'I knocked,' apologized Salvatore as he went tentatively into the office. 'I just didn't hear whether you called me in, chief.'
'I heard you, Salvatore,' grunted Morriston. 'I heard you fine. I was just trying to make up my mind whether I wanted to see you this morning or whether maybe I could put off the evil day.'
'I'm sorry, chief, but I don't plan the crime in this district, I just try and find out who's committed it.'
For a moment the detective thought that his superior was about to throw a knife in an attempt to part his already sparse hair. But the chief grasped it instead, tightly with both hands as if forcing himself not to give in to the temptation. 'I know what you do, Albert,' he said with exaggerated patience. 'At least I know what you're supposed to do. But for Chrissake, there's crime and there's crime. Okay, a few dead Cubans after a shootout is one thing, but this terrible business at the lovely home of Mr and Mrs Peter Van der Vatt is something else, and something else I don't like.'
'Can I sit down, chief?' asked Salvatore. 'I don't feel so good today.'
The chief looked as though he might refuse the request, instead he grunted. 'Take a seat but don't get too comfortable because this is not a comfortable situation. Hooded mobsters in one of the fanciest homes in Florida. And in the middle of a goddamn benefit.'
'Chief,' said Salvatore painfully, 'please remember, they didn't get away with anything. Not a dime. There was no larceny.'
Morriston stared at him, an elongated stare, like a shaft, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. 'Detective Salvatore,' he said eventually, 'they brought the whole fucking ceiling down. A chandelier worth fifty thousand dollars and a cake of great sentimental value.' Salvatore thought his chief was going to begin an explosion of shouting and he minutely edged his chair away, but Morriston seemed to find at the very moment of ignition a small reserve of unsuspected inner calm.
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'You and me, Salvatore, we're just men. Everyday Joes. We got nice houses and nice kids and nice wives. Okay?'
'I got a nice house,' agreed Salvatore. 'I ain't so keen on the wife and kids.'
'Okay, okay. But what I'm trying to put to you is that we don't have no chandeliers worth fifty thousand dollars and made by some brilliant bastard in Italy. We don't have that kind of ornament in our homes, now do we?'
Salvatore, reassured by the new quiet in his chief, nodded. 'Maybe we could help to fix it. To piece it together,' he joked. 'It sure seems a lot of dough for a light fitting.'
'Light fitting!' Morriston had used up the inner calm. His face blew up before Salvatore's eyes. 'Light fucking fitting! Jesus Christ, Salvatore, how did you ever get to be a cop? This is fifty thousand bucks worth of broken, beautiful glass. And guess what, Salvatore - the insurers don't want to pay up because it was in the course of a robbery. The Van der Vatts are insured for damage and they're insured for robbery ...'
'But they're not insured for damage during a robbery,' sighed Salvatore knowingly. 'Which means?'
'Which means we're in big shit. Lots of it.' Morriston quietened as though the realization that they were in it together turned down his anger. 'What do we have to go on? Anything? Anything at all? Speak to me, Salvatore.'
Salvatore backed down from repeating the obvious. He grappled for words.
'Speak to me, Salvatore,' repeated Morriston. It was a mutter, half a threat, half a plea. 'Just tell me something I can tell the commissioner because Mr and Mrs Van der Vatt have already told the commissioner what they think and I got to tell him something different. Anything different.'
'Hooded gang,' shrugged Salvatore. 'Same as the bus robbery. Fingerprints on a champagne glass and a wad of parked gum in the room next to the library. We're having them checked but it takes time, chief. And the FBI go fishing on Thursday. You try calling them.'
'How did the guy get a glass of champagne?' asked Morriston quickly. I mean did he go down to the party in his hood and
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take a glass of champagne and walk about drinking it like the goddamn invisible man?'
Salvatore frowned. 'No, chief. I guess he must have been one of the guests. On the other hand, there's no proof that the glass was anything to do with the robbery. Maybe the gang didn't ever go in that room. Maybe somebody else put it down there while he was having a quick screw. We just don't know.'
'People,' sighed Morriston, 'don't have quick screws at Mrs Van der Vatt's parties. Or even slow screws. They're not that kind of party. Maybe we ought to make a list of things we don't know. There's so many I keep forgetting.'
'We could pull some suspects in,' said Salvatore hopefully. 'You know, the same guys we always pull in. At least it gives you something to tell the commissioner.' He looked at Morriston carefully, then said decisively: 'I'll get them pulled in.'
Morriston began staring again. Salvatore did not enjoy it when he stared. 'Why don't we call Rent-a-Suspect?' Morriston said. 'Ten custom-made suspicious characters at a hundred bucks a time. You ought to consider that, Salvatore. Seriously consider it. You won't solve any crimes, but at least you'll look like you're busy.'
'What else can I do, chief? I've got- five men on the case. What else?'
'Get your ass off that chair and walk around in circles in your office until you've thought of something! That's what! I'll tell the commissioner to tell the Van der Vatts that you're seriously considering the matter. Boy, that'll satisfy them! They'll go home smiling all over their million dollar faces.'
Salvatore rose, shrugging as he did so. 'I'll try,' he said. 'I'll really try, chief.' He made for the door. "This job is okay when you've just got the Mafia and the Cubans to deal with. At least with them you know where to look.'
'I think maybe you ought to apply to join the Mafia, Salvatore,' said Morriston. 'You'll be safer there. I'll get you an application form.'
Salvatore habitually opened one eye and then the other as though he expected each day to attack him as soon as he
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awoke. This day was Sunday, he told himself as soon as he had examined the horizon revealed by the first eye. That was good because he was, unless the circumstances were exceptional, relieved of the hassle of the office. But it was also bad because it meant he could anticipate the hassle from his family. Sometimes it was easier to handle the office hassle because, at least up to a certain level, there he was boss. At home he was the last of a long line.
His normally morose spirits took a dive to an even lower level when he remembered that all the neighbours he did not like were coming to his house for a lunchtime barbecue. He hated the people and he hated barbecues because he was the one who had to do the cooking and the dry fumes of the charcoal always got into his head. His only consolation was in imagining that the grilling meat he turned on the spits was the bodies of those guests who surrounded him with their hideous Sunday neighbourliness.
'Albert!' Betty's voice came wearily up the stairs to him. He pretended to be still asleep. If he did that she sometimes went away. This time she didn't.
'Albert!' she called again flatly. 'The children say there's a dead man on the lawn.'
'Tell him to go away,' Salvatore called back. She must know their children were congenital liars.
'He's dead, I tell you. How can I tell him to go away if he's dead?'
'Problems, problems,' grumbled Salvatore. 'Why can't anybody solve their problems without consulting me.'
'You're supposed to be a cop,' she shouted back.
'It's Sunday, for God's sake,' he said. He rolled reluctantly from the bed. He did not believe there was a dead man on his lawn, so he took a cautious look at himself in the mirror.
He never looked any better. Even he had to admit that. His hair was fleeing altogether, his eyes were holding up sullen bags. Daringly he poked out his tongue. 'Oh God,' he said. 'A dead man.'
To see the lawn it was necessary to go into the next room. He did not hurry. He put on his robe and stretched his arms before grumblingly going out into the passage and into the
room of
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his son. He looked from the window and saw them standing almost religiously around the stretched-out body of a large, living, fat man.
'Zaharran!' he bellowed angrily. 'Get off my lawn! Get out of here you bum!'
'He's dead,' called the eldest son, Franco. 'How can he answer?'
'He's not dead,' Salvatore howled back. 'You quarter-wit!'
Betty called up the stairs. 'Albert, go and see. We've got people coming, remember. If there's a body on the lawn, get rid of it. Somebody's done it to get revenge on you, I expect.'
Dispiritedly he went to the head of the stairs. 'People get revenge on me all the time,' he pointed out loudly. 'Revenge is all I get from people. But that man ain't dead, Betty. That man ain't capable of doing a decent living thing like dying. He has come here to bother me, to attract attention to himself.'
'To get revenge?' she suggested from the bottom of the stairs.
'Revenge. Sure revenge. That's what he wants also. Everybody wants it.'
'Well go and see what it's all about,' she sighed. 'It's too much for me all this. If he is dead then get him moved. Then get the barbecue going. You can find out who killed him tomorrow.'
'Okay, okay, okay,' he recited the words as he descended the stairs. He wrapped the robe tighter around him, although the morning was growing hot. His scowl increased as he strode down the lawn.
His four children for once acknowledged his superior presence and backed away. Zaharran was lying like a dumped pile of sand. His battered face was as composed as it would ever be, his hands were clasped religiously across his great stomach.
'He's dead as dead,' said Francesca, the youngest girl. 'I'm going to get him some flowers.'
'He's not dead!' The children jumped as their father shouted.
Betty was leaning out of the kitchen window. 'Is he dead?' she called in the same voice she used to ask if the Sunday newspapers had arrived. 'Or isn't he?'
'He's not dead!' cried Salvatore again, turning round and directing the verdict to her. He pushed his slippered foot forward and touched Zaharran. 'In the first place,' he said in his
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detective's voice, 'note how the hands are clasped across his gut.'
That's how dead people are,' said Clara, the second daughter. 'I've seen it in hospital films on TV.'
'Idiot,' Salvatore told her. She poked out her tongue at him. 'They put the hands across the body after death. Nobody dies in that position.'
The children, who hated disappointments, wanted the man to be dead. Franco said: 'Maybe somebody killed him and then put his hands across there, like as a mark of respect.'
'How do you kill somebody then respect them?' asked Salvatore. He was now enjoying his superiority. 'Idiot. Anyway, you may like to notice that the dead body is breathing. See, it's rising up and down. That's called breathing.'
'Death convulsions,' said Clara. 'There's things called death convulsions. I know. It's on TV.'
'Zaharran,' said Salvatore to the body. 'Get up. You're frightening the children.'
'No he's not,' protested little Francesca. 'Can we bury him? I want to bury him.'
'Zaharran,' repeated Salvatore, 'get up or I get the garden hose on you.'
The heavily folded eyes reluctantly opened like those of a tortoise. The children gasped and backed away before coming forward again to view the miracle. A fissure appeared in the prostrate man's face. It was his smile. 'Captain Salvatore?' he breathed. 'What... what am I doing here?'
'Playing dead,' answered Salvatore. 'And if you don't beat it, and quick, you won't just be playing dead.'
'But I collapsed,' pleaded Zaharran, his eyes widening with what he faintly hoped might look like innocence. 'Collapsed, blacked out. And I wake up right here in your yard. What a coincidence.'
'It's my lawn,' Salvatore pointed out. 'These houses don't have yards, they have lawns. The grass you are bruising with your body, Zaharran, is my lawn.'
'Could ... could I ask for a drink?' inquired the big man pitifully.
'I'll get you one,' said Clara eagerly. She moved towards the house.
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'Water,' her father called after her. 'Just water.'
'With maybe a little Scotch,' Zaharran called too.
'I will. I will,' the girl called back.
Salvatore continued to glower down at the human hulk. 'We got people coming for a barbecue,' he said. 'We're going to be using the lawn.'
'Okay, okay,' acknowledged Zaharran. He put up a hand as big as a sail. The children stared at it. 'I maybe wondered if you needed a few leads on the masked gang, that's all.'
'Zaharran ... George,' said Salvatore moving urgently forward. His children stared at the change in his attitude. Their father knelt by the prostrate man and helped him into a sitting position. 'Scotch!' he bellowed over his shoulder. 'Plenty of Scotch. Not too much water.'
He almost fell on his knees beside Zaharran. 'You've got something?' he pressed. 'You know something? I don't have to warn you about withholding evidence, do I? What is it, George? What have you found out?'
'Nothing,' said Zaharran simply. 'Not a thing.'
'Jesus Harry Christ!' bawled Salvatore. 'What's all this about then?'
T got some ideas, that's all.'
'Ideas? Is that all?'
'That's what I said. Ideas. But they're good ideas. I just want to know if you'll retain me on the case. So I can follow them up.'
Clara appeared with the Scotch and water: 'Take that Scotch back,' shouted her father. 'Get back with it.'
'But you ... but you ...' pleaded the girl.
'I don't care. Take it back.' He leaned threateningly over Zaharran. 'Don't bother me any more, Zaharran,' he said. 'Or I have you arrested. Vagrancy. I could get you for vagrancy. I know I could.'
Zaharran considered it, then shook his bison head. 'No way,' he said. 'I have a home.'
'Wandering abroad then. Or trespass. Yes, I could get you for trespass.' He glared at the big man. 'Anyway, why am I discussing this with you? Get your ass off my grass and beat it.'
Zaharran rose slowly. The children backed away and looked
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at him respectfully, something they had never afforded their father. The older man began to shuffle towards the gate. "There's a reward?' he said.
'Reward? For God's sake, you know there's a reward. You read the newspapers.'
'I'll work for that,' said Zaharran as if making the decision right there. 'I'll operate on my own.'
'Do that,' growled Salvatore. 'But keep out of my hair.'
Zaharran stared at the policeman's famished hair but said nothing. He lounged towards the gate. Francesca hurried forward and opened it for him. He raised his unkempt hat. She smiled. 'I sure wish you were my daddy,' she said.
The members of the Ocean Drive Delinquent Society, hung with gloom and disappointment, sat beneath the Tree of Knowledge in Flamingo Park, South Miami Beach. It was a day of fresh wind which seemed to spring on impulse from the ocean, thrilling the gulls and cormorants and the planing pelicans, but keeping most of the human denizens of the district away from the shore. The old gang with Ossie and Bruce sat in the way of a class receiving instruction, with Gabby facing them. Indeed there were often to be seen small groups like this sitting in small semi-moons along the lawns of Ocean Drive, studying Hebrew history and destiny, Mexican embroidery, book binding, philately, the art of the jazz drummer and such subjects, so the meeting beneath the tree attracted little attention.
'Anybody can make a mistake,' pleaded Lou the Barbender, the shame of the crashing chandelier still pressing his strong shoulders. I didn't know it wasn't a safe. I'm just strong, not brainy.'
Gabby shrugged. 'There's no blame. It was a joint responsibility,' she said. 'If anything, the fault lies with the leadership. We just made a mess of it.'
'The chandelier made a mess of the cake,' reminisced Ari. 'I saw it. It's a sight you don't generally see, a chandelier go crash through a cake
. Not something you can experience every day. Very rare ...'
They were not inclined to let him finish. 'Okay, okay,' said Ossie firmly. 'The postmortem's over. We screwed it up.'
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'More like unscrewed it,' said Bruce making a turning motion with his hand. Nobody even smiled. He shrugged and returned to disappointed silence.
'Now we come to the crunch question,' continued Ossie as though no one had spoken. 'Do we quit or do we have another try? On the law of averages we've just got to get something right soon. On the other hand we've taken a lot of risks for not much in return. I think we need a vote on it. And as he put the proposition to them a cop left a police car along Ocean Drive and walked idly to take a look at the rough seascape. He was screened from the group by the foliage of the Tree of Knowledge and nobody saw him until a moment after Ossie had put the question. 'Do we try another crime or do we declare this society closed?'
'Try another crime,' they all answered loudly, not one of them feeling that it was sufficient merely to raise a hand. Elderly persons, like children, like to assert themselves vocally. The words 'Try another crime' came out strongly just as the strolling policeman rounded the tree. He could hardly have failed to have heard it. Gabby paled as she looked across the heads of the gang and saw the blue uniform appear. Ossie was swift.
'Okay,' he said with extra loudness. 'We'll try another time.'
The cop smiled a fatherly smile when he saw the small class. He was a well-nourished policeman, amiable and ambling, with a smile dropping easily into well-used creases on his warm face. 'What's the lesson today, teacher?' he said to Gabby, approving in his look that one so young was aiding the old.
'Aspects of presidential responsibility,' Gabby replied at once. 'The class are trying to learn some of the Articles of the Constitution.'
'That's interesting,' said the cop, expanding his face into an even bigger smile. 'What they going to do with it when they know?' He did not wait or require an answer. 'Maybe,' he suggested, 'I could come by with my buddy one day and give you a lecture on police work. I been a cop twenty years. Seen things you'd never believe.'
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