Not even close. It was a brown 1974 Cordoba, its vinyl roof puckered like a sun blister. Two-for-four on the hubcaps. Three men got out of the rusty old tank; judging by their undershirts and tattoos, Decker assumed they were not from the Triple-A. He pried the crowbar out of the jack handle and held it behind him.
"Gentlemen," he said.
"Whatsamatter here?" said the largest of the trio.
"Flat tire," Decker said. "I'm fine."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Thanks anyway."
The men didn't exactly take the hint. Two of them ambled over to where Decker had laid the camera bag, tripod, and galvanized lens cases. One of the jerks poked at the cameras with the toe of his boot.
"Whatsis?" he said.
"Beer money," said the other.
Decker couldn't believe it. Broad daylight, cars and trucks and Winnebagos cruising by on the interstate—and these pussbuckets were going to roll him anyway. Damned Nikons, he thought; sometimes they seemed to be the root of all his troubles.
"I'm a professional photographer," Decker said. "Want me to take your picture?"
The two thinnest men looked expectantly toward the bigger one. Decker knew the idea appealed to them, although their leader needed a little convincing. "A nice eight-by-ten," Decker said affably, "just for fun." He knew what the big guy was thinking: Well, why not—we're going to steal the damn things anyway.
"Stand in front of the car and I'll get a shot of all three of you together. Go ahead, now."
Decker walked over to the camera bag and inconspicuously set the crowbar inside. He picked up a bare F-3 camera body, didn't even bother to screw on a lens. These morons wouldn't know the difference. Shrugging, murmuring, slicking their hair with brown bony hands, the highwaymen struck a pricelessly idiotic pose in front of the dented Cordoba. As he pressed the shutter, Decker almost wished there were film in the camera.
"That's just great, guys," he said. "Now let's try one from the side."
The big man scowled.
"Just a joke," Decker said. The two thin guys didn't get it anyway.
"Enough a this shit," the leader of the trio said. "We want your goddamn car."
"What for?"
"To go to Florida."
Of course, Decker thought, Florida. He should have known. Every pillhead fugitive felon in America winds up in Florida eventually. The Human Sludge Factor—it all drips to the South.
"One more picture," Decker suggested. He had to hurry; he didn't want to get mugged, but he didn't want to miss his plane, either.
"No!" the big man said.
"One more picture and you can have the car, the cameras, everything."
Decker kept one eye on the interstate, thinking: Don't they have a highway patrol in Louisiana?
"You guys got some cigarettes? That would be a good shot, have a cigarette hanging from your mouth."
One of the thin guys lighted a Camel and wedged it into his lips at a very cool angle. "Oh yeah," Decker said. "That's what I mean. Let me get the wide-angle lens."
He went back to the camera bag and fished out a regular fifty-millimeter, which he attached to the Nikon. He picked up the crowbar and slipped it down the front of his jeans. The black iron felt cold against his left leg.
When he turned around, Decker saw that all three men now sported cigarettes. 'The girls down in Florida are gonna love this picture," he said.
One of the thin guys grinned. "Good pussy in Florida, right?"
"The best," Decker said. He moved up close, clicking away. The men stunk like stale beer and tobacco. Through the lens Decker saw rawboned ageless faces; they could have been twenty years old, or forty-five. Classic cons. They seemed mesmerized by the camera, or at least by Decker's hyperactive choreography. The leader of the trio plainly was getting antsy; he couldn't wait to kick Decker's ass, maybe even kill him, and get moving.
"Almost done," Decker said finally. "Move a little closer together... that's good... now look to my right and blow some smoke... great!... keep looking out at the water... that-is-per-fect!"
Staring obediently at Lake Pontchartrain, the three men never saw Decker pull out the crowbar. With both hands he swung as hard as he could, a batter's arc. The iron blade pinged off the top of their skulls one by one, as if Decker were playing a human xylophone. The robbers fell in a wailing cross-eyed heap.
Decker had expected less noise and more blood. As the adrenaline ebbed, he looked down and wondered if he had hit them more than once. He didn't think so.
Now it was definitely time to go; the flat tire was Hertz's problem. Decker quickly loaded his stuff into the Cordoba. The key was in the ignition. A blue oily pistol lay on the front seat. He tossed it out the window on his way to the airport.
The first person R. J. Decker called when he got back to Miami was Lou Zicutto. Lou was branch claims manager of the mammoth insurance company where Decker worked part-time as an investigator. Lou was a spindly little twit, maybe a hundred twenty pounds, but he had a huge florid head, which he shaved every day. As a result he looked very much like a Tootsie Pop with lips. Despite his appearance, Lou Zicutto was treated respectfully by all employees and coworkers, who steadfastly believed that he was a member of the Mafia who could have them snuffed with a single phone call. Lou himself did nothing to discourage this idea, even though it wasn't true. Except for the fancy stationery, Decker himself didn't see much difference between the mob and an insurance company, anyway.
"Where ya been?" Lou Zicutto asked. "I left a jillion messages." Lou had a raspy cabdriver voice, and he was always sucking on menthol cough drops.
"I've been out of town on a case," Decker said. He could hear Lou slurping away, working the lozenges around his teeth.
"We got Nuñez this week, remember?"
Nuñez was a big fraud trial the company was prosecuting. Nuñez was a stockbroker who stole his own yacht and tried to scuttle it off Bimini for the insurance. Decker had shot some pictures and done surveillance; he was scheduled to testify for the company.
"You're my star witness," Lou said.
"I can't make it, Lou, not this week."
"What the hell you mean?"
Decker said, "I've got a conflict."
"No shit you got a conflict. You got a big fucking conflict with me, you don't show up." The cough drops were clacking furiously. "Two million bucks this creep is trying to rip us for."
"You got my pictures, the tapes, the reports—" Decker said.
"Your smiling face is what the lawyers want," Lou Zicutto said. "You be there, Mr. Cameraman." Then he hung up.
The second person Decker tried to call was Catherine. The first time, the line was busy. He tried again two minutes later and a man answered. It sounded like James, the chiropractor; he answered the phone the way doctors do, not with a civil hello but with a "Yes?" Like it was a pain in the ass to have to speak to another human being.
Decker hung up the phone, opened a beer, and put a Bob Seger album on the stereo. He wondered what Catherine's new house looked like, whether she had one of these sunken marble tubs she'd always wanted. A vision of Catherine in a bubble bath suddenly swept over Decker, and his chest started to throb.
He was half-asleep on the sofa when the phone rang. The machine answered on the third ring. Decker sat up when he heard Al Garcia's voice.
"Call me as soon as you get in."
Garcia was a Metro police detective and an old friend. Except he didn't sound so friendly on the machine; he sounded awfully damn professional. Decker was a little worried. He drank two cups of black instant coffee before calling back.
"Hey, Sarge, what's up?"
Garcia said, "You at the trailer?"
"No, I'm in the penthouse of the Coconut Grove Hotel. They're having a Morgan Fairchild lookalike contest and I'm the judge for the swimsuit competition."
Normally Garcia would have donated some appropriately lewd counterpunchline, but today all he offered was a polite chuckle.
"We need to t
alk," the detective said mildly. "See you in about thirty."
Garcia was sitting on something, that much was certain. Decker shaved and put on a fresh shirt. He could easily guess what must have happened. A Louisiana cop probably had found those three dirtbags that Decker had clobbered along the interstate. They would have sworn that this scoundrel from Miami had flagged them down and robbed them, of course. A tracer on the Hertz car would have yielded Decker's name and address, and from then on it was only a matter of professional courtesy. Al Garcia was probably bringing a bench warrant from St. Charles Parish.
Decker was not especially eager to return, or be returned, to Louisiana. He figured he could beat the phony assault rap from the highway robbers, but what if the Lockhart case broke open in the meantime? Decker didn't want to be around if Skink got arrested.
Skink was the big problem. If Decker hadn't enlisted the mad hermit into the case, Dickie Lockhart would still be alive. On the other hand, it was probably Lockhart who had arranged the murders of Robert Clinch and then Ott Pickney. Decker didn't know exactly what to do next; it was a goddamn mess. He had come to like Skink and he hated the thought of him going to the gas chamber over a greedy sleazoid such as Lockhart, but murder was murder. As he straightened up the trailer—a week's worth of moldy laundry, mainly—Decker toyed with the idea of telling Garcia the whole story; it was so profoundly weird that even a Miami cop might be sympathetic. But Decker decided to hold off, for the moment. There appeared to be a good chance that Skink might never be found, or even identified as a suspect. Decker also understood that Skink might see absolutely nothing wrong in what he did, and would merely appear one day to take full credit for the deed. This was always a possibility when dealing with the chronically unraveled.
The news from Louisiana was relatively sparse. In the two days Decker had been back in Florida, the local newspapers had run only a couple of four-paragraph wire stories about Dickie Lockhart's murder at the bass tournament—robbery believed to be the motive; no prints, no suspects; services to be held in Harney County. The stories probably would have gotten better play had it not been for the biannual mass murder in Oklahoma; this time it was twelve motorists shot by a disgruntled toll-booth operator who was fed up with people not having exact change.
After trying Catherine, Decker had made three attempts to reach Dennis Gault. Various disinterested secretaries had reported that the sugarcane baron was on long distance, in a conference, or out of town. Decker had not left his name or a message. What he had wanted to tell Gault was that the case was over (obviously) and that he was pocketing twenty grand of the advance for time and expenses. Gault would bitch and argue, but not too much. Not if he had any brains.
Al Garcia showed up right on time. Decker heard the car door slam and waited for a knock. Then he heard another car pull up the gravel drive, and another. He looked out the window and couldn't believe it: Al's unmarked Chrysler, plus two green-and-whites—a whole damn posse for a lousy agg assault. Then a terrible thought occurred to him: What if it were something more serious? What if one of those Louisiana dirtbags had actually died? That would explain the committee.
The cops were out of their squad cars, having a huddle in front of Decker's trailer. Garcia's cigarette bobbed up and down as he talked to the uniformed officers.
"Shit," Decker said. The neighbors would be absolutely thrilled; this was good for a year's worth of gossip. Where were the pit bulls when you needed them?
Decker figured the best way to handle the scene was to stroll outside and say hello, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He was two steps from opening the door when something the approximate consistency of granite crashed down on the base of his neck, and he fell headlong through a dizzy galaxy of white noise and blinding pinwheels.
When he awoke, Decker felt like somebody had screwed his skull on crookedly. He opened his eyes and the world was red.
"Don't fucking move."
A man had him from behind, around the neck. It was a military hold, unbreakable. One good squeeze and Decker would pass out again. A large gritty hand was clapped over his mouth. The man's chin dug into Decker's right shoulder, and his breath whistled warmly in Decker's ear.
Even when Decker's head cleared, the red didn't go away. The intruder had dragged him into the darkroom, turned on the photo light, and locked the door. From somewhere, remotely, Decker heard Al Garcia calling his name. It sounded like the detective was outside the trailer, shouting in through a window. Probably didn't have a search warrant, Decker thought; that was just like Garcia, everything by the bloody book. Decker hoped that Al would take a chance and pop the lock on the front door. If that happened, Decker was ready to make some serious noise.
Decker's abductor must have sensed something, because he brutally tightened his hold. Instantly Decker felt bug-eyed and queasy. His arms began to tingle and he let out an involuntary groan.
"Ssshhh," the man said.
Forced to suck air through his nose, Decker couldn't help but notice that the man smelled. Not a stink, exactly, but a powerful musk, not altogether unpleasant. Decker tuned out Garcia's muffled shouts, closed his eyes, and concentrated. The smell was deep swamp and animal, sweet pine tinged with carrion. Mixed in were fainter traces of black bog mud and dried sweat and old smoke. Not tobacco smoke, either, but the woodsy fume of campfires. Suddenly Decker felt foolish. He abandoned all thought of a struggle and relaxed in the intruder's bearlike grip.
The voice in his ear whispered, "Nice going, Miami."
R. J. Decker was right. Al Garcia didn't have a search warrant. What he had, stuffed in an inside pocket of his J. C. Penney suit jacket, was a bench warrant for Decker's arrest, which had been Federal Expressed that morning all the way from New Orleans. The warrant was as literate and comprehensible as could be expected, but it did not give Al Garcia the right to bust down the door to Decker's trailer.
"Why the hell not?" asked one of the uniformed cops.
"No PC," Garcia snapped. PC was probable cause.
"He's hiding in the can, I bet."
"Not Decker," Garcia said.
"I don't want to wait around," the other cop said.
"Oh, you got big plans, Billy?" Garcia said. "Late to the fucking opera maybe?"
The cop turned away.
Garcia grumbled. "I don't want to wait either," he said. He was tired of hollering through Decker's window and he was also pissed off. He had driven all the way out here as a favor, and regretted it. He hated trailer parks; trailer parks were the reason God invented tornadoes. Garcia could have sent only the green-and-whites, but Decker was a friend and this was serious business. Garcia wanted to hear his side of it, because what the Louisiana people had told him so far was simply not believable.
"You want me to disable his vehicle?" asked the uniformed cop named Billy.
"What are you talking about?"
"Flatten the tires, so he can't get away."
Garcia shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." The standards at the police academy had gone to hell, that much was obvious. Anybody with an eighteen-inch neck could get a badge these days.
"He said he'd be here, right?" the other cop asked.
"Yeah," Garcia mumbled, "that's what he said."
So where was he? Why hadn't he taken his own car? Garcia was more miffed than curious.
The cop named Billy said, "Suppose the jalousies on the back door suddenly fell out? Suppose we could crawl right in?"
"Suppose you go sit under that palm tree and play with yourself," Garcia said.
Christ, what a day. It began when the Hialeah grave robbers struck again, swiping seven human skulls in a predawn raid on a city cemetery. At first Garcia had refused to answer the call on the grounds that it wasn't really a murder, since the victims of the crime were already dead. One of them in particular had been dead since before Al Garcia was born, so he didn't think it was practical, or fair, that he should have to reinvestigate. Everybody in the office had agreed that technicall
y it wasn't a homicide; more likely petty larceny. What could a crumbly old skull be worth on the street? they had asked. Fifteen, twenty bucks, tops. Unfortunately, it developed that one of the rudely mutilated cadavers belonged to the uncle of a Miami city commissioner, so the case had hastily been elevated to a priority status and all detectives were admonished to keep their sick senses of humor to themselves.
About noon Garcia had to drop the head case when a real murder happened. A Bahamian crack freak had carved up his male roommate, skinned him out like a mackerel, and tried to sell the fillets to a wholesale seafood market on Bird Road. It was one of those cases so bent as to be threatened by the sheer weight of law-enforcement bureaucracy—the crime scene had been crawling not just with policemen, but with deputy coroners, assistant prosecutors, immigration officers, even an inspector from the USDA. By the time the mess was cleaned up, Garcia's bum shoulder was throbbing angrily. Pure, hundred-percent stress.
Carl Hiaasen - Double Whammy Page 18
