You would have to be a determined vacationer to leave Miami at five forty-five.

  Fifteen minutes later I carried my coffee out to Sam Wheeler’s Bronco. He handed me the Florida Keys section of the Herald.

  CAR BOMB: BLAST RIPS BUG. The scene photo gave no real detail. The short article filled ten inches in two columns. A sidebar below the middle fold: ISLAND CITY OR INNER CITY?

  “It gives some background on Annie,” said Sam, “but it doesn’t mention her connection to Ellen Albury. Someone didn’t do their homework. Sure as shit, they’ll have it by tomorrow.”

  “Did they speculate on the bomb?”

  “The detectives suggested that the thief may have, quote, stolen the car to deliver the bomb to another target.”

  I could have said horseshit, but we both knew it already. I wheezed out a long draft of air and tried not to dump my coffee as Sam bounced down White Street. We stopped at the police department’s Impound Compound on Flagler. A tall chain-link fence surrounded a field behind a paint- and body shop near the high school. I did not doubt that the city of Key West leased the lot from someone’s partner’s cousin. Squinting into the glare of morning sun, I made out the canted silhouette of the VW. The morning’s first wind gust kicked up dirt devils. The humid air became warmer by the minute. My coffee was only half gone and completely cold.

  Monty arrived two minutes later with the key to the padlock. All-business and nervous about going in. “Let’s make it quick. I’m not positive about your access here.”

  The driver’s-side front fender of Annie’s Volkswagen bulged outward, the metal shredded as if a cherry bomb had blown inside a tin can. The front tire had melted, and the fire had charred and peeled the car’s paint—except for the rear fender that Annie had dented when she’d dropped her suitcase on Wednesday morning. The radio hung by two wires from the dashboard. The plastic steering wheel resembled a flowing sculpture, turned upward like the brim of a cowboy hat. Damp ashes and clumps of ripped insulation coated the seats. Brown stains had matted in the carpet under the pedals.

  Sam found the remains of the apparatus that had attached the bomb to the left-front wheel well. A stainless cable sling, two turnbuckles, and two U-bolts were fixed to a steel plate the size of my hand. The duct tape used to hold wiring in place had shredded and melted. A prime example of an oceangoing jury-rig. No car thief had built it.

  I asked Monty and Sam to cast their shadows on the wheel well so the direct sun wouldn’t throw off my fill flash exposures. I should have waited to shower. Sweat poured out of me as I ran through a roll of color and a roll of black-and-white. Monty looked relieved to relock the gate. I asked if he’d had any progress on recertification since the newspaper piece. Sam high-signed me not to let on that he’d stirred the pot.

  “No word,” said Monty. “It’s getting near crunch time with the FBI.”

  I walked two hundred yards to the Mañana Deli on Bertha Street while Sam and Monty reparked their vehicles next to the restaurant. Jorge, the owner, wore running shorts under his apron and black high-top sneakers. He handed out laminated breakfast menus. “Not one of ’em shows this morning,” he said. “I bring these girls in Saturdays, college girls from Virginia and New Jersey, give my Cuban ladies a day with their kids. These girls can’t add or subtract, they cost me my ass, they shortchange the friggin’ State Attorney. It’s embarrassing. I cook, I bus dishes, I wait tables, I give correct change. Don’t let the door hit you in the boongie on the way out.”

  We made it easy for him with identical orders. Spanish omelets, chorizos, grits, Cuban bread, cafés con leche. A Cuban conga song on the kitchen radio faded to “Hey Baby,” by Bruce Chanel.

  Sales-pitch time. Sam sat back and I did the talking, concentrating on knots and rope because they were hard evidence. Monty snapped his face into a shrewd expression, as if sooner or later I would trap myself in some lame theory or flaky cop logic. He’d already blown off my girlfriend concept, so I had to circle back to that. Our cafés con leche arrived. I closed out by describing what he’d seen for himself. I explained the nautical nature of the sling under the VW, how it was typical of spare-parts-and-duct-tape repairs made offshore. Risking redundancy, I noted that jury-rigs and knot knowledge go hand in hand.

  As he stirred his coffee Monty let the haughty expression slide. Either he agreed something was fishy or he was being polite. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head, manufactured little gestures to delay his response. He scratched at the vinyl tablecloth and fiddled with Sweet’n Low baggies, shook the Tabasco and twirled a plastic ketchup dispenser. Finally the food came to the table.

  We’d managed to sell Monty so far. The three of us dug into the food, and Monty said nothing until he had taken his last bite.

  “I told you to stack the ‘ifs,’” Monty said with a mouthful of grits. “Now you’ve gone sideways on me. I think you’re out of the ‘ifs’ territory with the knots. The rental car, there’s no way to know if someone named Frank Johnson—a friend of Kemp’s—leased it on his own credit card, then let Kemp use the car. By the way, neither name showed up in the computer. But I’m worried that the ME’s lab people haven’t found some other connection—the cause of death, the stomach contents, fingerprints, whatever. At least they haven’t told us about any connection. We don’t even know if she was raped or not. Come to think of it, they haven’t told the city shit. Not that that’s unusual.”

  “Okay, Monty,” I said. “Put that on hold. And forget that when you told me to stack the ‘ifs,’ you also said that Annie wasn’t in danger…”

  “Hey…”

  “Hey, at the time I agreed with you. No problem.”

  “You mention it, how can I forget it, bubba?”

  I waved it off. “How well do you know Avery Hatch? What do you think of his professional abilities?”

  Monty leveled his eyes. “I don’t know where this is leading. It’s dangerous to start thinking you can do a cop’s job better than a cop.”

  Jorge brought another round of coffee and took our empty plates.

  Monty continued. “Not a soul this side of Tavernier will argue that Avery’s not a premium butthole. But he’s tallied heavy cases over the years. I heard he got pushed to prove himself when he first got on. Matter of fact, the worst one on his case was Billy Fernandez. Now he’s his damned partner. Hatch busted that dork in Marathon that was raping grandmothers. That case got into surveillance and late-night legwork, DNA, and a complicated setup. He also sniffed out that houseful of Peruvian hitmen on Sugarloaf Key, with enough armament and explosives to overthrow Hialeah. They had to evacuate the neighborhood, but they took that fort without a shot. Those weren’t gimmes, either one. Those busts took talent and smarts and guts. A sixth sense, a cop’s sense. So, overall, he’s a pro—one of the best in Monroe County. And honest, as far as I know. That what you wanted to hear?”

  “Okay.”

  “You asked what I thought. Plus, I’ll grant you, he’s a butt-hole.” Monty thought a moment. “Am I supposed to ask, ‘Why do you ask?’”

  “I told you he came by my house Thursday morning.”

  “When you found out about the old girlfriends.”

  “The reason he came by, he wanted to get a feel for Julia Balbuena. He wanted to understand her personality—enough to help solve the murder.”

  “With you so far.”

  “Does that make sense, from a law-enforcement point of view?”

  Monty nodded. “It’s one approach.”

  “Sam told me last night that Hatch used to own Barracuda. Avery sold the boat to Ray Kemp when Ray and Julia were living together. That makes it, he’s known Julia since ’79, maybe earlier.”

  “No guarantee that he knew her.” Monty shrugged. “He did business with Kemp. That doesn
’t guarantee anything.”

  Sam said, “She’d be on the docks once or twice a week. They spent plenty of days together, fishing and cruising. Hatch knew her, believe me. He drooled over her.”

  Monty exhaled, then gritted his teeth. “So, he was yanking your chain. He heard that you reacted funny to seeing her on the beach. He thinks you’re a potential suspect.”

  “He was there when Riley and I got there, and he didn’t know for sure that I’d even show on the beach. Riley could’ve shown up without me. Why didn’t he identify her the minute he arrived on the scene? Would hiding her identity help him solve it? Was he going to let her be a Jane Doe?”

  Monty looked at Sam, then back at me. We had him. “You have just made my day more complicated. I’m not even a law officer anymore.” Monty reached for the check but Sam nailed it first. I dropped a five for the tip. Jorge could buy a fresh apron.

  Monty said he’d get back to us.

  Sam pulled into Dredgers Lane and stopped in front of my house. He reached down, pulled a small metal cash box out from under his seat, unlocked it and lifted out a .380 Walther PPK. “I’ve got another one of these at the house. Why don’t you borrow this one for a week or two. Contingency, whatever.”

  “Whatever,” I said, though the idea of needing it depressed me. What had become of my peaceful tropical outpost? I wrapped it in the classified section of the Herald and took it inside. The only hiding place that came to mind was a bookcase. I slid it behind a row of novels organized alphabetically by author. Gardner, Gerber, Gifford, Grafton, gun. Then I crossed the lane to the Ayusa home to see if anyone had heard news from the Enchanted Forest.

  “Piggyback!” Maria Rolley ambushed me from a porch hammock. Eight years old and big enough to cause horseplay injuries. “Carry me in, Alex. You can see my new books.”

  “Your nana take you to the store?”

  “Of course not. I got them from Ranger Rick.”

  Cecilia Ayusa reported that Carmen and Annie had called a few minutes after eight. Everything was fine, and Carmen had interesting news. They would call back around three o’clock, but I should not worry if I was busy elsewhere. Cecilia handed me a slip of paper with five names: Ellen Albury’s boyfriends.

  I extracted myself from Maria’s world of excitement.

  I sat at the porch table to make my own list. Someone could accuse me of promiscuity. I crossed off the one-night stands, where no one could have known. I eliminated one who’d died when a drunk in Sarasota blindsided her car. Three of them had left years ago and had made no contact since. It came down to five names. It was rude to call early on a weekend morning, but it improved my chances to catch them at home.

  I began by practicing a set speech. Sorry to bother you. I’m not calling you for a date. No, I don’t have AIDS. I edited the story, and reminded myself to use key words like “coincidence” and “careful.”

  I got on the phone.

  Andrea Woodhouse, angelic face, thin legs, and two-thirds wacko. Her response: “Ah, shit, I don’t need this kinda crap. Here, tell my husband.” I fumbled that one, but the guy took it straight, calmly, and said thank you.

  Laura Tate, wispy blonde, tough-talking, invented the word erotic. She left me to go back to her old boyfriend, though that one didn’t last either. She was not at home. I couldn’t invent a plausible message. I left my number and asked her to call me back as soon as she got in.

  Jody MacLean, World’s Tallest Woman, elegant, sailboard expert, crazy as a loon. She was appreciative of the call, very concerned, at present involved with a guy who owned a new restaurant on the old Navy property. I told her about Annie. She suggested we have lunch when this blew over. Pals forever.

  B. J. Stein, surgical nurse at Florida Keys Memorial, used to smoke at least five doobies a day. Once when out of work, broke and lonesome, she had cured the blues by charging a three-hundred-dollar dog to her over-limit MasterCard. She’d loved James Taylor music in the bedroom. She sounded pissed, and said she couldn’t afford to miss work because of a stupid death threat.

  Polly Banks, grew up near Intercourse, Pennsylvania, and loved to tell about her hometown’s proximity to a town once called Blue Ball. A dedicated bimbo, an aerobics instructor with a yardful of tropical plants. “Would I be safer if I came over and stayed with you?”

  Two heartbeats after hanging up the final call, the phone rang. “Mr. Rootleg?” A moderate Spanish accent. No, we do not want chinch-bug spray, aluminum siding, flood insurance, a stock portfolio review, an interior paint program, a discount restaurant coupon book. I hung up without speaking. They call them courtesy calls but they want your money.

  I had made five calls. Four out of five had connected. The warning was out. Painless, so far.

  Another ring. “Mr. Rootleg” again.

  Benefit of the doubt. “Okay, this is Rutledge. What are we selling?”

  “Please hold for Mr. Balbuena.”

  I’d been rude again. Why the father?

  “Mr. Rutledge?” He got it right.

  “This is Alex Rutledge.”

  “My name is Raoul Balbuena.” He had less of an accent. Almost no accent. “I am the father of Julia Balbuena.”

  “Yes, sir. I recognize your name. My sympathies.”

  “Thank you. My son and I are visiting Key West. We would like to talk with you, if you have the time.”

  The leather guest book at the church. Julia may have mentioned me to her family. Did they know about the other women?

  “Of course I have time.”

  “Will you join us for late breakfast at the Hyatt Hotel?”

  The hotel property filled the water’s edge where Simonton Street used to dead-end at the Marine Railway Shipyard. Years ago, ocean vessels in need of repair were piggybacked onto a railroad carriage chassis and winched out of the water on tracks. I had explored down there when I first arrived on the island, and had kept the discarded sign I’d found: DO NOT ANCHOR BETWEEN TRACKS. These days Simonton runs straight to a boat ramp. The Hyatt is surrounded by manicured tiled driveways. The location boasts four stories of pastel paint, gingerbread, and potted plants. I had never mastered the hotel’s maze of exterior pathways, but they all wound up near the water. I followed one past the check-in desk and around a group of room-service carts. Detective Billy Fernandez hurried past me on his way out. He gave me a cold-eyed nod, said nothing, and tilted his head toward the dining area as if to say: You’re next.

  15

  Black crows on a veranda jammed with seagulls: the three men stood as I neared their table on the crowded open porch bordering the Hyatt dining room. Each wore a business suit with a dark tie and hard shoes. Men dressed that way in Key West tended to be bank examiners, attorneys scheduled for court, con artists, or out-of-town FBI agents. Raoul Balbuena introduced himself, then his burly son Carlos and Emilio Palguta, a gnarled character I guessed to be in his mid-fifties. Palguta shook my hand as if unaccustomed to the gesture. At five-ten and two-thirty or so, he had a neck too large for his collar and the build and movements of an ex-fighter or weight lifter. I guessed that Carlos had been one of the muscle boys in the Coral Gables church parking lot. His handshake was rough, his swagger controlled in deference to his father.

  A bulky man himself, Raoul looked near seventy, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He possessed a sternness born either of his years in Cuban jails or repeated studies of Brando’s Don Corleone. Judging from the kowtow of the son and the mouth-breathing associate, Raoul Balbuena came off more as thug than civic leader. I don’t know what I expected Julia’s father to look like, but this wasn’t it. In his attempt to dress like an executive, he’d wound up looking like a mob boss.

  He motioned for me to sit in the rattan chair with the most expansive view. I’d removed my sunglasses for the introductions, but replaced them to counter the glare off the Gulf of Mexico. A waiter cleared away a used cup. Several sugar bags had been torn to shreds. Billy Fernandez, minutes earlier, in this position. Another waiter
appeared above me with a tray. Coffee, pastries, and orange juice. I asked for an Amstel beer.

  “You are welcome to anything on the menu, Mr. Rutledge.” Raoul made it sound like an order rather than an invitation.

  I declined. The men had finished their meal. But they were in no hurry to discuss matters at hand. One never knows if slow motion is a facet of Old World custom or a test of nervousness for the odd man out. I rolled with it. Living in the Keys had taught me patience. This was suddenly looking like a tough-guy showdown, and I felt the need for some kind of weapon. Patience would do. I settled into my seat and took a reading. Palguta had the mottled taupe skin of a recent prisoner. His fifty-dollar haircut did not fit his rheumy, wary eyes and angular face. He stared at me with an expression of disinterest that I took to be a sample of how he viewed life, or death.

  I began with an honest expression of sympathy. “Your daughter and I knew each other a short time. I have never forgotten her.”

  Raoul looked me straight in the eye. “Thank you. Were you in love with my daughter?”

  “She found her way into my heart. A part of me died yesterday.”

  Raoul nodded. “She told me about your coming to Mariel, the bad weather and the evil people. She said she could never know for certain, but she thought you had saved her life. She mentioned your name in recent years.”

  “But she never came to visit.”

  “That’s true. She never did. Are you comfortable in that chair?”

  I nodded, knowing that they’d arranged for the glare in my face. The waiter arrived with my Amstel and more coffee for the others. No one spoke until he had left. I let the beer sit untouched.

  “She was independent, as was her mother,” continued Raoul. “In the years since I arrived in Florida, she has been a great friend to me, much more than her mother, as well as a respectful daughter.” He gestured to his son. “Carlos?”

  The brother extracted a folded manila envelope from his inside pocket. He removed several photographs and slid them across the table toward me. The picture on top was a rear view of my Mustang parked in the church lot, its license plate clearly legible.