The man nodded and put the keys into his pocket. “I know Delray Beach.”
“The smart thing to do is to abandon—I mean, just leave the truck on the street somewhere after you get to Delray. And forget that you ever worked here for Mr. Bock. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded and licked his lips.
“All right. Tell the others.”
The man said something to the others in Creole. Hoke watched them as they nodded their heads. They all had broken into smiles when he had given them money, but their faces were solemn again now. Hoke left the trailer and its stench and waited in the yard until the men came out. They all had small bundles and blankets; one man had a faded quilt. The tall man also brought the pot of steaming goat stew, and they had their tin plates and spoons. The short, quivering man carried the other half of the dressed kid and had an OD army blanket rolled up and over one shoulder. Helping each other, they climbed into the pickup, two in front and three in back. Hoke waited until the truck was well down the graveled road before he returned to the house.
If they didn’t speed, the chances were fairly good that the pickup would make it safely to Delray, with its huge Haitian colony alongside the railroad tracks. Trucks and old buses filled with laborers were plentiful on the Alligator Alley route to the Sunshine Parkway, and if a trooper did stop them, he would turn them over to the INS. The INS would, in turn, take them to the Krome Detention Center, but all the illegal Haitians knew by now to say that they came to America to escape political persecution. Now that Duvalier had been deposed, the persecution gambit didn’t work any longer, but there were still enough immigration shysters in Miami to keep them in the States for months, sometimes years. And if they could contact a relative of any kind here in the U.S. who had somehow obtained a green card, a lawyer could get them paroled. Once paroled, they disappeared again, either to New York or to New Jersey. They wouldn’t be able to explain how they got the truck if they were stopped, but Bock would never report the truck stolen.
There were additional papers and letters in the sideboard and in the highboy as well. From these, Hoke discovered that Bock had a married daughter living in Fitzgerald, Georgia. He also found the death certificate for Bock’s wife in a drawer.
The Mexican hadn’t owned much of anything. He had a yellow linen suit in his closet, fresh from the cleaners and encased in plastic, and a pair of polished cordovan loafers. But there was no correspondence from anyone, either in Spanish or English, or any personal papers. There was a coiled leather whip and a P-38 in a bottom dresser drawer, and Hoke left them there. The other drawers held underwear, T-shirts, and a half dozen pairs of argyle socks—none of them worn.
Hoke left the house and looked inside the utility shed outside the house. There was a generator in the shed, to be used for emergency power, Hoke surmised. It was an old Sears generator and hadn’t been used for some time. There were four five-gallon jerricans in the shed, and two of them were filled with gasoline. There were two aluminum tanks in one corner, DANGER! VIKANE was stenciled in red paint on both tanks. Hoke took the two filled cans of gas back to the house. He put them down in the kitchen and went into the bathroom to take a leak. When he looked at his face in the mirror, he shuddered. His face was haggard, and his eyes were red. Bits of oatmeal were lodged in his beard. He looked at least ten years older than he should look, even without his teeth. He swallowed three aspirin with water and then shaved off his beard, using a new Bic razor he found in the medicine cabinet. He put a Band-Aid over the puncture wound in his chin. He felt better, even if he didn’t look a lot better.
Hoke poured a half can of gasoline over Bock’s body and then splashed the rest of the gas throughout the living room. With the last of the gas, he made a wide line to the doorway and out onto the veranda. He lit the gas with his lighter, and the fire snaked across the porch. It blazed fiercely when it reached Bock’s body.
Taking the second can with him, Hoke got into the semi cab, made a wide turn in the yard, and drove it into the barn as far as it would go. He poured half the can over the Mexican, more on the pile of loose boards, and splashed the remainder on the engine of the truck. He found his straw hat and put it on. He lit the gas from outside the barn and walked down the gravel road toward the highway. He looked over his shoulder but kept walking. The house and the barn both were on fire. In the middle of the yard the nanny goat, bleating, stood on her milking box.
When Hoke reached the highway, almost a mile away from the farm, he could still see black smoke from the two fires. No one driving down the highway, either way, would pay any attention to the smoke, and the farm itself was shielded by the palmetto trees on both sides of the gravel road. Farmers set fire to their fields to clear them all year round.
No one stopped to give Hoke a ride, and it took him almost four hours to walk the nine and a half miles back to Immokalee.
12
THERE WERE A GOOD MANY THINGS TO THINK ABOUT ON his walk back to Immokalee, and Hoke had to sit down frequently to rest. During his rest periods he picked out most of the splinters embedded in his hands. His tailbone hurt with every jarring step, especially when he stumbled slightly, and his arms felt heavy and sore. Swinging that two-by-four had been like two hours of batting practice, and his muscles weren’t used to being stretched.
Hoke hadn’t spent any time looking around the farm for any buried bodies. Beyond the farm and the field of Brussels sprouts, the Everglades began, stretching to the horizon. If Bock and Chico had buried any bodies, they would have driven them to the sea of grass and dumped them into some deep water-filled sinkhole where the alligators would eat them. There was no way to prove it now, but Hoke had no doubt that Tiny Bock had killed his Haitian workers when they finished their jobs instead of paying them. All Bock had to do, when it came to payoff time, was to lock the men in their trailers, attach the Vikane gas tanks to the copper tubes that were used for propane cooking gas for the stove, and turn them on. Bock and Chico could then throw the bodies into the truck and drive through the fields to the water-soaked Glades and dump them. That still didn’t account for the dead Haitian found behind the billboard on the road to Bonita Springs. With a hundred square miles of swamp in his backyard to dump bodies, why would Bock and Chico bury a dead Haitian behind a billboard on a fairly busy state road? It didn’t make sense, because the body was bound to be found. Someday, perhaps, an illegal hunter might find a skull out in the middle of the Glades, but an illegal hunter wouldn’t report a find like that; he would take it home and put it on his mantel as a memento mori. Someone else, other than Bock, must have buried the dead Haitian behind the billboard. After all, Bock wasn’t the only grower going broke in Immokalee or in the so-called green belt surrounding Lake Okeechobee. In recent years many farmers had given up agriculture altogether and started catfish farming instead. And they were prospering. Five years ago catfish were hard to find in Miami, but now a man could get fried catfish in every seafood restaurant in South Florida, and it didn’t have the muddy taste of wild catfish either.
BY THE TIME HOKE REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF IMMOKALEE he was depressed. Part of his depression was caused, he knew, by the unnecessary killing of Bock and Chico, but mandatory under the circumstances. If Bock hadn’t been groggy from the blows to his head, he certainly would have killed Hoke with his first shot. He must have had double vision to miss at such short range.
There weren’t many people on the dusty streets. A few Mexicans lingered beneath the pepper tree, and there was the same mix of homeless white winos and blacks in the parking lot of the Cafeteria, but the other townspeople— those with shelter—stayed inside during the middle of the day. Immokalee did not as yet have an enclosed air-conditioned mall, so many townspeople—those with cars, anyway—were probably shopping in Naples or Fort Myers. Local shop owners stayed inside their air-conditioned stores. There were workers in the row of packinghouses, of course, and huge sixteen-wheelers, both loaded and unloaded, rumbled through the streets; but there was a dead
, lethargic feel to the town.
Hoke passed Myrtle’s discount drugstore, stopped, and then went back to the store. He bought a roll of three-inch adhesive tape, the widest she had on hand, and a small box of extra-strength Tylenol, but decided against cigarettes. It hurt his side every time he took a shallow breath, so he would have to give up smoking for a few days whether he wanted to or not. He went past the 66 gas station on the next corner. Noseworthy’s Guesthouse sign was on the following corner, as Mel Peoples had told him. The guesthouse was two blocks east, right next to an empty lot that had been used as a dump. The lot was littered with piles of bottles and tin cans and the burned-out wreck of an automobile. The twisted mass of metal was so black Hoke couldn’t determine the make of the car.
The guesthouse, however, a two-story wooden structure with a sloping cedar-shingled roof, had been painted recently—a shiny off gray, with white trim on the windows. All the windows, upstairs and down, had slanting wooden Bahama blinds on the outside. The house would be dark inside, but the slotted blinds would make it cooler. The small front yard was covered with gravel instead of grass and was surrounded by a low rock wall about two feet high. Such walls were common in the Bahamas, where homeowners always marked their boundaries with rock walls, but they were rare in Florida. There were some hanging plants on the porch, and three wicker rockers painted a glaring white. The guesthouse sign,
NOSEWORTHY’S
GUESTHOUSE
(est. 1983)
in black lettering on a white board, had been tacked above the front door. The upper half of the front door was glass but was curtained with white draperies, so Hoke couldn’t see inside. A smaller sign beside the bell read “Ring and Enter.” Hoke rang the bell and opened the door. There was a maple costumer and an elephant-foot umbrella stand in the foyer. Straight ahead, to the left of the stairs, were a table and a chair. There was a sign-in book and a silver bowl containing jelly beans on the table. The living room, on Hoke’s right, was crowded with mid-Victorian chairs and spindly-legged walnut tables, short and tall, either beside or in front of each chair. There was a brick fireplace containing a large bowl of daisies and a tall glass-fronted bookcase beside it. The walls were covered with old and faded pink wallpaper and cluttered with watercolors, photos, mirrors, mounted birds and small animals. Beyond the living room, a step up, was the dining area—a bare buffet table against the wall. A long mirror on the wall behind the table reflected the living room and made the crowded interior appear larger. There was a swinging door with a beveled glass window that opened to the kitchen beyond the dining area.
A tall black man came swiftly through the swinging door, and he crossed the room, dodging the chairs and wine tables, swiveling his hips like a broken-field runner. He wore a wide white smile and a black linen suit with a white shirt and a pearl gray necktie. There was a hand-painted picture of a dog’s head on the tie, either a collie or a wolfhound. Hoke wasn’t sure. The man held out his hand, so Hoke shook it.
“Welcome to our guesthouse, sir.”
“You must be Mr. Noseworthy.”
“At your service, sir.” The smile didn’t leave his dark face, but his eyes took in Hoke’s drooping shirttails and baggage—a small brown paper sack from Myrtle’s discount drugstore.
“Can anyone overhear us?” Hoke pointed toward the kitchen door.
“Mrs. Noseworthy’s out back, but she’s ironing on the back porch.”
“Any other guests?”
“Do I have a room, d’you mean? I have rooms, yes, but you must pay in advance. Usually reservations are requested well ahead of arrival, and I always require the first day’s rent in advance on mail reservations—”
“Are there any other guests?” Hoke repeated.
“Yes. A Mrs. Peterson. But she’s not here at present. She was going to visit the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary today, she said. Where did you park your car, Mr.—?”
“Let’s cut the shit, Noseworthy. Mel Peoples told me to contact you. My name’s Adam Jinks. Or did Mel give you a different name?”
“Jinks is correct, yes, sir, but I didn’t expect you so soon. What happened to your chin?”
“A shaving nick. Can you contact Mel for me?”
Noseworthy shook his head. “Not right away. Mr. Peoples called me from the airport—Fort Myers—yesterday. He had to fly up to a conference in Tallahassee for three days. Of course, if he calls from Tallahassee, I can put you on the phone, but I don’t know his number up there or where he’s staying. I’ll just have to give you a room, and you’ll have to wait till he gets back or phones.”
“Terrific. Give me a room with a tub bath, if you’ve got one.”
“Our rates are sixty dollars a day, and that’s with breakfast, of course. We have wine and cheese in the living room every evening between five and six—”
“I don’t care what it costs. It all goes on Mel Peoples’s tab, so give me the best room you’ve got.”
“He didn’t say anything about that.” Noseworthy licked his lips.
“He didn’t tell me he was going to Tallahassee either. What part of the Bahamas are you from?”
“Abaco. You may not know where that is—”
“But I do. We have something in common. That’s the island my ancestors came from. They sat out the Revolutionary War in Abaco and moved back to Florida when the war was over. They were Loyalists, you see.”
“Have you ever been there? To Abaco?”
“No, I plan to fly over sometime, just to see it, but I’ve been busy. I also need a bath. Perhaps you can show me my room now, and we can talk about the islands later.”
“Sign in, please.” Noseworthy went behind the table, and handed Hoke a ballpoint. Hoke signed the register, “Adam Jinks, Abaco, Bahamas,” and returned the pen to the innkeeper.
“I’m sorry you had to sign in.” Noseworthy shrugged. “But they check on me sometimes, because of the tax, you know.”
“I understand. You aren’t doing too well, are you?”
“Not yet, but word is getting around. I really don’t understand it. There are many interesting places to sight-see, all within easy driving distance of Immokalee, as I was telling Mrs. Peterson this morning.”
“Maybe you ought to put in a pool. It’s ninety degrees out there, and eighty degrees in here.”
“We don’t cater to that kind of clientele. Tourists who want a pool can stay at the Day’s Inn or a Howard Johnson’s. A guesthouse is for people who want a quiet atmosphere with homelike surroundings.”
“Yeah. Most people have stuffed squirrels and owls in their living rooms, so they’ll feel right at home here.”
“It’s upstairs. Follow me.”
Hoke’s room was in the front of the house upstairs, and it had a large bathroom. The Bahama blinds shielded the window to the street, so there was no view, but there was nothing he wanted to see in Immokalee anyway. Noseworthy handed him the key. There was a brass tag on it with the name LeRoy Collins intaglioed onto the tag.
“The downstairs door is locked at ten, but your room key fits the front door as well, in case you go out.”
“Did Governor Collins ever stay in this room?”
“No, sir, but all the rooms are named for former Florida governors. Mrs. Peterson is down the hall, in Governor Kirk’s room.”
“A good idea, Mr. Noseworthy. And educational, too. If Mel phones, come and get me right away—even if I’m still in the tub.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Jinks, I will.” He closed the door behind him as he left.
There was a full-length mirror on a wooden wardrobe next to the double bed, and Hoke caught a glimpse of himself. No wonder Noseworthy had given him such a cool greeting. His serge suit pants, rolled up at the cuffs, were dusty, and the sport shirt was far too big for him. Hoke had rolled up the sleeves and had left the long square tails out to cover the pistol stuffed behind his waistband. Hoke turned on the hot water in the tub and undressed. A bruise the size of an orange was on his stomach, where Chic
o had hit him with his fist. It looked very dark against his white hairy stomach. The tub had claws for feet, and each claw clutched a large round marble ball. There was a framed sepia-toned photo of Queen Victoria on the wall, which was hardly appropriate for LeRoy Collins’s room, Florida’s former liberal and best governor ever. Hoke turned off the hot water and then ran enough cold to cool it so he could barely stand it. He eased his aching body into the steaming water. He soaked for about an hour, running the hot water again as the tub cooled, before he soaped himself and rinsed off.
He removed the wet tape and almost fell asleep before he decided to get out. He washed his white socks in the tub before he pulled the plug. He dried off and put fresh tape around his cracked ribs. He dressed again, putting his shoes on without socks. He felt refreshed, but his neck was still sore and tender to the touch. He was also hungry.
Hoke put the pistol under his pillow and went downstairs, leaving his room key in the door. Noseworthy wasn’t in the living room, so Hoke pushed through the door and went into the kitchen. A woman, about thirty-eight or forty, with curly lion-colored hair, was sitting on a stool at the work table, snapping pole beans into a green bowl. She was a handsome woman, even without makeup, and she looked at Hoke with cool blue eyes.
“May I help you? Mr. Noseworthy went to the post office.”
“Are you Mrs. Noseworthy?”
“I’m Mrs. Noseworthy, yes,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Yes, ma’am. I’d like to get something to eat.”
She shook her head. “We don’t serve meals except for breakfast, and that’s from seven-thirty till ten. Eleven is checkout time, you see. But we serve wine and cheese from five to six.”
Hoke nodded. “Mr. Noseworthy told me, but I missed breakfast.”
“I can give you a half-off coupon for the Cafeteria downtown.”
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