Hawk Channel Chase

by Tom Corcoran

  To my relief he picked up. He grunted, sounded asleep.

  “Do I still have to call you Fred?”

  “Shit,” he said. “Why did I answer this bastard?”

  “Your steadfast devotion to duty?”

  “Right now, Rutledge, my only allegiance is to the reclining chair. And I’m not running a hotline, advice to the lovelorn.”

  “Are you still running the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office?”

  I sensed a beat of hesitation before he said, “The eighty percent I usually run. A wise man plans for pockets of anarchy, even on slow days.”

  “I guess that’s how a smart fellow plans his romances, too.”

  “Don’t start,” said Liska.

  “Is Sally Catherman with you?”

  “Oh, Rutledge, you fucking fool. Just the fact that you know her name…”

  “Her daddy asked me to help…”

  “Stop,” he said. “Even I’m not privy and, believe me, I’m happy to keep my distance. It’s only by chance that I learned their names and I’m not that damn glad that I did. Did you sic the news monster on me?”

  “The paper got a ‘Citizens Voice’ email. Some Bay Point resident whining about roadblocks and evacuations. That got me Marnie, and I told her about that dork who mouthed-off at the bar.”

  Liska bought time, cleared his throat. Patience, I thought. The temperature in the phone booth must have been over 100. I hoped he was considering his moral commitment to his job. Or getting up steam to tell me how much he resented an outside agency treading his turf. Except for a close friend of mine, an ex-Key West cop, I had never met a federal interloper who had run for office, walked a beat or justified his actions to a skeptical city commission.

  “How did she get my cell number?”

  “I’ve never had your cell number,” I said. “Maybe one of your employees. Your office isn’t leak-proof. You’ve known that from the beginning.”

  “I can’t tell you strongly enough, Rutledge, back off. This could poison your future, fuck up your credit, you name it.”

  “Just so they don’t scar my face. I have to accept that my phone is wide open, my civil rights are being violated.”

  “What civil rights, fucknut?” said Liska. “Try a red flag on your passport. That’s a lifetime sentence to high hassle.”

  That one got my attention. I had seen the ugly treatment given in airports to people with flags on their names.

  “I’m curious,” he said. “How come you’re so hot-shit anxious to work for the girl’s father when you tell me, every time I need your help, to take a walk?”

  “It’s a complicated deal,” I said.

  “Here’s one that’s not.” He hung up on me.

  Crossing back to Summerland I fought a southeast crosswind at the bridge crest. On another day it might have made a fun ride more sporting. The mid-morning sun’s heat and minding the speed limit and not having my mind on sport made it a task. I spent more time checking my mirror than the road ahead while I tried to script my questions for the people at Colding’s Grocery. If Sally Catherman’s fellow employees saw her as a pain in the ass or boss’s favorite, they might see her absence as positive. If they feared that her disappearance was connected to her working with the public, they might be afraid to talk with me. My first step would be to chat up the owner, to find out how he intended to “go to bat for us.”

  At the northeast corner of Summerland Key’s busiest intersection, Colding’s couldn’t be more public. I checked the Mobil station and the office building lot across the street. No suspicious sedans but that didn’t assure me that I wasn’t being watched. A gravel road lined with stacked lobster traps ran eastward from the grocery’s parking area. The only vehicles in that direction belonged to commercial fishermen who tended to reinvest in their boats rather than their pickups. I couldn’t picture an undercover agent borrowing a funky, stained, rusty, dented and lopsided truck. A Lexus SUV in front of the store’s entrance boasted a LIMITED EDITION badge.

  For the moment, apparently, I had no watchdog. It was just as well. Liska had put me in a mood to confront someone, and agents lose much of their humor when they take the gig. They aren’t promoted for their charm, and have no patience with those who fail to see the serious nature of their mission. If I fumbled a one-on-one, resorted to chuckles and lies, I’d be illegally searched and taken to a cramped, ugly room to explain myself and the cash still in my pocket.

  I took my time setting the kickstand, hooking the helmet to a handlebar lock so it and its hidden envelope couldn’t leave without me. One last look. No other cars.

  “It’s Rutledge, right?”

  I recognized the voice of Frank Polan. He walked out of the grocery wearing unattractive, expensive-looking shades, an unattractive, expensive-looking polo-style shirt, and fishing shorts. I had encountered Mr. Polan twice in recent years during “situations.”

  “How you doin’?” he said. “Long time no.”

  “Frenzied. You?”

  “Actually, a bit depressed. I just came out of this relationship, younger. She had the legs, the tits her ex-husband paid for, the cute face.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Frank,” I said.

  “But she had the kid and I ask you. I’m not getting any younger. What sense will it make, twelve years from now, to be teaching her kid to drive when the state is trying to pull my license for old age?”

  “Good point.”

  “I wasn’t all that turned on by the tits,” he said. “Glad I didn’t pay for them.”

  “So why be depressed?”

  Polan admired his Lexus then shook his head. “I guess I’m happy, now that you mention it. Very happy.”

  If this is joy, I thought, please don’t show me your flip side. “You know the owner of this place?”

  “No,” he said. “This is where Monte’s Restaurant used to be, where I ate lunch a few times a week. The county wouldn’t let him expand or some shit. I can’t remember. He must have pissed off a commissioner. They leveled Monte’s and built this place two years ago.”

  “Good to see you, Frank.”

  “Come on by sometime. Call me. I’ll take you out on one of my boats. You can bring some of those models you’re always meeting. I’d rather see no boobs than store-bought boobs, you follow?” He winked. “Plus those models, I’m sure you know. They hate the tan lines.”

  “One of them might like you,” I said.

  “Too much to ask.”

  I removed my shades. It still took a half-minute for my eyes to adjust to the grocery. The place smelled of coffee, peach pies, laundry soap, and sausage spices. A store I would love to enter some other day, to inhale, inhabit and sample. One bored young woman sat on a stool at a front register. Her name tag said ALYSSA. She wore a gray DKNY T-shirt, perused a National Enquirer and ignored me. A girl in a pink top and beige Bermuda shorts was stocking shelves. A slightly older woman at the deli counter along the rear wall was mass-assembling sandwiches. Her tag read: HONEY WEISS. I asked her if Cecil was in the building. With a sneer disguised as a grin, Honey pointed at a closet-width unmarked door. “Go on in,” she said. “He ignores knocks.”

  The reader at the register whispered, “But not knockers.”

  Cecil Colding half-stood when I entered, looked as if he was expecting me. He was an ad agency’s ideal grocer. Male-pattern baldness, round head, trimmed moustache and a white polyester blend short-sleeve shirt. The only missing piece was the pen protector. His office smelled musty though two-thirds of it was filled with cartons of store stock.

  I introduced myself and explained my visit. Cecil pushed himself to the full vertical, walked halfway around his desk, crossed his arms and leaned against a steel file cabinet. He didn’t offer me the chair next to my left leg.

  “We were hoping you could provide some insight,” I said.

  He swiveled his head to one side, lifted his chin, perhaps trying to stretch a neck muscle kink. “I told the father I would do what I could. Mostly
, I wanted to quiet him down. His stress level was fouling my sales atmosphere.”

  “How many customers did he drive away?” I said.

  “Zip, nada. Thank God I cut it short. The chickadees were another story. They were starting to look frantic and I just can’t have it.”

  Cecil’s nasal voice carried no accent but he’d mastered a demeaning tone. I imagined he could say, “Nice day,” and make it sound like someone’s fault.

  “You really aren’t too worried about Sally’s absence,” I said.

  He turned his head again as if trying to release a muscle spasm. “She wants her papa to think she’s this pure little thing. Or at least give him room to believe it. Maybe you’ve seen the web statistics on virginity after, say, tenth grade. These days, after high school, the only thing pure with these girls is the line of crap they give their parents and boyfriends.”

  “Do you have any idea where Sally’s basic impurities may have taken her?”

  “Not a fucking one, but don’t get me wrong. I wish you the best of luck. If you find her today or tomorrow, tell her she’s suspended from the schedule, two days for every shift she missed so far. Tomorrow afternoon I got three interviews for replacement help.”

  “I’ll make sure she understands that. If, say, she’s anxious to return. And if she hasn’t fallen victim to, say, foul play.”

  “What’s foul play, dirty underpants?” Cecil laughed at his bad joke then at me for keeping a straight face.

  “You mind if I ask your employees a few questions?”

  “Do it quick,” he said. “I’m not trying to roadblock you here. Go take two or three minutes, total, but no protracted interviews. Can’t have them sloughing off, right? I don’t pay the fuzzy-brains to speculate on tropical comings and goings.”

  “Any particular one be a better choice than the others?”

  He shook his head, sneaked in a neck swivel. I finally realized it was a nervous tic. I could tell he was hedging.

  “I challenge you, try to find a lick of sense out there on the floor. On second thought, Rutledge, you want to chat up my help, make appointments for when they’re off the clock. Don’t pester them while they’re working. I got no say in their private lives. But I’m not running a singles bar.”

  Cecil Colding wanted me out of the hen house.

  I exited, closed the door, and softly said, “Holy shit.”

  “Maybe unholy,” said Honey Weiss. “Welcome to Colding’s.”

  “You’re making sandwiches for the evening rush?”

  “No, for a boatload of night fishermen,” she said. “Are you a rep? What are you trying to sell Cecil?”

  “I’m a friend of Sally’s dad. We’re worried about her.”

  Honey nodded, tried to smile but looked grim instead. She looked over my shoulder. The shelf-stocker had walked up behind me. This one was Mikey. I had found her without trying. Her gray knit T-shirt read BIG PINK SOUTH BEACH. She looked about the same age as Alyssa but kept a reserved, quiet expression. She looked at Honey Weiss, as if for guidance or to urge her to say something.

  I dug into my wallet but found only one business card. All it had was my name, the PO Box and my email address. Honey handed me a ballpoint pen. I almost wrote my phone number. A picture flashed in my head of a government snoop wearing earphones in a dark room listening to one of these young women, putting her name on a watch list. I wrote Carmen’s number.

  “Cecil asked me to hurry out of here,” I said, “and I don’t want to cause you problems. If you can help at all, leave me a message at this number, please. I’ll meet you anywhere, you name it.”

  “Cool,” said Mikey. “Rob’s Island Grill. Or Square Grouper.”

  “Why there?” said Alyssa. “We can do a big lunch at Mangrove Mama’s.”

  Alyssa wore a braided string necklace with a seashell dangling from it. Her ponytail was clumped into a bun, held by a green rubber band. She looked stuck in that realm between cute and beautiful, but she wasn’t too young to upgrade, to be trading cheap meals for better meals.

  Then, again, I had said “anywhere.”

  “I’ll just have the salad.” Alyssa waved her hands as she spoke then reached to touch my arm. “Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  Honey appeared to enjoy it all. I watched her catch Mikey’s eye and give her a subtle nod, perhaps permission to speak. I waited for Mikey to chime in.

  It didn’t happen. Cecil’s door handle made a slight click. Alyssa and Mikey walked away. Honey went back to wrapping sandwiches in foil. By the time the boss poked his head out of the office, I was a customer. Under the watchful, perhaps suspicious eye of Cecil, I carried a small box of granola bars to the register. Up close I noticed Alyssa’s metallic tongue decor. I paid with a five from my wallet, not from the wad of bills in my front pocket, then hit the exit.

  The grocery’s empty parking lot did nothing to drop my pucker level. A scan of my surroundings turned up zilch. I felt more discomfort in not seeing anyone than I had with the Charger and Impala right in my face. I hadn’t thought of my chat with Frank Polan as a comfort moment, but it beat standing there, pulling on my helmet, acting the bull’s-eye.

  The three women appeared both fearful of Colding and anxious to talk. Their worry about Sally appeared genuine. I needed to exercise what I had learned at sea in the Navy, and keep thinking a few more steps ahead of myself.

  8

  Spanish Main Drive on Cudjoe Key runs straight south from the Overseas Highway. A natural radar trap, the stretch offers a clear view in the rear view. If I were being followed, I would know. For one mile I saw only a squadron of senior tricycle riders from Venture Out, the upscale trailer park. At road’s end I went right, hoping to catch Frank Polan at his coral-colored two-story home on Calico Jack Circle.

  Bobbi Lewis had revealed to me a year ago that Polan had become wealthy through financial ventures kept clean by the constant vigilance of his attorneys. She knew because the deputies had done a background check on him after a shooting on his property. Polan, it turned out, was an innocent bystander.

  I found him using a pole brush to chisel bird shit off the stairs to his elevated deck. He wore another pair of unattractive sunglasses, a tank top, a Speedo suit, a plastic mesh pith helmet and submersible sneakers. His shoulders and arms shined with sun oil. He didn’t appear surprised to see me.

  “It’s okay to walk on the pea rock,” he said. “I’m not as fussy as I used to be.”

  “That’s good news, Frank. It’ll reduce your stress.”

  “But what the hell,” he said. “Try to stay on the stepping stones. You want a smoothie? I bought this very expensive blender, and I use organic fruits. It keeps down my sugar and makes me younger. Or I got beer somewhere, maybe in that fridge in the downstairs guest room. You can go look. I never have to buy beers. Visitors leave them behind.”

  “Thanks, but no. Your place looks great,” I said. “You can’t afford a yard man?”

  “Oh, sure, I got the service, it comes once a week. But I keep my hand in. I replaced my treated wood with that new composite. I mean, I had it done. One less upkeep hassle. No more stain, no more sealer I gotta buy… You’re right, it drops my stress level. But how do you stop this shit rain? Wouldn’t our lives be better with no birds? We should teach every last one of them to fly to Iraq. They could birdshit the terror boys into submission.”

  Because I had come to ask a favor, I changed the subject. “You used to wear those big rubber Birkenstocks.”

  “They got too heavy and they boiled the tops of my feet. These Surfwalkers are like foot condoms, if they made rubbers with mesh which I’m glad they don’t because of my opinion on rug rats. But I’m glad I bought these. I mean, what the hell.” He waved his arm at his yard and boat ramp. “I can afford what I want.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  He took off his pith helmet. His hair was so closely cropped that his skull had a deep tan. “Come into the carport, out of the sun. I don’t
make loans for under fifteen percent. You should know that going in.”

  “I want to give you some money to hold for me. About four grand.”

  “You don’t trust yourself not to piss it away?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “It’s somebody else I don’t trust. I figure, if I need someone to sit on my cash, why not a millionaire?”

  Polan got an odd look on his face.

  “Of course,” I added, “that may be the exact person not to trust.”

  “You’ve got a point, there.” Polan finally cracked a grin. “Maybe I can put it to work for you.”

  “Or just hold on to it.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. It’s the least I can do, and I always want to offer the least I can do. I’m that kind of guy. Come see my new backcountry boat, the Everglades. It draws maybe sixteen inches. A bit more with all your topless models aboard.”

  I almost made the mistake of following him to the dock. The view of Cudjoe Bay was a postcard dream, and Polan’s array of boats, kayaks, jet skis and sailboards was equal to a five-star resort’s. I stopped short, begged off, and explained to Frank that I had an appointment in Key West in an hour.

  I kept some pocket money and gave Polan forty Ben Franklins. While he was double-checking my cash count the cell phone buzzed my hip. The little window flashed Bobbi Lewis’s personal number.

  “Frank,” I said, “can I borrow your phone?”

  “It’s up in the kitchen, the first sliding glass door. Go around to your right, but…”

  “Take off my shoes before I walk inside?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Stress you haven’t addressed yet, Frank?”

  “Not really. I just washed the floor. I’m a very clean man.”

  Bobbi grabbed my call on the first ring. “Liaison.”

  “You want to liaison with me?”

  “Alex? Why are you calling from a Lower Keys exchange?”

  “I came to Cudjoe,” I said. “I had to talk to a man about a possible job.”

  “Here in the Keys, Alex, so close to home? Won’t that cramp your international lifestyle?”