Charles Willeford - Way We Die Now

by Unknown

  "Not exactly, Hoke," Brownley said. "Bock's advertised for crew chiefs in the -Immokalee Ledger-, but no one wants to work for him. Only someone desperate for money'll work for the son of a bitch. Lately Bock and his foreman, a Mexican named Cicatriz, have had to drive over to Miami to find Haitian laborers. They soon quit and drift back to Miami.

  "So when you go out to the farm and ask for a crew chief's job, he'll hire you. Once you're living there, you'll be able to check around with no sweat."

  "It won't work, Willie." Hoke shook his head. "He'll ask me some questions about farming, and he'll know immediately that I don't know the difference between my dick and a cucumber."

  "You won't be picking cucumbers or nothing yourself. If he hires you, you'll be supervising pickers, and they know what to do. You should be able to supervise a gang of Mexicans, Haitians, and winos--"

  "What about my cases in Miami?"

  "Gonzalez can handle things till you get back. After all, they're all cold cases anyway. A couple of days won't matter. I'll have him report daily to Bill Henderson."

  "What I was going to have Gonzalez do today was to check to see if Dr. Schwartz is wearing the late Dr. Russell's Rolex and diamond ring. But Gonzalez isn't subtle, and I have to tell him how to go about it."

  "I'll explain it to him. Is this important?"

  "Might be. Schwartz married Russell's widow and drives his Mercedes, so it might be worthwhile to know whether he's wearing his watch and ring as well."

  "Don't worry. I'll tell Gonzáles how to go about it."

  "How?"

  "I'll just have him make an appointment. Then, when he goes in, he can take a look when Schwartz examines him."

  "Examines him for what? What's supposed to be wrong with Gonzalez?"

  "What kind of doctor is Schwartz?"

  "Internal medicine."

  "Okay, I'll tell Gonzalez to say he's got a bellyache."

  "No." Hoke shook his head. "Ulcer. Two hours before his appointment, make a peanut butter ball, the size of a marble. Let it dry a little, and then have Gonzalez swallow it without chewing it. In two hours it'll spread out a little in his stomach and look like an ulcer on an X ray."

  "You sure?"

  "A lot of guys beat the draft that way during Vietnam. And it'll work on Dr. Schwartz. I don't want him to suspect anything, so Teddy'll have to get his story straight."

  "I understand that. Anything else?"

  "Several things. What're you going to tell Ellita and my daughters? I can't just disappear for a few days without a word--"

  "I'll tell Ellita you're on a special assignment when I drive your car back. As an ex-cop she'll understand that."

  "You're taking my car, too?"

  "You won't need it. And don't write or call Ellita either."

  "There's one other thing, Willie. It might be important, and it might not. But Donald Hutton got paroled--"

  "The man who poisoned his brother? You must be wrong. He got a mandatory twenty-five."

  "I know. But he was awarded a new trial on his last appeal. The state attorney didn't want to retry the case, so he's out on a time-served. It isn't all that unusual."

  "You don't think he's still out to get you, do you? After all, it's been ten years."

  "I don't think so, no. But he bought the house right across from me in Green Lakes. If I'm out of town, he might try to get back at me through one of my daughters or even Ellita. I'm not really worried about it, but this is a bad time for me to be away for a few days."

  Melvin Peoples got up, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't know what this is all about, Willie, but if Sergeant Moseley's family's in any danger, we'd better forget about this idea or postpone it. This investigation could take three or four days or more--"

  "Take it easy, Mel," Brownley said. "I can handle this. I've got to drive Hoke's car back anyway, so I'll stop by and talk to Hutton myself. The threat he made ten years ago doesn't mean much. But I'll talk to him, and if I don't like what he says, I'll make him move."

  "I already checked with his parole officer, Willie," Hoke said. "He told me Hutton can live anywhere he wants, and there's nothing we can do."

  "He can't do anything, but I can."

  "It's not that important, Willie, but I thought you ought to know about it."

  "I'll check him out. Now empty your pockets and put everything on the bench here."

  "What for?"

  "I've got a new ID for you. If Bock finds your gun and badge on you, he won't believe you're a crew chief so down on your luck you're asking him for work. Gun first."

  Hoke took his gun and holster from his belt in back and placed it on the bench.

  "Cuffs, too."

  "They're in the car--glove compartment--together with my sap." Hoke put his badge and ID case on the bench. He removed his money from his wallet--eight dollars-- and put the wallet beside his ID case.

  "What else you got in your pockets?"

  "Cigarettes, about a half pack. This Bic lighter, some Kleenex, some change. Car keys and fingernail clipper. That's it."

  "Okay. Keep the lighter and cigarettes, and put your money in this wallet. It's your new ID." Brownley handed Hoke a well-worn cowhide wallet that was torn on one side. There was a yellow business card, advertising Goulds' Packers, Goulds, Florida, with an address and telephone number. There was a letter on lined stationery that had been folded and refolded. Hoke took the letter out of the envelope, addressed to Adam Jinks, General Delivery, Florida City, FL, and read it:

  Dear Adam,

  I got your money order for ten dollars the one from Farm Stores, but how long do you think ten dollars will last not long when I still have rent to pay and Lissies been sick with the croop and needs to see a doctor. I can't find no work here in Lake City where I can take Lissie with me and I been sick myself. So if you can send another MO soon I won't bother you soon again.

  All my love EVIE.

  "I guess," Hoke said, "when I get paid I'd better send my 'wife' some more money up in Lake City."

  "If you do, it'll be a shock to Evie. Adam Jinks was killed in a knife fight in Florida City last Friday night. By now she knows it, but no one else down here does. I kept his wallet. They brought Jinks up to Jackson, and he died there. I got his effects, such as they are. And because it happened down in the Redland, it didn't make the Miami papers."

  Hoke nodded and looked at the rest of the wallet's contents. There was an unused condom wrapped in a piece of tinfoil, a photo of a freckled young woman with a little girl on her lap, a fourteen-cent stamp with Sinclair Lewis's face on it, and a coupon torn from a newspaper that would entitle the owner to a free Coke at Arby's if he also bought a roast beef sandwich.

  "Is this all?" Hoke asked. "There's no money."

  "Jinks was fired from the Goulds packinghouse, and he was broke. He got knifed trying to steal a man's change off the bar in Florida City. Put your own money in the wallet, and there's your ID. Adam Jinks is an easy name to remember."

  "There should be a Social Security card."

  "He probably knew his number and lost the card. Hell, I lost my card ten years ago and never asked for another. I know my number."

  "All right," Hoke said. "If I'm asked, I'll use mine."

  "Give me your teeth, too, Hoke." Brownley held out his hand. "Jinks didn't have any teeth, so you can't either."

  "He had false teeth, didn't he?"

  "Not when he was knifed, he didn't. He probably pawned 'em, but there wasn't any pawn ticket with his effects. Hand 'em over."

  Hoke removed his upper and lower dentures, wrapped them in a tissue, and placed them in Brownley's hand. Brownley dropped the teeth into his right front pocket. "I'll take good care of these, Hoke. Soon's I get home I'll put 'em in water with some Polident."

  "How'm I supposed to eat? Without my fucking teeth?"

  "Stick to soft stuff for a while, but your gums ought to be pretty tough by now."

  "Without my teeth I look a hundred years old, 'speci
ally with this gray beard, for Christ's sake!"

  "You just look down-and-out, Hoke, and that's the look you'll need to get a crew chief's job with Mr. Bock."

  "On the road to Immokalee," Mel Peoples said, "you'll pass by Tiny Bock's farmhouse. It's on the east side of the road. Don't stop. Go on into Immokalee and talk to some of the migrants in town before you do anything else. It's unlikely that Jinks would know anything about Bock's hiring problem down in Goulds or Florida City, so you'll have to pick up that information in town before going out to his farm."

  "I understand that," Hoke said, nodding.

  "Tom Noseworthy's the man to contact in Immokalee if you find out anything. Contact him, and he'll call me, and then you can go back to Miami. When you get to Immokalee, go down the main drag. Go straight instead of taking the dogleg to Bonita Springs, and continue down the street for two more blocks. You'll pass a drugstore and a Sixty-six station, and then you'll see the sign for Noseworthy's Guesthouse. It's a two-story building with gingerbread trim, a bed and breakfast place. Noseworthy's a Bahamian from Abaco. He isn't doing too well with this bed and breakfast place because not many tourists spend any time in Immokalee. But it's a nice place if you can afford it. Sixty bucks a day, with a free breakfast. It's too steep for hot-bed traffic, so at least he gets legitimate guests. Anyway, Tom knows how to get ahold of me, but don't go near him till you're ready to leave."

  "I'll need some money to eat on," Hoke said. "Eight bucks and change won't go far."

  "That's plenty," Brownley said. "In fact, it's almost too much. You've got to play the part of Adam Jinks, and he's got to be broke enough to actually hit Tiny Bock up for a job."

  "All right, Willie, I'll play it your way this time. But after this you're going to owe me a big one."

  Mel shook hands with Hoke. "Good luck, Sergeant. I've got to get moving. I'm due back in Naples before noon." Mel turned and started up the path.

  "Just stay here for about twenty minutes," Brownley said, "and then go out and hitch a ride on the Trail." He turned to leave.

  "Just a second, Willie. Is this some kind of test or what?"

  "In a way maybe, but don't worry about it. Just look at this as another routine investigation." Brownley trotted up the path to catch up with Peoples.

  Hoke sat on the bench and lighted another cigarette. With cigarettes selling for a buck and a half a pack, he would have to go easy on them for a while--at least until he got some more money. Why didn't he tell Brownley to go fuck himself? The story about the dirt at Bock's farm matching the dead Haitian's toenails and fingernails was thinner than his hair, for Christ's sake. There must be dozens of farms in the Immokalee area with the same kind of dirt. For some reason they wanted to get something on Tiny Bock. He didn't have to take this weird assignment. He was on his own now--without a badge, gun, or authority--and he didn't know exactly what he was supposed to be looking for--except those little V's nagged at him a bit-- and neither did Peoples and Brownley. Well, he would find out soon enough. Some branches broke up the path, and Hoke got to his feet.

  Brownley came back into the clearing. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "Those dogs, Hoke, the pit bulls. D'you know what to do if one of 'em attacks you?"

  "Sure. I run like a striped-ass ape."

  "No, that isn't the way. He'll catch you. When one of 'em jumps for your throat, he tucks his front legs up a little, like this, see?" Brownley held up his wrists in front of his chest and let his hands dangle. "What you do then, you grab these forelegs, drop onto your back, and flip the dog over at the same time. Hang on to his legs. This'll break both of his front legs, you see, and then he can't chase after you again. That's all you have to do."

  "No shit? That's all I have to do, huh? Just hang on to his legs. Suppose both dogs jump for my throat at the same time?"

  "You'll have to dodge one when you get the other one. But I wanted to be sure you knew what to do in case you got attacked, that's all."

  "You ever do this, Willie?"

  "Not with a real dog, no. But when I was at Fort Gordon, Georgia, during the Korean War, we practiced how to do this with a sack of sand. The sergeant would throw the sack at us, and it had two little legs dangling off it. We practiced grabbing 'em, and it wasn't too hard once you got the hang of it."

  "A sand dog and a pit dog aren't the same, Willie."

  "Sure they are. The principle's the same. You'll catch on in time. I just wanted to make sure you knew how to do it, that's all. Good luck, Hoke."

  Brownley waved and disappeared up the path.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Hoke emerged from the shady grotto to stand on the north side of the trail, his Pontiac was gone. Perhaps he should have argued with Brownley to keep the car, but it wouldn't have done any good. A toothless migrant like Adam Jinks could hardly explain how he came to own a 1973 Pontiac with a new engine and a police radio. The rusty Toyota was still there. A tourist family had parked beside the pickup and was disembarking for breakfast (a middle-aged man in green canvas shorts, two teenage children, and an obese woman--the wife, no doubt, carrying a sleepy two-year-old on her hip). Hoke wanted to follow them into the restaurant and drink another beer, but Brownley had told him not to go inside. Besides, he had to guard his eight bucks and change until, somehow, he managed to obtain some more money.

  It was another twenty miles to the hamlet of Ochopee, and then seven or eight more to Carnestown, the crossroads where he would have to take the state road north to Immokalee. The Tamiami Trail continued southwest into Naples at Carnestown, and south of Carnestown, two or three miles, was Everglades City, the major port for marijuana coming into South Florida.

  The traffic was thinly spaced, and no cars slowed to his raised thumb. Why would they? Without his teeth, and with the stubble of gray beard on his long face, he looked like a wilderness wino. The sun toasted his back through his threadbare shirt, and he was grateful now for the new straw farmer's hat with its green plastic brim. It protected his balding dome from the direct rays. Sweat dribbled down his sides, and his shirt was wet. His balls were damp in his Jockey shorts. There were fewer mosquitoes out on the highway than there had been in the dusty clearing, but there were still clouds of gnats nibbling at the moisture about his eyes and lips. Two hundred yards up the road, across from Monroe Station, was a small Seminole village. There were a half dozen chickees behind the peeled pole palisade, and he could see the tops of the thatched roofs of the chickees. At the gate, on the other side of the canal, across the small bridge, there was a small clapboard store selling Indian artifacts. A pipe rack outside the store displayed multicolored Seminole jackets and aprons.

  Hoke walked down to the village parking lot and stood under the shade of an Australian pine. There were no tourists as yet, parked in the gravel lot, but he would wait for one and then ask the driver for a ride as far as Carnestown. It would be much more difficult for a man to refuse his direct request than it would be to ignore his thumb from passing cars.

  There were buses on the Tamiami Trail, Trailways and Greyhound, but they went straight through to Naples and didn't stop for passengers on the Trail. If a man lived out here in the Glades, he either owned his own vehicle or had to cadge a ride with a friend. The migrant camps had buses and trucks, and if one came by, Hoke might be able to get a ride in one or the other; but his best bet, he thought, was a sympathetic tourist.

  Monday morning was not, apparently, a good day for tourists of any kind. An Indian kid, black as tar and with a heavy black braid down his back, came out of the village and crossed the road. Hoke watched the boy go into the Monroe Station restaurant and then come out a couple of minutes later eating a Mounds bar. He nibbled the bar as he walked back and then tossed the candy wrapper into the canal before crossing the little bridge into the village again. Ah, Hoke thought, Indian culture at first hand. The Seminoles and Miccosukees both, in Hoke's opinion, were a surly lot. If you bought gas at their Shark Valley reservation station, near their restaurant,
the attendant would merely look at you without expression until you told him what you wanted. After he had filled your car, he would take your credit card without saying anything and walk away. You got no thanks or any other acknowledgment from the pump jockey when he returned with your card or change. It was as if the Indian were doing you a big favor by selling you gas, gas that was ten or fifteen cents more per gallon than you could buy it for in Miami. If you asked the jockey to check under your hood, he didn't hear you. He went back inside his office and waited until you drove away, frustrated and angered by his attitude.

  The Indian kid with the Mounds bar had not looked at Hoke either going to or coming from the Monroe Station restaurant when he crossed the highway. It was nice to know that officially the United States and the Seminole Indian nation had not, as yet, signed a peace treaty and that the two nations were still at war. This was a mere technicality to the United States, but perhaps the Indians took it more seriously and therefore refused to fraternize with the enemy--except to take American money.

  An hour later the sun was hotter yet, but Hoke discovered that if he walked back and forth on the lot instead of standing still, he could discourage some of the lazier gnats. Smoking also helped keep them away, but he was now down to only six cigarettes in his crumpled pack. No more cigarettes, he promised himself, until he got a ride.

  The stillness in the Everglades was appalling. There were six chickees inside the compound, but no noise or talking came from inside. The woman inside the open door to the little shop didn't come out to take a look at him. Indians never offered any help or suggestions and merely grunted the price of something if you asked. There was no dickering either. Except for the striped, multicolored Seminole jackets fluttering on the pipe rack, all the other Indian artifacts they sold were made by other Indian tribes--not by the untalented Seminoles or Miccosukees. The turquoise jewelry came from New Mexico, and the rubber tomahawks were imported from Taiwan. But the Seminoles were getting rich anyway. They sold taxiess cigarettes and ran bingo games on their reservation in Broward County, and the federal government couldn't do anything about it-- so long as they stayed on their reservation. But Hoke wouldn't live out here in the Glades if he made two hundred thousand dollars a year. Hell, it would take more than three hours to get a Domino pizza delivered from West Miami!