“I guess your husband hasn’t told you anything about me. You’d better talk to him. I’m also expecting an important call.”
“He told me.”
“So I can’t leave the house. If I have to wait till five for a piece of cheese, I’ll starve.”
“I guess I could scramble you an egg.”
“If you’re too busy, I can do it myself.”
“I’ll bring a tray up to your room.” She bent over her bowl again, dismissing him.
“Thanks. By the way, Mrs. Noseworthy, there’s no Gideon Bible in my room. I checked.”
She lifted her head and stared for a moment. “There’s a bookcase in the living room for guests. But I don’t think you’ll find one there either.”
Hoke grinned as he climbed the stairs to his room. Mrs. Noseworthy, whether she was actually married to the innkeeper or not, explained a few things that had bothered him. Here in Immokalee, on an unpaved side street, was the worst location possible for a guesthouse. The room, without a phone, radio, or television, was way overpriced, and there wasn’t even a pool. But it was a safe place for a white woman married to a black man. No one would bother the couple here, and the social stigma, in a backwater like Immokalee, would be minimal at best. There would always be some guests for their seven rooms. Even one guest at sixty bucks a day would provide a living for two people. The guesthouse would also serve as a safe house, a secure hideout for someone who wanted to cool off for a couple of weeks. Because of the recent drug wars in the Bahamas, particularly in Nassau, on New Providence, there was a real need for a quiet hideout like this one. And for his hot guests, Noseworthy would charge a lot more than sixty a day. Hoke looked forward to meeting Mrs. Peterson, wondering how she happened to be staying here. He shook his head. He still had his own problems to solve. Instead of being curious about the Noseworthys and Mrs. Peterson, he should be making up some kind of story to tell Mel Peoples.
On the long walk from the farm to town he had decided to tell Peoples the truth about what had happened. But after reflection, now that he had relaxed a little and was feeling better, he suspected that the truth would terrify a bureaucrat like Mel Peoples. If he told Peoples and Major Brownley the truth, he could get into a little trouble, perhaps a lot of trouble— There was a knock at the door.
Hoke got up from the bed, where he had been lying and staring at the photograph of Booker T. Washington on the wall. It hurt to move, and he groaned when he got to his feet. He crossed the room and opened the door. Mrs. Noseworthy had put the tray on the floor outside the door and gone back downstairs.
There was a one-egg omelet on the large white plate, and a piece of white bread, skimpily spread with margarine. A small dish contained three prunes, and there was a six-ounce glass of skimmed milk—the kind his father called “blue john.” As he put the tray on the bedside table, he regretted making the comment about the Gideon Bible. Hoke ate slowly, taking his time to make the meager meal last. Except for wine and cheese later, this would be the last meal he would get until breakfast. He would have to stay put in the house until he heard from Peoples.
There was a battery-powered digital alarm clock on the bedside table, but no phone. He could call Brownley in Miami on the downstairs phone and ask Brownley to come and get him, but that wasn’t a good idea. When the fire at the farm was discovered, if it hadn’t been already, there would be a sheriff’s investigation, and Brownley should avoid this area altogether. He would just have to wait.
At five Hoke took his tray downstairs to the kitchen and put it on the counter by the sink before going into the living room. There were wrapped singles of Velveeta cheese food on a large platter arranged in an overlapping pattern. The center of the plate held an unwrapped waxed-paper square of unsalted soda crackers. There was also an opened half gallon jug of burgundy on the buffet table. Hoke poured a plastic glass with wine but skipped the cheese and crackers.
He was on his third glass of wine when Mrs. Peterson came downstairs. She introduced herself, and told him she was a retired history teacher from Rome, Georgia. She was driving around the state by herself, sight-seeing, and staying at guesthouses. She loved out-of-the-way places, she said, and met very interesting people at the guesthouses. At first, she said, when she left Rome, she had stayed at motels. But they all were alike, and she hadn’t met anyone. Then she got a list of Florida guesthouses from a travel agent in St. Augustine, and it became a different trip altogether. She was in her early sixties, Hoke figured, wearing khaki culottes and a short-sleeved blouse, and she seemed to be a nice, pleasant woman. When she left Immokalee, she said, she was going to skip Miami and drive directly to Key West, where she had reservations for a week at the Cabin Boy Inn. Hoke knew that the Cabin Boy Inn catered primarily to gay couples on vacation from New York and New Jersey.
“You’ll meet some interesting people there, I’m sure,” he told her.
She didn’t ask Hoke a single question but rambled on about her afternoon at the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary. Mr. Noseworthy had poked his head through the swinging door a couple of times, but neither he nor his wife joined them in the parlor. Mrs. Peterson told him in some detail about the birds she had seen and ate a half dozen slices of cheese. Hoke finally excused himself, poured another glass of wine, and took it upstairs to his room to get away from her.
Hoke undressed and went to bed and was asleep by seven-thirty. The house was quiet, and he didn’t awaken until seven the next morning. He was still stiff and sore. He took a short tub bath before going downstairs for breakfast. He drank two cups of coffee from the Mr. Coffee machine and ate a bowl of Cheerios, pouring them from the opened box on the buffet table. There was milk in a glass pitcher. There were only two slices of cantaloupe on a plate, so Hoke only ate one slice, figuring that the second slice was Mrs. Peterson’s. Mrs. Peterson, on her retirement vacation, was still asleep.
After his frugal breakfast Hoke looked in the bookcase. Most of the books were paperbacks or Reader’s Digest condensed books in hard cover, but there were a few interesting hardbacks, with dust jackets missing. Hoke took a copy of Sabatini’s Scaramouche out of the bookcase and opened it to the first page. “He was born with the gift of laughter, and the knowledge that the world was mad.”
Hooked, Hoke took the book back upstairs to his room and read until noon.
13
THE FOLLOWING DAY AT 1:00 P.M. NOSEWORTHY CAME UP to Hoke’s room and got him. Mel Peoples was on the line from Tallahassee. Noseworthy went into the kitchen, and Hoke picked up the phone.
“Moseley, here.”
“What in the hell happened out there, Sergeant?” Peoples began, and his voice was higher than Hoke had remembered. “I just talked to Sheriff Boggis awhile ago on the phone, and he said the house and barn were burnt down.”
“I imagine they are, because they were burning when I saw them. I spent my first night here in town and hitchhiked out to the farm the next morning. An old couple driving to Miami picked me up and dropped me by the gate. It was almost a mile out to the farm itself, but I didn’t go all the way. As soon as I saw that the house and the barn were on fire, I walked back here to Immokalee. And I had to walk all the way, too. You should’ve left a number here for me to call you. I wasn’t about to call Boggis or anyone else about the fire.”
“I realize that now, and I’m sorry. But I wasn’t sure where I’d be staying. I guess I should’ve called Noseworthy last night to let you know. But what do you s’pose happened out there? There were no aliens on the farm, and Bock’s half-ton is missing, Boggis said.”
“I have no idea what happened. As I told you, as soon as I saw the fire, I took off. With no official ID, I couldn’t’ve explained what I was doing out there. You and Brownley already said you couldn’t cover me. Did you tell the sheriff anything about me?”
“Of course not! He’d go through the roof if he knew a Miami cop was working in his county.”
“Well, don’t let him find out, or both of our asses will be in trouble.”
�
��What’ve you been doing since?”
“Sleeping, reading, and eating skimpy meals here at the guesthouse. How do I get back to Miami?”
“Let me think a minute.”
Hoke waited, although he could have suggested several methods.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“Tell Noseworthy to drive you to Four Corners in Bonita Springs. Trailways stops there, and you can catch the bus back to Miami. He can advance you the money, and I’ll pay him back later.”
“I’ll call him to the phone, and you tell him, Mel. Coming from you, he’ll feel better about it. He’s already worried about my tab here, even though I told him you’d take care of it”
“Don’t worry about the tab—”
“I don’t. But Noseworthy does, I suspect.”
“Okay, put him on then. And thanks for your efforts, Sergeant. Tell Willie, when you get back, that we’re ‘kits’ now.”
“It was nothing, Mel. I got there too late to check into anything. How’s your meeting going in Tallahassee?”
“It’s a mess so far. Advance planning for the new immigration law. Mostly appointing new committees for studying the possible effects. It’s too soon to actually write any state regs, and there are all sorts of loopholes in the law. For example, they’re only going to fine an employer who knowingly hires more than twenty illegal aliens, which doesn’t make good sense. How do you interpret something like that if he only hires nineteen at a time?”
“I’m sure you’ll work something out, Mel. I’ll get Noseworthy.”
Hoke went into the kitchen and got the innkeeper. Noseworthy was whispering something to his wife. As Noseworthy left to talk to Peoples, she looked at Hoke with her bold blue eyes and pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “Is that the call you’ve been expecting, Mr. Jinks?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave now. But I’ve enjoyed my stay, especially the little trays you fixed for me. Be sure you add the meals to my tab.”
“I intend to, although, as I told you, we aren’t set up for meals other than breakfast. To run a restaurant or a boardinghouse, another license is required. We aren’t used to having people stay in their rooms all day either.”
“Well, I don’t have a car.” Hoke shrugged. “And it’s too hot to walk around town in the sun.”
“So now you’re leaving.”
“Yes, ma’am. And thanks again. And add a fifteen percent tip on my bill—for the meals, I mean.”
“I don’t accept tips.” Her cheeks colored.
“Why not? My friend will be happy to pay for the extra service.” Hoke left the kitchen.
Noseworthy was sitting at the check-in table; his fingers were still touching the phone when Hoke joined him.
“Melvin said I was to drive you to Bonita Springs and buy you a bus ticket to Miami.”
“No, Mr. Noseworthy.” Hoke shook his head. “He didn’t say that. What he said was that you’re to drive me to Bonita Springs and advance me money for my trip. I’ll buy my own ticket, and I’ll need another twenty bucks for essentials.”
“What kind of essentials d’you need for a bus ride?”
“Several things, and perhaps a pint of bourbon. I’ll get my stuff.” Hoke started for the stairs.
“What stuff?”
“Didn’t your wife tell you? She cleaned my room. I’ve got some adhesive tape and a few Tylenols left. And my pistol, of course. I’ll be right down.”
NOSEWORTHY HAD A THREE-YEAR-OLD CHEVY STATION WAGON. It was in excellent condition, with only twenty-five thousand miles on the odometer. He didn’t turn on the radio, but he occasionally rolled his eyes toward Hoke and looked as if he wanted to ask some questions.
“How much,” Hoke said, “did Mel Peoples tell you about me?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He just asked me to take care of you if you showed up at the house. But the way he said it, I didn’t think you’d come. At least that was my impression at the time. If you called instead of coming to the guesthouse, he said to phone him right away and get your number.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. But I can’t say I’m not curious.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I’ve known Mel Peoples for three years. He’s never mentioned you before, and I don’t see how a man like you and Mel Peoples ever became friends. No offense, but—”
“None taken, Mr. Noseworthy. But that’s easy. I knew Mel up in Tallahassee. He was going to A and M and I was in FSU. I used to get student tickets to the FSU football games, and he scalped them for me. We split the profits sixty-forty. Those were halcyon days, Mr. Noseworthy. We were young, carefree, and we both had brilliant futures. Ask Mel to tell you about his ticket scalping days sometime.”
“He did tell me about that. What do you do now?”
“I’m a retired teacher from Rome, Georgia. I just travel around the state, visiting guesthouses and seeing the sights.”
Noseworthy frowned. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me.”
While Noseworthy sulked, Hoke looked incuriously at the gray-green flatlands of Lee County. A lot of the land near the state road had been cleared for cultivation, and they occasionally passed small herds of Black Angus cattle in fenced fields. There were also developers’ billboards as they got closer to Four Corners, advertising low preconstruction prices for new condo complexes that were still in the planning stages. When they passed the billboard advertistising the Bonita Springs dog track, the sign where the dead Haitian’s body was purportedly discovered, Hoke shook his head with sudden insight. The mystery of the “dead” Haitian behind the billboard was now explained to his satisfaction, but he still didn’t know why Mel Peoples and Willie Brownley had lied to him about it. He would find out, however, when he got back to Miami and talked to Willie, even if he had to twist Willie’s arm.
There was no bus station at Four Corners, but there was a fifteen-minute rest stop for passengers at the restaurant, and Hoke could buy his ticket from the cashier. Noseworthy gave him money for the fare and an extra twenty dollars, but he handed the money over reluctantly. He shook hands with Hoke, however, and wished him luck before heading back to Immokalee.
Hoke ordered a breakfast of poached eggs, grits, and milk toast and drank three cups of coffee. He had to wait four hours before the bus for Miami pulled into the lot. He could smoke again, if he didn’t inhale too deeply, and he smoked ten Kools while he waited for the bus. He was puzzled by Mel Peoples’s sudden departure for Tallahassee and Noseworthy’s intuitive feeling that he didn’t think that any man named Adam Jinks would show up at his guesthouse. It looked as if Mel had been covering for himself, in case anything happened at Bock’s farm, by being four hundred miles away from the area.
HOKE CALLED HIS HOUSE FROM A PAY PHONE IN THE MIAMI bus station. He let the phone ring ten times before he hung up. It was after 9:00 P.M., SO someone should have been home. Hoke dialed again, thinking he had inadvertently dialed the wrong number. But no one answered the second time either. No one was home. Not one of the three females in his house would be able to let the phone ring ten times without answering it. As a general rule, one of the girls picked up the receiver by the second or third ring.
Hoke walked to the police station, a dozen blocks away. He took the elevator up to the Homicide Division; but his office was locked, and he didn’t have his keys. Captain Slater was night duty officer in charge. Slater wore a black silk suit, a navy blue shirt, and a striped blue and white necktie. His pale, pockmarked face, because of his dark clothes, made him look as if he were recovering from a serious illness, but he always looked this way. Slater looked Hoke up and down, and gave him a lipless smile.
“Back from vacation already? Where’d you go, anyway?” Hoke’s right sleeve was scorched slightly, his oversize rolled-up trousers were baggy at the knees, and he needed a shave again.
“Just working around the hous
e, Captain. Is González around?”
“He’s still on days. I haven’t seen him for a week or so. Half the time I don’t even know what you cold case people are working on.”
“That’s up to Major Brownley. I report directly to him, as you know, but I’ll get permission from him to fill you in if you want me to.”
“Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough on my plate already. You hear about Rodrígues and Quintero?”
“What about em?”
“Arrested. Both of them. They’re both in jail on a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bond. It should be in the papers tomorrow.”
“What happened? They’re on your night shift, aren’t they?”
Slater nodded. “They held up a crack house in Liberty City. It wasn’t the first time, either, but this time IA under-covers were planted and arrested them with their hands out.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Hoke shook his head. “These guys’ve been in plain clothes for five or six years, and they’re both married, with families.”
“It’s a fucking shame, Hoke. But the money’s too easy to get, and there’s too much of it out there. And these are Homicide cops. God only knows what the Vice cops are stealing.”
“I blame Internal Affairs, Captain. Lieutenant Norbert sits on his ass over there, and he doesn’t know half the things that are going on in the department. They should send Norbert back to Traffic, where he belongs.”
Slater pulled his thin lips back again. “He managed to get Rodríguez and Quintero. They’ve been suspended, of course, and that leaves me four detectives short on my night shift. Smitty resigned yesterday, without being asked, and Reynaldo’s on a six-month psychiatric leave. He’ll never return to duty either. He was cleared at the hearing, but both those boys he shot were under sixteen, and the new chief won’t take him back.”
“He can fight that with the PBA.” Hoke shrugged. “Both those boys he killed had pistols.”
“Oh, I don’t blame Reynaldo, Sergeant. I would’ve shot them myself in the same situation, but that makes six he’s killed in five years. Six, as you know, is beyond chance. They’ll give him a psychiatric disability pension, and he’ll be fixed for life. What the hell, Hoke, Reynaldo’s got sixteen years in. You take his pension fund money for sixteen years, and add a disability on top of that, and he’ll make more retirement money than he would if he stayed for twenty.”
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