Doom squelched down the bank. There were eleven corpses, including the yearlings, lying in bloody pools where they had been skinned. Doom recalled their shimmers and bellows when Rosalind had called them yesterday. This morning he had begun to learn to understand them as individuals, and now in death they were indistinguishable one from the other, except the babies. Each alligator had a blue-black bullet hole between its eyes. Why hadn’t the alligators hidden from their assassins by submerging in the opaque water? Maybe they had been domesticated just enough to come when called. And what kind of dirty fucks had done this thing?
Doom decided then and there to show them no mercy. Blood on his shoes, he climbed back to the crest of the slough.
“One of the rat bastards got snakebit,” said Lisa. A soft young voice came from this leathery woman, and her eyes, though teary, were bright and sharp.
“How do you know?”
Wordlessly, she led Doom around the slough and near the rim pointed to a dead rattlesnake seven feet long, fat as a drainpipe. There was a bloody stump instead of a head.
“You’re not from around here,” Lisa pointed out.
“I was born here, but I’ve been away a long time. My name is Doom Loomis.”
“I knew your daddy. He was a crook.”
“I never knew him.”
“You best be good to my granddaughter. I’m in the right mood to shoot men.” And she jiggled the gun in her right hand.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Up-the-Grove, I will. Would a man die from a bite like that?”
“Might. Might not. Maybe nobody got bit at all. Maybe they just killed it because killing’s what they was here for.”
When Doom returned to the house, he found Rosalind curled in bed with a ball of fur pressed to her heart. It was alive. “What’s that?” he asked.
“A bush baby.”
He held Rosalind and her bush baby for a long time while she cried. “Rosalind,” he said when it was almost dark. “I have an idea. We might be able to get the name of one of the killers.” After Doom explained his idea, he asked what they’d do if it worked.
“Shoot the scum.”
“Okay…” Did she mean that or was it the grief talking? Lisa Up-the-Grove looked ready to shoot reptile killers, in which case there would be trouble. Perhaps it was time to summon sociopathic assistance. “Can I call New Jersey from your phone?”
“What’s in New Jersey?”
“Longnecker’s in New Jersey.”
A woman answered in New Jersey.
“Hello,” said Doom, “this is David Dietz calling from Adirondack Life magazine. Your subscription is about to expire.”
“Oh,” said the woman, sorry to hear that Adirondack bullshit. “Just a minute.” She shouted “Longnecker!” in Doom’s ear.
Doom spoke to Longnecker in code, and the only bit of it that made any sense to Rosalind was “Omnium Key, Florida.”
Well, Doom figured, while he was making covert calls, he might as well check on the roots of this Tamarind Financial front, so he called Whittelsey Dowd, a white-collar criminal still incarcerated at Longfellow. Whittelsey Dowd was an inside trader, stock manipulator, and breacher of fiduciary duty and, therefore, a perfect resource for Doom, who again talked in code. “Tamarind Financial on Tequesta Key, Florida” was the only phrase that made a lick of sense to Rosalind, listening. After that he called Duncan and the professor to set things in motion for tomorrow.
There he went again, thinking like a crook, like his father. So much for real things. When he hung up, Doom found Rosalind standing beside her bed, staring at him. Lisa Up-the-Grove stared at him, too, from the back door.
“I’d like to invite you both to spend the night with me on Staggerlee,” he said.
LONGNECKER AND HOLLY
Posing as tourists from suburban New Jersey, Longnecker and Holly motored south on the Sunshine State Parkway past the Ocala interchange. Longnecker drove, fiddling disconcertingly with the radio, while Holly stared out the window at endless, ordered orange groves and thought this the most tedious landscape she had ever laid eyes on.
“Bible thumpers and hardscrabble nail knockers! Christ Jesu! I want jazz! Where’s the jazz? Where’s the harp bop? I wanna hear some Cleanhead Vinson!”
“Get real,” said Holly.
Their bumper sticker said HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR KID TODAY?
Longnecker listened to a weather report for the northern Rockies as if it made a difference to his life, then said, “That Doom Loomis, he’s one stand-up hombre.”
“So you mentioned.” Holly, frankly, had heard quite enough about this Doom Loomis character, about how Longnecker would still be languishing in Longfellow if Doom hadn’t let him escape into the forest while out on the trail patching lean-tos. Doom had known Longnecker was plotting a bust-out. Doom had seen him depoting supplies on the trail to Lake Tear of the Clouds. Doom had even tried to talk him out of it.
“Look,” Doom had reasoned, “it’s not so bad here. We have fresh air, exercise, nature. If you bolt now, you’ll be a fugitive for the rest of your life, a man on the run.”
“But Doom, that’s the only time I’m really happy.”
“When?”
“When I’m on the run.”
“Oh…That’s different.”
As trail boss, Doom was in charge, and rules clearly stipulated that he had to rat on Longnecker. Longnecker’s escape cost Doom a month in lockup. There were even some scary threats about transferring Doom to the hard-time lockup at Dannemora, where they’d keep him naked in the dark, pissing in a galvanized bucket, until he told them where Longnecker went. Doom didn’t particularly mind the Longfellow lockup. He read Murphy, Malone Dies, The Unnameable, and Watt, in that order. He emerged mentally adroit, if more disconsolate, and a figure of respect, a stand-up guy, among inmates and correction officers alike. And that’s why now Longnecker and Holly were headed for someplace called Omnium Key, because Doom Loomis was one stand-up guy. Holly knew all about it. What the hell kind of moniker was Doom anyhow?
Holly had begun to enjoy Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Her life there seemed clear and cheery, not like life underground at all. Certainly not like when Longnecker was a fresh fugitive and they had holed up like a couple of chipmunks in a leaky yurt outside Broken Leg, New Hampshire, freezing their tits off. After that winter, their new Upper Saddle River neighbors seemed exotic to Holly, contributing as they did to the GNP in three-piece suits. Sometimes at night she wished she had taken up with a contributor, a man with ties to the community, but she always landed with Longneckers, men who never fit in.
It wasn’t as if Longnecker didn’t try. He had made several touching attempts to fit in. He had stolen this Range Rover from the Bergen Mall parking lot because it was the car of choice in Upper Saddle River.
Holly’s new friend, Phoebe, had even hinted around about sponsoring them for membership in the Upper Saddle River Golf & Tennis Club, which insiders called the Saddle. Holly found it difficult to visualize Longnecker in knickers, putting, but the concept of a country club appealed, tranquillity, green canvas umbrellas to block reality and the afternoon sun, and now that life might be gone before it really got started. Longnecker was speeding off to do something crazy with this stand-up weirdo in Florida, a state she had always detested, where no doubt she’d find herself in the center of a weirdo jamboree. Holly often suspected it was the scars of a Catholic upbringing that had left her susceptible to Longneckers. Look at him, steering with his knees at seventy while rolling a duber the size of a tampon.
“One pays this kind of bread for personal transportation, one expects to get an FM radio.”
“You know, Longnecker, it didn’t sound so bad to me at Longfellow,” said Holly petulantly, and he looked at her as if she had suggested they sign up for the Saddle and shoot golf. “Longnecker,” she ventured again after what seemed about four days in the orange groves, “will you promise me one thing?”
“You name it.”
“Pr
omise me you won’t blow anything up.”
“Sure, babe. Got to pee?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s stop and buy some tourist trash, maybe a Stuckey’s Praline Loaf.”
“Longnecker?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“If you don’t intend to blow anything up, why do we have all this dynamite aboard?”
“Traction.”
CRIME WAVE
Leaving Rosalind and Lisa asleep in the forward cabin, Doom got up at dawn, pulled on shorts and his Total Immersion T-shirt, and headed for the Flamingo Tongue. He hadn’t exactly decided to call Doris, but he was leaning that way. She deserved at least some of that money, yet contacting her would be a reckless act. The police were probably talking to her right now; even a stupid cop could trace Ozzie’s death boat back to her.
There were three newspapers in racks outside the restaurant, two locals and the Miami Herald. It didn’t make the Herald’s front page, but the other two blared:
ANOTHER CORMORANT KEY KILLING!
…Another? Doom’s knees went soft, reading,
Doris Florian, 62, was found strangled to death in her home at 3156 West Anhinga Dr. last night. This followed by twelve hours the murder of Oswald Mertz, who was found strangled in Ms. Florian’s boat near No Hope Channel.
Police found Ms. Florian’s body when they traced the boat registration to her address. Neighbors reported that Mr. Mertz moved in with Ms. Florian about six months ago and that they were “a nice, quiet couple.” Police are searching for a connection in the killings.
“Getting to be just like Miama,” observed Arnie without moving his lips.
“It’s the drugs,” said Bobby.
“It’s the Yankees,” said Billy.
“It’s the liberals,” said Arnie.
Dawn was making eyes at Doom.
Then wafts of stink began to swirl about the Flamingo Tongue. Knowing the source, Doom didn’t look up from his newspaper.
“Fret not, boys,” called theatrical Sheriff Plotner, the screen door banging shut behind him. “I got these killings in the bag.” He squatted on a stool next to poor Arnie Junior. “In the ba-ag.”
Dawn poured him a cup of coffee to go but did not tarry in the area.
“Why, hey there, Mr. Loomis. You boys know Denny Loomis’s son? You must feel right at home, what with all the killings.” Nobody answered, but Sheriff Plotner didn’t give a shit. “I’ll let you boys in on a little police secret, you swear it don’t leave this room. Ever. Both victims was…strangled.”
“Hell, Lincoln, it says that right in the paper,” Arnie pointed out.
“No it don’t. Where?”
Arnie Junior excused himself to go outside for a breath of fresh air.
“Damn if I didn’t tell those hacks off the record. Well, then, I’ll tell you something else. Mertz and the Florian woman—they both lived together in the same house!” Sheriff Plotner was ebullient. “I been waitin’ thirty years for a clean-cut killing. I crack this one, you boys’ll be watching me on Ted Koppel.”
Dawn was bagging the sheriff’s coffee at the far end of the counter. Doom felt as if he might throw up from the combination of stink and fear. Sooner or later this compost heap would trip over the fact that Doom and Ozzie did time together at Longfellow. It wouldn’t prove anything, but it would provide the dreaded first connection. And then there was the talkative team of Bert and Marvis to worry about. Doom had made some reckless mistakes, but now that would have to change.
With his coffee, the sheriff wafted out the door to fight crime and appear on Yankee TV.
“Ole Lincoln Plotner don’t get to smell no better as the years go by.”
“I don’t mind the smell, just it gets in my eyes.”
“Ever smelt a dead shark?”
“Naw, I think it’s more vegetable in stink. Like muck.”
“Remember Platehead Johnson?”
“Got hit in the noggin by a torpedo?”
“Right. You’d fish with ole Platehead in the sun, bored, not catchin’ nothin’, he’d say, ‘G’won, touch it.’ You’d touch it and the damn thing’d burn your fingers like Archie’s griddle.”
“What made you think of Platehead?”
“Somethin’ about the way Plotner stinks.”
“Platehead stink?”
“No.”
The phone rang. Archie went to get it. He summoned Doom. “It’s collect,” said Archie.
Doom laid twenty bucks on the counter.
“Greetings from Longfellow U.,” said Whittelsey Dowd. “Spanish Eddie sends his best, likewise Ralph and the Hat.” Doom and Dowd didn’t have much in common except that they liked to watch nature documentaries on the rec-room TV. “When I get out,” Whittelsey Dowd used to say, “I’m going to buy a llama.”
“Why a llama?” Doom asked.
“I’ve always liked llamas.” Whittelsey was serving a nickel for stock manipulation, insider trading, and general white-collar criminality. His family had come over on the Mayflower, so he felt behooved to disgrace the name. “How’s life in the sunny South?”
“I’m living on a boat.”
“The cons will love to hear that. ‘Wild Kingdom’ is coming on this afternoon, but these dorks want to watch the Dolphins play some other lummoxes. We’re freezing our seeds off, wondering if winter will ever end. Women?”
“There are two aboard right now.”
“Two! Naked?”
“Oh, sure.”
Dowd groaned longingly. “Do they have all-over tans?”
“Most everybody does down here. Have you got something already?”
“Your guy loves the cover of darkness,” said Dowd. “This Tamarind Financial Group was buried tit-deep under paper. TFG is a wholly owned subsid of Telco Finance based in Orlando, Florida. Telco’s part of a conglomerate called Celestial Real Estate, Inc. Celestial’s headquartered in LA, but Celestial’s a subsid of the Tendine Corp., and Tendine’s nothing but a post office box in Wilmington, Delaware. It goes on like that. Want more?”
“If it’s important.”
“How would I know what’s important? You didn’t tell me anything, you just gave me directions, and I followed them at no small exertion to myself.”
“What can I send you, Whit?”
“Oh, the usual.”
“What kind?”
“The gamut.” Porn was currency at Longfellow, a kind of dirty bearer bond.
“It’s on the way.”
“Have you ever heard of Donald Sikes?”
“The tycoon?”
“He’s a developer. Owns half of Manhattan, among other cities and municipalities. That’s who lurks at the bottom of Tamarind Financial Group.”
“Donald Sikes?”
“What’s going on down there, Doom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Doom, I’m in stir. Entertain me!”
“I don’t, honest.”
“If you’re going after Donny Sikes, forget it. Man’s a recluse. He doesn’t even show up for grand juries.”
“I’m not going after him.”
“Look, Doom, I’m out of here in six and a half months. You could use a crook like me. I have resources. I wouldn’t make a move against Donny Sikes without my resources. Please, Doom, I need something!”
“Okay, you’re on.” It sounded to Doom as if Whittelsey was about to cry.
“Really?”
“Sure, call me when you get out.”
“I will, Doom, you can count on me. Six months, nineteen days.” Whittelsey Dowd hung up and returned to the rec room to tell the cons, who were staring at the TV with stupefied looks on their faces, that Doom Loomis was going after Donny Sikes. The gridiron was bathed in Miami sunshine, but back at Longfellow it was already pitch-dark. The red aerobeacon atop Kempshall Mountain twenty miles away was blinking forlornly. Whittelsey’s news arrived like a spice-scented trade wind. The rec-room cons cheered. That Doom Loomis, he was still one
stand-up hombre. Whittelsey Dowd sat down in a broken plastic chair and choked back a gob of regret. The effort hurt him deep in his chest.
When Doom returned to the counter, the skippers were still remembering Platehead Johnson, about how his plate got struck by lightning up around Jupiter somewhere.
“He just wasn’t the same old Platehead after that.”
The phone rang again. Dowd was calling back. “I almost forgot the coincidence. Remember Ozzie Mertz?”
“…Sure.”
“Well, that’s who Ozzie embezzled from. Donald Sikes.”
ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION
Idon’t believe for one second this has anything to do with alligators,” Duncan stated flatly from behind the wheel of the subcompact Doom had rented. “He’s up to something. I can see it on his face. The man is up to something funny, and he’s holding out on us. I hate that.”
“He’s standing us our accommodations,” said Professor Goode.
“Accommodations? It’s a trailer park. I expected never to wind up in a trailer park.”
“I rather like it.”
“Of course you like it. There’s not a soul under a hundred and eight. You probably feel like a graduate assistant. And another thing. Where is he getting the bread?”
“At some point, Duncan, events will force you to fall back on your own resources. Then where will you be?”
“Fucked and banjaxed.”
“Wait, stop. That was the place.”
Duncan braked. “How could that be the place? It looks like a dead diner.”
“Nevertheless, it’s on the list. Dr. Conklin.”
In fact it used to be a diner called Goodhue’s Alligator Eats. The letters had been removed from the sign, but the sun had burnished forever their imprint into the metal case.
“Christ, look at the dump. I wouldn’t buy a cheeseburger from Dr. Conklin,” said Duncan, backing into the weedy limestone parking lot. There was a drive-up window around the back.
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