Apparent Wind

by Dallas Murphy

  KING DON

  He was aboard some kind of marine vessel, something bigger than a boat, he judged from the long, slow rolls, but she wasn’t moving. Was she at anchor? She had to be a ship, because boats don’t have walk-in laundry rooms.

  Doom sat chained by the ankle to the internal frame of a washing machine. This he had determined more by feel than sight, since the portless cubicle was dead dark. He had fitfully languished the night away against a bagful of dirty shirts, pants, and underwear. No one had come to feed or water him since Fu and friends had lugged him aboard unconscious the afternoon before. He had pawed around the laundry in search of water—there had to be water in a laundry room—but his chain snubbed, faucets still out of reach. Thirst and fear kept him awake all night. His ribs throbbed, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Yet he must have slept, because dreams lingered like sticky substances in his head. Dreams of his father and of his own murder intertwined. His own murderers were just finishing up their morning coffee, smoking a cigarette, then they’d roll the washing machine over the side. Doom would squint for an instant into the unaccustomed sunlight before his two-foot-long tether clattered him over the bulwarks and down, down to where the sea turned as black as the laundry room. The average depth of the Atlantic is two miles. Down there he’d question the old man straight out, both of them being drowning victims, even if they had nothing else in common, “Just why in hell did you steal me my hometown? What was your motive? Didn’t you know it would get me killed!” Like a barracuda, the old man would hang motionless in the current and watch Doom plunge past; then, wordlessly, he would swim away.

  Doom was angry as well as thirsty and frightened. Here he and Rosalind had a thing full of hope, or at least possibility; now some real estate sharp was ready to murder it for money or property. Or something. Doom had never killed, but he considered it. He could kill if killing seemed appropriate and escape possible. He stretched out as far as his chain would allow and located the clean laundry, the sweet-smelling, folded stuff. Systematically, he peed on it all. That done, there was nothing further to do but wait for the inevitable to befall him.

  How long did he wait before the door snapped open? There stood Roger Vespucci, a gun in hand but not pointed at Doom, just hanging in Roger’s fingers. “I’m gonna put these cuffs on you, son, and I don’t want any shit about it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I just told you. Turn around. You’re off to see the man.”

  “What man?”

  “A real card. You’ll get a kick out of him.”

  They walked up three decks on a spiral staircase, down a long, carpeted hallway with clipper ships decorating the deep pile, stupid anchor-lamps lighting the way. Doom caught a glimpse of the sea through a tinted window—no land was visible on this side. What side was this? Starboard?

  The main saloon, their destination, occupied the entire upper deck aft of the bridge. Smoked floor-to-ceiling windows ringed it panoramically. Doom gaped at the decor, and for an instant suspected it might be an elaborate joke. Sky-blue carpet with swirls of green covered the floor from bulkhead to bulkhead. Doom could barely see his feet for the pile. Crystal strings cascading, Las Vegas–casino chandeliers tinkled above his head as the vessel rolled in the soft swell. Sculpted nymphs peed in a fountain shaped like a giant bivalve shell. There was a black grand piano, an undulating wet bar with a pink Carrara marble top, an entertainment console crammed full of space-age digitals, a big-screen Sony, a CD player, tape deck, tuner, and VCR. The furniture was all of crushed velour in shades of blue and purple, sea shades. Emblazoned in the carpet in three-foot-high green letters was the vessel’s name: King Don.

  “Here, Roger, take those cuffs off Mr. Loomis. What can he do? Nothing. Have you two met, formally, I mean? Roger Vespucci, meet Dennis Loomis.”

  Roger smirked at Doom.

  “Roger, set us up with a couple of piña coladas, if you please. We’ll get right down to business.” Boyish and grinning, Donald Sikes offered Doom a seat on the sofa. Roger Vespucci exited after unlocking Doom’s hands.

  Bobby Goldsboro sang “Watching Scotty Grow” on the $12,000 sound system. The pudgy man half-sunken in the blue velour love seat listened for a while. His face was fleshy. He had a child’s complexion, creamy and pink. His legs were hairless. “I like old Bobby Goldsboro, don’t you?”

  “Of course not. What is this, an act? Or are you the asshole you look? Bobby Goldsboro.”

  “I don’t suppose you like Zamfir either? Master of the pan pipes? Naw, you’re probably one of those guys who learned culture in the pen—yeah, I did some research on you—they’re the worst kind of snobs, cons with pretensions.”

  “And what about this stupid boat? Whoever heard of chandeliers on a boat? This is the tackiest vessel I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around boats since I was a child. Who designed this boat? The Medellín cartel?”

  Donald Sikes burst out laughing. “I like a man who speaks his mind. You know where you stand with a man like that. Sit down, Mr. Loomis.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “I like a man who stands,” grinned Donald Sikes. “A standing man has nothing to hide. Here, I’ll stand, too.” A honeydew-melon gut hung over the top of his madras shorts. “Do you know who I am? I’m a rather well-known personality. Donald Sikes is the name.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “Well, I’m reputed to be a man of few words. You won’t get a lot of superfluous syllables from Donny Sikes. You sell me your interest in Omnium Settlement for a negotiable price. That’s clause one. Under clause two you sail away with full pockets in that snobby little sailboat of yours. Wait. Don’t answer yet. I’m ready to sweeten the deal—I’ll tell you what really happened to your daddy.”

  “Okay.”

  Pat Boone did his rendition of “Maybelline.”

  “Okay? Just like that?”

  “I’m a man of few words.”

  “You know, I thought so. In fact, I told Roger, ‘Don’t hurt Dennis Loomis Jr. I think he might be a man of few words.’ I might otherwise have told Roger to drop your verbose butt overboard with an anchor-chain necklace.”

  “What really happened to my father?”

  “Big Al Broadnax murdered him.”

  Doom’s knees went rubbery, but he locked them in place and said, “Why?”

  “Because your daddy tried to gyp Big Al out of his Perfection Park investment. Don’t tell me you don’t know about Perfection Park. I mean, that’s why you’re here—to discuss Perfection Park. And Palmetto Properties.”

  “I saw the tape.”

  “Not a bad tape,” Donny giggled, squeezing his eyes shut like a little boy trying not to laugh behind the teacher’s back, “for hick work. Tape like that wouldn’t fly in Gotham, but down here, what difference does it make? Down here somebody’ll just blow up your office anyway.”

  “Was the whole thing your idea?”

  Donny nodded vigorously.

  “You were after Broadnax?”

  Donny was full of glee, head bobbing.

  “And you got my father to set the bait?”

  “He was a natural. But he tried to pull a fast one on me, on Donny Sikes. I should have known, man of his character, he’d come up with something like this Palmetto Property shuffle, but it doesn’t matter, a minor glitch as far as Donny Sikes is concerned. Of course, Broadnax, now, his reaction to getting gypped was a little different. He killed your old man when he found out.”

  Doom gave it some thought, tried to see the thing as a whole, then said, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why bother?”

  “Who bother?”

  “You.”

  “Good question! You’re thinking why would a man like Donny Sikes, one of the ten richest since the Ice Age, want to skin a senile has-been like Big Al Broadnax?”

  “Right.”

  “And that would be a valid question, all things being equal. But they’re not. E
qual. This is personal. You’re probably wondering what Donny Sikes has against an old fossil like Big Al Broadnax. Ever hear of a man by the name of Prentiss Throckmorton?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should have. Prentiss Throckmorton was a visionary. A giant. He was the kind of man that made this country great. If it weren’t for Mr. Throckmorton’s railroad, Florida would still be a festering swamp. He was my grandfather.”

  “So?”

  “So? So Colonel A.C. Broadnax murdered him!”

  “You mean Big Al Broadnax?”

  “No, not Big Al!” Donny was growing agitated. “Big Al’s father!” Donny stamped his little foot, but it vanished silently in the carpet.

  “Big Al’s father murdered your grandfather?”

  “Yes! Gramps! The bastard murdered him!”

  “You mean this is a matter of revenge?”

  Donny Sikes was going rigid.

  “When did this happen, the murder?”

  “In 1934. Late summer, almost autumn. Why?”

  “How old are you? Forty, forty-five?”

  “Forty-six. Why?”

  “…You weren’t born then.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t seem very upset.”

  “About what?”

  “About Big Al Broadnax killing your old man!”

  “My father and I weren’t close. Besides, I’m leaving. Isn’t that part of the deal?”

  Donny wasn’t sure if this smart-ass con was condescending to him or not, but he decided what difference did it make? “I have the papers all drawn up.” He produced them from a lawyer’s litigation bag that lay open at his feet.

  Actually, there was only one paper, two copies. It said simply that Doom sold his Palmetto Properties holdings to Donald Sikes for the sum of $50,000. That was clause one. Clause two stipulated Doom’s post-deal departure for distant waters. “And if I don’t sign?” Doom wondered.

  “Then that would constitute breach of contract. A breach of Donny Sikes’s contract is one-hundred-percent fatal. You weren’t thinking of breaching our contract, were you?”

  “Just curious. Anyway, that’s what I wanted from the beginning.”

  “What was?”

  “To sail away. To Newfoundland.”

  “Freeze your gonads off in Newfoundland, but what’s that to Donny Sikes? Nothing.”

  “It’s just that $50,000, well, that’s not much compared to the kind of money you’ll make off Perfection Park.”

  “Come on, it’s pure profit. You did nothing to earn it. As it is, I’m willing to view fifty grand as an operating expense. What’s fifty grand to Donald Sikes? Chicken feed. But much more than that, then I’ll feel like I’m getting fucked. In that case I might as well dump you overboard. See how I work? And besides, what makes you think I mean to build this Perfection Park? It’s about the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. That’s why I picked it—because I knew it’d appeal to a moron like Big Al Broadnax. Well, truth be told, it was your father’s idea. He seemed to have an acute instinct for what morons would like.”

  “Okay, Donny, I see how you work.” Doom signed, kept his copy, and Donny marched his copy to a little cylindrical safe built into the bulkhead behind a bad oil painting of a clippership under studding sails. He returned to Doom with a bag of banded bills, just like Ozzie’s. Apparently Donny had buzzed for a lackey, because Roger showed up without being hailed. “Our business is complete, Roger. Please arrange a boat for Mr. Loomis. And Roger, where were our piña coladas?”

  “The blender’s on the fritz.”

  “Fix it. And now, Doom, I trust I’ll never see your ass again.” Donny grinned. “Surprised I know your jailhouse moniker? Knowledge is power. The fact is, I had a friend up in Longfellow by the name of Mertz, Ozzie Mertz. He told me all about you. I even read Splendor. Never did understand the point of that scam, but what’s that to Donny Sikes? I was saddened to read that my friend Ozzie came to a violent end.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Four young men in khaki uniforms, just like the ones Doom had peed on, ran out the amidship davits and winched the ship’s boat twenty-five feet down to the sea. “Is this the entire crew?” Doom asked. “Four?”

  “All we need,” smirked Roger Vespucci under his Fu Manchu. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m interested in boats,” replied Doom.

  RED-RIGHT-RETURNING

  The sun was setting gloriously as Doom waded out of the knee-deep surf where Donny’s crewmen discharged him. A half mile out the King Don lay at her anchor like a tacky white island. Doom glanced at it over his shoulder as he trudged up the beach to the road. From this slightly elevated vantage point, he could see his own boat at her dock, but he couldn’t tell if anyone was aboard. He didn’t want to return to a dark and empty boat. The usual knot of tourists and romantic locals had gathered, joints and drinks in hand, at the end of Doom’s dock, to watch the wild colors of dying daylight.

  There was movement aboard Staggerlee…Rosalind! She and the Annes stood in the cockpit while Anne shot the sunset watchers to establish time and place. Rosalind squealed and pointed when she spotted Doom coming over the rise. Doom hopped and raised his arms in the air. Anne’s camera whirled in Doom’s direction. A lump rose to clog his throat. Rosalind jumped from deck to dock and ran toward him. Doom ran, too—they met in the Flamingo Tongue parking lot beside the green dumpster, where they embraced. They held each other close for a long time. The sunsetters turned from the west and applauded the reunion. Doom waved at them, and they cheered.

  Dockside, Doom averted his teary face from the camera lens, but Anne didn’t miss a nuance. He wanted to lie down naked with Rosalind, but the boat lacked privacy. “I think I’ll fry some eggs,” Doom said. “I haven’t eaten since…when? Day before yesterday?”

  “Poor dear. You stretch out. I’ll cook something.”

  She cares, look at her—she cares! Rosalind was too tall for the galley. Stooping, she began to assemble ingredients. Life at that moment felt beautiful to Doom, lying on the starboard settee feeling the sweet feminine stimulation of Staggerlee’s rocking, the flood tide lap-lapping around her hull, Rosalind’s muscular back rippling. He grinned at the cabin top, and Anne got the grin on film.

  “Your snake plan worked great,” said Rosalind. “A goon named Lucas Hogaboom butchered our alligators.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Big Al’s main lackey. You ought to see him. Pure scum.”

  “Why would Big Al kill your alligators? How does he stand to gain from that?”

  “Big Al isn’t a reasonable person.”

  “Neither is Donald Sikes. That’s who snatched me, Donald Sikes,” said Doom.

  “Donald Sikes? The Donald Sikes?”

  Doom explained how Donald Sikes fit into the Perfection Park scheme, how in fact he was its architect and how he had hired Doom’s father to execute it. “My father came up with Perfection Park itself. I knew it was smoke. Just a rotten little real estate scam to bilk Big Al. But my father was buying up Omnium Settlement with Big Al’s money and squirreling away the land in a corporation of his own. Donny Sikes says Big Al killed my father.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  “Something doesn’t wash. My father was swindling Donny Sikes as well as Big Al. But Sikes didn’t seem to care. Unless he has a whole different purpose we don’t know about. Yet. Have you ever heard of a guy named Throckmorton?”

  “Prentiss Throckmorton? Sure, he’s a big name in Florida history. He’s the guy who built the old railroad. He’s one of the idiots who tried to drain the Everglades.”

  “Donald Sikes is Throckmorton’s grandson, and Sikes thinks Big Al’s father killed Throckmorton in 1934.”

  “In 1934?”

  “Here, catch—” He tossed her the bag of bills, and she caught it against her body. She gasped as she spilled money out on the cutting board, Anne’s camera boring i
n.

  “I sold him Omnium Settlement.”

  Rosalind’s face fell.

  “He kept me chained to a washing machine. He had the advantage.”

  “Oh, thank God he didn’t hurt you.”

  “The other part of the deal is that I get out of town forever. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t.”

  “…Can I go with you?”

  Doom was moved, forgetting totally about the camera. “You’d do that?”

  “Yes.”

  Doom tried to strengthen his voice, get the crack out of it and sound like he knew what he was talking about. “Rosalind, I think they’re both too greedy, arrogant, and crazy to go on prospering.”

  She stopped frying and sat down beside him. “What should we do?” she asked.

  “We’ll have to take measures, and they won’t be pretty. They’re both powerful crazies, and if we go after them, we’ll have to devote ourselves to it at the expense of other things.”

  “I know it.”

  But did she really? “Since they’re both nuts, we might be able to set them against each other. But we’ll need to wait for Longnecker.”

  “Longnecker’s here.”

  “He is?”

  She told him about their visit to the Broadnax compound.

  “You went there to plead for me?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t handle it too well. Longnecker kicked Lucas in the snakebite, set the garden on fire, and ran Big Al’s chair into the wall.”

  “Good, he hasn’t changed. Uh, where’s your grandmother?”

  “She’s out at the house, feeding the animals.”

  “Annes, would you mind excusing us for a minute?”

  The Annes didn’t mind cutting now that finally they were onto something cinematic, so they smirked and left.

  Doom hated to admit that thinking like a criminal excited him, but the evidence was prominent…