Bone Island Mambo: An Alex Rutledge Mystery

by Tom Corcoran

  Mendez half-recognized me. We’d seen each other in various offices and departments for years. Never socially. I put the Bacardi Añejo on his desk, made my request.

  Mendez led me to a poorly lighted room packed with floor-to-ceiling file racks. A mote fog fought four low-watt incandescent bulbs. Money saved in illumination was being spent to drive a window-mounted air conditioner. It struggled to suck air through a filter that, through the plastic grille, looked like bear fur. It stank as if a cat had sprayed the exterior part of the A/C, and the spray had blown in ripe. The climate control was a fruitless attempt to make up for failures betrayed by odors of damp cardboard, paper, and carpeting soaked by rain leaks or condenser distillate.

  Mendez didn’t mind my being in there, but he wanted out. The rum had eliminated any curiosity he might have had regarding my intentions. He left me to what he called my como se llama.

  Six rows of shelving, narrow aisles. There had been harassed attempts at uniformity in box sizing and labeling. It took an hour to acquaint myself with the filing system, the seven different plat-book groups: by date, then by lot number. Nothing was alphabetical. I had to figure out arcane real-estate stuff like easements, foreclosures, and chattels in order to make sense of the deed histories. By eleven o’clock I’d worked halfway through Holloway’s “Group One” list.

  Three corporations owned the properties. Chrysalis-Manifest Partners had begun acquiring in 1964 and had made its last purchase in 1983. The Sut-Ho-Dor Corporation made its first buys in 1971. In 1982 Sut-Ho-Dor sold several properties to Chrysalis-Manifest, and several to Holloway Holdings, Inc. One other property acquired by Holloway Holdings was the old El Mirador Hotel, popular from the fifties until the late seventies. The place had been called Key Breeze Suites in years since then. It never had benefited from a knock-down-and-build like the Hibiscus, or from renovations like the Atlantic Shores. Sut-Ho-Dor’s only holding since then had been at 544 Southard. Of the three corporations, only Holloway Holdings, Inc., had bought property after 1983.

  After two hours I’d learned nothing but company names. Transactions earlier than the sixties meant nothing to me, and there was no way to tell how the properties had been used. Butler Dunwoody must have done some kick-ass research to come up with his information.

  “Howzit go?” Cheap Juan was back. He stood in the doorway. He’d been testing the rum. He wobbled.

  I thanked Cheap Juan Mendez for his permission to peruse the files.

  It had rained but the sun was back out I stood on the sidewalk, thought a moment. I checked the front of the building. It was S44 Southard. Sut-Ho-Dor Corporation owned the building.

  I went back inside. “Mr. Mendez,” I said. “Who collects the rent checks on this building?”

  “The city, it pay direct,” he said. “I got a leak, I call that real-estate lady, Mrs. Kaiser. That daughter of that Holloway man who went to Washington.”

  “Julie Kaiser?”

  “Best on this island, you bet your ass. She send her husband with a tool box, every time. She’s a nice lady.”

  21

  I sat in late-morning sunlight on Teresa’s condo porch steps. No breeze at all. Every cubic foot of air stuck in its own space. A fat bumblebee flew figure eights above my head. Ignored me, ignored the flowers, kept flying the figure eights. A vagabond rooster wandered the parking asphalt, pecked at pebbles and buds that had fallen from an acacia, hoping for a corn kernel. He crowed, probably in protest.

  I hear you, pal.

  Teresa’s car turned into the driveway. She punched the entry keypad, waited for the twelve-foot iron security gate to swing slowly. She cruised in, windows down, her hair fluttering. Barenaked Ladies loud on the stereo. I knew the lyric. Angst beyond my imagination. A loser shaves his girl’s name into his hair, but misspells it. I thought I had it rough.

  Teresa parked, rolled her windows, left a gap. She wore tan chinos and a polo shirt, a Red Sky at Night ball cap. She kissed my cheekbone, unlocked her condo door. I heard her briefcase drop onto the hall table. I followed her in, waited while she used the bathroom. A paperback book sat on her kitchen counter. A Cool Breeze on the Underground. I’d never seen it before.

  She rolled her bicycle backward to the porch. “You could have been in the shade. You were sitting out here sweating.”

  “I was airing myself out. Cheap Juan’s storage room started growing on me.”

  “Home-grown Astroturf?”

  “Don’t step on my green suede shoes.”

  She said, “The tax files give you anything you wanted?”

  “Not much. I’ll tell you later.”

  We rode three short blocks down Thomas. Blue Heaven, at the corner of Petronia, was central to Key West’s black section. In the 1990s the intersection suffered a period of open crack cocaine sales. Expensive white powder from Duval Street had become cheap. The true ground zero was Virginia and Whitehead, where loitering was “proof evident, presumption great” of dope dealing. Naturally, there was a pecking order in the loitering process. I had heard that one regular peddler openly claimed to the cops to be marketing rocks as big as the Ritz. Vigilance and investment, what had become multiracial gentrification, had returned Petronia-Thomas to civility.

  Blue Heaven is a four-star throwback to five stages of island history. Its current incarnation—a pink-and-pastel-blue restaurant, bake shop, open-air backyard bar—calls to mind peace signs, flowers woven into hair, the era of alcoholic vegetarians, back-to-the-country doobie takers. The dining patio is filled with almond and Spanish lime trees, surrounded by an unpainted six-foot fence. It’s frequented by neighborhood animals, domestic and fowl. The food and wait staff are first-rate. Everything else is laid-back Caribbean.

  We locked our bicycles to a galvanized security rack in front of a fifteen-foot cactus. Half the other bicycles were retrocruisers—modern-day white-walled balloon tires, half-acre seats. Most of the others had high-rise handlebars and rusted frames. One or two were polka-dotted in primary colors atop geometric patterns. Rolling exhibits by vehicle artist Captain Outrageous. We walked around back. Every table was full. Vultures hung at the outside bar, made small talk with the early drinkers, waited to pounce at the maître d’s faintest beckon. One of the owners, Rick Hatch, saw us, grinned and pointed to the second-floor porch. Our host had arrived early.

  Holloway’s recorded invitation had said to join “us,” without identifying the others he’d asked along. I had guessed there would be immediate family members. I was greeted by my first positive surprise in four days. Next to Mercer Holloway sat Flo Franklin, the grande dame of Key West. Down-to-earth and elegant, Flo was the sparkly, silver-haired widow of Willy Franklin, for decades kingpin of Key West’s shrimp- and fish-house industries. Flo wore a traditional red shawl over a black bolero vest, a white linen shirt and dark skirt. She held her Bloody Mary aside. We exchanged hugs and air kisses. Expensive old-lady perfume wafted into my eyes.

  A small red button on her vest: CUTER? YOUNGER? PERKY? JUST SAY NO.

  I recalled seeing her one day twenty years ago in the post office. She’d asked how my friend Jimmy Buffett was doing. I told her I thought his career might have staying power, that he’d just recorded Son of a Son of a Sailor and bought himself a Porsche 928. Her eyes had lit up. She’d said, “Oh, yes, Alex. I owned a little red Maserati for years. Even when the top’s not down, even going slowly, those cars will make your hair stand on end.” Since then I’d always held a wonderful image of Flo zipping about the provincial island, long before my time, in her exotic Italian sports roadster.

  I introduced Teresa and explained her mother’s marriage to Paulie Cottrell.

  Flo smiled broadly, perfectly poised, and said in aristocratic tones, “Worse things have happened.” Her smile so captivating, her manner so charming, that no one else caught her drift.

  While Flo engaged Teresa, Mercer Holloway took me aside, told me all was forgiven—my delays, my failures to respond to messages. He understood that I’d be
en stressed since the weekend, noted that I hadn’t attempted to cash his check. Holloway looked spiffed up in a blue dress shirt with a straight white collar, khaki trousers, expensive loafers with no socks, a tan-colored drink in a rocks glass. His full head of hair, slightly long, an elegant gray, was slicked back. Almost as if he was dolled up for a photo.

  He’d asked me to bring a camera. I’d forgotten the request on hearing the message, forgotten on purpose. I handed him the envelope I’d brought along. It held the twenty-five-hundred-dollar check.

  “So you’re turning down my offer?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m returning your check before we talk here. We resume our talk on level ground.”

  “You should have been a lawyer.”

  “You should have been a beatnik.”

  He said, “Not in a million years.”

  “You got my point.”

  I heard voices on the porch ladder, checked over the rail. Philip and Julie Kaiser climbed ahead of Donovan and Suzanne Cosgrove. The sisters wore tropical business attire. Donovan looked ten years older than his brother-in-law. Butler Dunwoody and Heidi Norquist appeared, drinks in hand. I hadn’t seen them on the way in. They must have been on the far side of the outside bar. Dunwoody wore an authentic Panama hat. He looked to the balcony, saw me, then stomped up the stairs. In cadence, in a booming mock sea-shanty voice, he sang, “I brought my bimbo to dance the mambo, this island life is for me!” He spilled his Collins-looking drink on his wrist. Damned cheerful for someone who’d lost a primary employee only seventy-two hours ago.

  Embarrassed, Heidi tried to defuse it: “Always the social climber.”

  I introduced Teresa to those she didn’t know. Not a soul but Mercer and Flo Franklin looked happy to be there. Everyone else smiled, with near-total awkwardness. Chewing on lower lips, checking for bugs in drinks. A server took another drink order. One brought hors d’oeuvres to the table. A third poured Pellegrino. I knew they cut off breakfast at eleven forty-five. I’d had my mind and stomach set on Seafood Benedict. A jerk chicken sandwich would have to do. Ten places set at the table. We weren’t waiting for anyone else.

  Stilted small talk buzzed. Philip Kaiser remarked on the convertible that Dunwoody had parked on Thomas Street. He wondered if it wasn’t a risky spot for an old beauty. “It’ll catch a thief’s eye,” said Kaiser, “in spite of its age.”

  “Bad topic.” Heidi’s sunny face went away. She glared at Philip Kaiser.

  Kaiser went silent, pulled back, looked to Dunwoody for an explanation. He didn’t understand his gaffe.

  Dunwoody explained: “Her Jaguar roadster went bye-bye last night. First time we’ve ever left it outside. We didn’t hear a thing. They must’ve rolled it down the driveway. They had at least five hours before we discovered it. By now it’s on a boat to South America. Or in a chop shop in South Miami.”

  Kaiser took the high road: “I’m sorry to hear that. Sorry to have brought up the subject I sure like your old Ford.”

  Butler said, “’Bout to get rid of it, anyway. You can tell a car’s getting old when you can’t fit any more fast-food napkins in the glove box.”

  Teresa nudged me. Her Pontiac Grand Am’s glove compartment always held mounds of leftover paper napkins.

  Mercer was back to me. “You brought a camera?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, forgot”

  “I was hoping for a happy family group shot We’re so seldom together anymore. Maybe the restaurant has one we can borrow.”

  I didn’t want to create a Holloway family memento. “No chance of asking everyone out to Olan Mills, the Nation’s Studio?”

  My humor fell flat Mercer’s hospitality face went to pissed off. Teresa stepped closer. She’d overheard. She tapped Holloway on the arm, opened her small handbag, extracted a silver clamshell point-and-shoot, her “drunk-proof Olympus Zoom 80. I’d always enjoyed using the small camera. Press the button, decent quality. I still didn’t want to play the game.

  Mercer ignored my scowl. He shifted Teresa’s camera from her hand to mine, patted my shoulder. “Ply your trade in the open air, young man. Better for you than sitting in a jail cell. Or rooting around a stuffy tax assessor’s office all morning.”

  He turned, began to position his daughters and their husbands.

  Cheap Juan knew which side of the butter his bread was on. He’d told on me. And Mercer had a point. He’d sent Donovan Cosgrove to pull my ass out of a sling. I owed him more than just shooting a picture.

  Holloway arranged the pose. Vanity ruled. The women complained about their outfits. The brothers-in-law wanted to comb their hair. I took a dozen snaps, got it done. Mercer and Flo looked majestic. Heidi looked saucy. Julie looked classy. Suzanne Cosgrove didn’t smile a single time.

  After a minute of seat selection, we settled at the table, passed plates of finger food. The tree above us dripped rainwater, spotted our shoulders. Holloway made a fuss about draping his cotton sweater over Flo Franklin’s shoulders. Philip Kaiser broke the conversational ice. He raised his drink in salute. “This fine atmosphere, the elegant nature,” he said, gazing at the old trees in the yard.

  Butler Dunwoody responded, lifted his glass. “Here’s to a picturesque setting. The whole place vibrates with history.”

  Kaiser agreed. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not bad for a place that used to be a minority whorehouse.” He turned to Julie and asked pointedly, “Did Daddy Big Dex own this place, or just run it for his white bosses?”

  Suzanne Cosgrove said, “Nice question for your wife in public.”

  Julie turned to her sister. “You’ll keep your goddamned mouth shut.”

  Suzanne leaned forward. “Right, skinny bitch. You worried about secrets in this town?”

  Julie put on a cold face. “You haven’t had one since that biker in ninth grade.”

  “Because you let me have sloppy seconds.”

  Julie turned to her father. “Sissy’s rampaging, Father. She forgot to take her pill today.”

  Suzanne forced a laugh. “You’re such a great sister. Your dysfunctions always make me feel better about myself.”

  Teresa’s hand moved to mine. She pressed her fingers into my palm and squeezed hard. Our secret code: Let’s head for the door.

  “Heidi,” said Butler, “it’s your turn. This looks like fun.”

  “I don’t fight in restaurants.” Heidi turned to the waning sisters. “Why don’t you take it outside, you silly preppie hosebags?”

  It took less than thirty seconds. The luncheon turned into a free-for-all. A glass of Chardonnay flew, along with a feminine-sounding “Motherfucker,” a loud “Son of a bitch” from Donovan Cosgrove. A plate of Portobello mushrooms sailed. Mercer Holloway stood shouting. Flo Franklin grabbed her drink before losing it, then went under the table. Most drinks and appetizers went airborne. Goblets broke. Several plates shattered on the wood deck.

  I’d pushed back from the table, held up my napkin to shield Teresa from debris. Suzanne had taken the first major hit. Philip Kaiser and Donovan Cosgrove had rushed around the table to defend her. It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Action froze at ground level. I half-expected an ovation from a hidden audience. Julie Kaiser, who had not started the words war but had thrown at least three strikes, sat isolated, anger and guilt on her face. Tears and cream-colored sauce and red wine dripped from her chin. Servers rushed up the wood stairs with towels. One carried Dunwoody’s hat. The expensive Panama had been knocked over the railing.

  Almost on cue, Suzanne Cosgrove’s phone rang. She made a production of holding out her hand—”time out” in the ball game—wiping debris from her hands and face, carefully extracting the phone from her purse. We don’t want salad oil on our fine leather. She leaned away from the table, sure we could hear her side of the conversation. “Yes?” she said. “Was anyone hurt? Who saw it happen? Thank you, I’ll tell him.”

  She thumbed the END button, turned toward her father. “The police are going to the house,
Daddy. Someone shot a gun. It made a hole in your door.”

  Holloway crouched to help Flo Franklin back into her seat. “Arguments happen,” he said. “Bad manners can be excused. Gunfire in my residence is not acceptable. I am sorry. Our social gathering is over.”

  Donovan stood, grabbed the fat set of keys he’d placed on the table. “I’ll take care of it, Mercer.”

  Softly, out of the side of his mouth, Holloway muttered, “I doubt it”

  Teresa’s cell phone rang. The city was calling.

  “Matter of fact,” said Mercer more loudly, “please give the Infiniti keys to Mr. Rutledge. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind seeing Mrs. Franklin to her home. I’ll go with one of you.”

  “Happy to help,” I said.

  Philip and Donovan, knowing they’d miss lunch, attacked scattered hors d’oeuvres before departing. Teresa had walked down the stairway to take her call. She met me at ground level, offered Flo another escort elbow. Butler and Heidi preceded us to the Petronia gateway. Heidi didn’t care who heard her: “She looks like J. Crew and her stupid sister looks like Land’s End and they both smell like hotel soap.”

  I looked right. Flo frowned. Teresa fought back a smile, adjusting her opinion of Heidi. I asked Teresa to walk with us to the Infiniti sedan and to dial my answering machine.

  One message. Sheriff’s Detective Bobbi Lewis: “Please call back.”

  Teresa hugged Flo good-bye, told me she’d leave my bike chained to the rack.

  Flo Franklin and I discussed my photo travels until we reached Johnson Street Finally she mentioned the food fight “Suzanne’s such a spirited gal. I remember the day she was married. It rained and I thought This is a bad sign. For all I know, Alex, her Donovan is a bundle of fun underneath the veneer. But a dullard on the outside. I wonder how she keeps her sanity.”