The Long Gray Goodbye: A Seth Halliday Novel

by Bobby Underwood

  Her smile would have lit-up any major city in the world like a Christmas tree. “I love it too. I love being Caroline Halliday.” And then she kissed me. She was still kissing me when we heard footsteps approaching. It was Tammy.

  “Get a room, you two.” She was smiling, however.

  “We’d need a change of clothes, first,” I replied. We were both still wet.

  “Can’t help you there. But I can give you this.” She handed me the folder she hadn’t had a chance to give me because of the explosion.

  “What’s the rundown?” I knew Tammy had taken care of my request personally because she was definitely a hands-on kind of girl.

  “Jerry Carmichael isn’t your sterling citizen, but he isn’t John Dillinger either. There’s a lot of drunk and disorderly on his sheet, and disturbing the peace. A few assault and battery charges that got dropped. Got caught screwing a minor once but she was fifteen and had a sheet of her own already. She’d probably seen more action than Schwarzkopf during Desert Storm, so the DA didn’t bother pressing. Last known address for him from a year ago is over in Muck City. I’d say it’s current though, because he was arrested in a bar for D&D just last week. Should be out now.”

  I was surprised. After listening to the tape, I’d expected to hear he’d been murdered, which actually would have worked in my favor. Even a cursory look into his death by a detective might have given me a clue to Boon’s identity. It was difficult to know what was important and what wasn’t until I could connect the young girl who’d suffered such a terrifying death with Holly Carmichael and Laura Garner. My gut told me Boon was the key.

  I needed to talk to Holly’s father, but first I needed to pick up a change of clothes for both myself and Caroline. Before I headed for Boca Raton to speak with Laura Garner I also needed to have Jeanette Miller listen to that tape. She lived out on Star Island.

  I thanked Tammy, and apologized for Sonny’s boat blowing up. I knew she’d be stuck here for hours now.

  “Well, it’s a pretty day,” she replied. “I could be sitting behind a desk instead of hanging out at Dinner Key with my sweetie.” She smiled and jerked her thumb behind her. “I’m dating one of the bomb guys. It’s hard to get any time together, so Sonny’s boat blowing is actually a godsend. We may get a lunch out of it. Hell, if we drag our feet, maybe dinner, too.”

  “See, Caroline,” I whispered conspiratorially, “I told you we were doing her a favor planting those charges.” Caroline smiled and so did Tammy.

  We left Tammy to it, and while Caroline went inside a Sears to pick up clothes I phoned Sonny to give him the bad news about Candida.

  Twelve

  I couldn’t get Sonny to pick up and I didn’t know Katarina’s number, so I tried Sanchez. He picked up on the fourth ring.

  “You know, my friend, we are not lovers. We don’t have to speak every day.”

  “Is that what you Mexicans do with girls, talk to them? No wonder your women are so love-starved.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, ignoring my rapier wit. “That spectacular Josselyn hasn’t called.”

  “I know. I’m trying to find Sonny.” I told him why.

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might be a gafe? I mean, first old Vargases boat, then Stella, and now Sonny’s boat, what is it, Candida? Pretty soon my friend, they’ll ban you from every marina.”

  “I’m chalking it up to coincidence until I reach seven. It wasn’t meant for me. No one knew I was coming here.”

  Sanchez was quiet on the other end for a few seconds.

  “Well, that’s not entirely true. Your Mayan princess knew. You told her, remember?”

  He was right, of course. I had told her. But unless she’d changed drastically, I couldn’t consider the possibility.

  “She’s solid. It has to be Sonny someone’s after.” I told him how it had been rigged up; first the shotgun, then the bomb.

  “Okay. He and Katarina went sightseeing this afternoon. He probably turned off his phone. We’re hooking up with them for dinner in a few hours. I’ll relay the message.”

  “Wait until he isn’t eating. I don’t want him to choke on anything. Ask him if he knows anyone who drives a black Dodge Magnum.”

  “Will do, but it sounds like pros.”

  “Yeah, it does to me, too. It’s why I can’t figure it. Sonny hasn’t smuggled in ages, and everyone from the old days liked him. This has more of a business feel to it than something personal, and Sonny’s clean.”

  “What if it wasn’t meant for him?”

  “I just told you…” It took me a second, but his meaning finally registered. It could be some spook thing, KGB or whatever incarnation it had taken since when the USSR had been dissolved — the Security or Intelligence Service. It spoke volumes that Russia’s real power was in the hands of Putin, an ex-KGB officer who’d been a high ranking guy in Dresden, East Germany during the 1980s. I’d never really been clear on just who Katarina worked for, only that Vlad trusted her, which was saying a lot.

  “You still there, amigo?”

  “Yeah, I’m just thinkin’”

  “Well, remember, those hamsters have small hearts. Don’t run him around in that cage too much.”

  “Small penises, too. That’s why I named mine, Sanchez.”

  We both started laughing. He said, “You can’t fit a horse into your head, man!”

  In the background I heard Anne say, all breathy, as though she’d been running, “Come on, join me. The water’s great! I promise there aren’t any sharks.”

  I said, “I better let you go. Don’t worry about the sharks. They don’t like dark meat.”

  “If only you had a cell phone, amigo, you could see the gesture I am making.”

  “Are you indicating I’m number one? It’s surprising how many other people have felt I was over the years.”

  “That kind of delusional, wishful thinking is how you gringos ended up with Obama, my friend.”

  “Don’t look at me, I didn’t vote for him. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll count the minutes.”

  I hung up before I had to pump in some more quarters. Deciding it would be pointless to go inside and find Caroline, who was probably almost done, I walked back to the Plymouth and turned on the radio. It was late afternoon and close to the top of the hour, so I got Miami news, which I hadn’t heard in a while. After listening long enough to remind me why I hadn’t liked listening to it even when I lived in Miami, I was about to shut it off when I heard something that stopped me short:

  “This just in. Miami police have discovered a black Dodge Magnum parked in the middle of downtown Miami with four slain men inside. All four men were armed, but had been shot at close range in the head. Police believe they have the murder weapon, an MP-433 Grach. Police are downplaying speculation that the Russian gun used in the crime indicates Bravta involvement. All we know at this point is the murders appear to have occurred less than an hour before the vehicle was reported as suspicious by a local business owner. When police came to check on the vehicle, they discovered the bodies.”

  Nothing noteworthy followed. I turned it off when she began to give the weather forecast. I must have been making a face when Caroline opened the door, because she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  She was wearing a pale blue skirt and white cotton sleeveless top which tied around her neck. I also noticed some beaded leather bracelets on her left arm she’d not been wearing when she went inside. Nothing expensive, just the kind of thing she liked.

  “Nothing, I replied. I just hate it when Sanchez is right.”

  She smiled. “Okay.” She handed me a bag which contained fresh underwear, socks, joggers, a new pair of jeans and a pink polo shirt. At least the shirt didn’t have a little alligator on the pocket.

  “Pink?”

  “Salmon. Trust me, it’ll look great on you.”

  “Maybe, but will I still be a manly man in the prime of my manhood?”

  “Oh, Seth, that ship has sai
led!” She was laughing before she could finish because I’d grabbed her and begun tickling her sides. The top she’d purchased didn’t quite come all the way to meet her skirt, leaving about three inches of visible flesh for me to target.

  “Stop!” she giggled. “You’ll get me all wet again!”

  “Alright, but I’ll be back.” I took the bag into a MacDonald’s sandwiched between Sears and Target and bought a couple of Cokes to take back. I knew Mickey-D didn’t need the money but I felt guilty simply walking through to the restroom with my bag and changing in the stall without making a purchase. Caroline had taken the passenger seat when I returned, dry and handsome — if somewhat emasculated — in my new Wranglers and salmon colored polo shirt.

  “I won’t be able to sneak up on the bad guys in this shirt, you know?” I said, handing her one of the sodas.

  “I think you look sexy, though.”

  “I guess I’ll keep it, then. But if I start walking funny or talking with a lisp I’m making you take it back.”

  She was laughing as I pulled out of the parking lot and we headed for Muck City.

  Thirteen

  Belle Glade is up in Palm Beach County, on the southeastern shore of Lake Okeechobee. It’s about an hour and a half drive if you take N. US Hwy 27 where it finally angles off to the left at Ft. Lauderdale if you're coming from Miami and then heads back up towards Okeechobee.

  Most people probably think of Hawaii when they think of sugar cane, but about half the sugar cane in the country is grown around Belle Glade and Clewiston. The muck that sugar cane grows in is how the town got its nickname, Muck City. It has a decent sized hispanic population and about half as many white residents. Over half the population is black, and a lot of them are young. Back when AIDS was new during the early ‘80s, Belle Glade won the blue ribbon for per capita infected people, and in 2003 the town took second prize on the FBI’s per capita violent crime list.

  Belle Glade has been around since 1925, a result of draining some of Lake Okeechobee to use the land around it for agriculture. In 1928 the town was destroyed by one of the deadliest tropical cyclones to ever hit the US. The hurricane caused the lake to overflow on its southern edge, flooding hundreds of square miles; houses and lives disappearing under water that reached twenty feet above ground in spots. Over twenty-five thousand people lost their lives to the storm, but farming was so important they rebuilt her. A lot of folks work in the fields and the mills and don’t make much. For a place which has less than twenty-thousand people who call it home, however, an inordinately obscene number of NFL players hail from there.

  It took us a little less than ninety minutes to get there because I could only allow the ‘Cuda’s horses to run free when I knew it was safe. Cops up this way didn’t know me and I had no desire to get ticketed.

  The sun was low but still visible as we rolled into town. I’d only been here once or twice over the years, but kept several maps in the glove box. Luckily, one of them was a town map for Belle Glade I’d picked up the first time I was here. It helped me locate Jerry Carmichael’s house with a minimum of fuss. It was a shack more than a home, one of those paint-peeling, siding-rotting, shingles-missing jobs with an overgrown lawn that hadn’t been watered since Reagan had been in office and the country was looking up, rather than on a downward slide. The only thing which kept it from being an eyesore was that it wasn’t even the worst looking house on the block.

  There was no driveway so I rolled the car up over the curb and onto the dead grass. I parked with the front end next to the front door. Walking outside to discover the ‘Cuda had been stripped was not a scenario of which I was enamored.

  Next door, a slim, long-legged black girl in a black cotton dress was hanging up her panties on a makeshift clothesline. She looked to be around thirteen or fourteen and when she bent over I — and the rest of the neighborhood — could see that she wasn’t wearing any. She smiled at us as we knocked on Jerry’s door. While we waited for a response two women came out and brought the girl another basket of clothes. One had a Haitian look about her and I remembered there were some Cubans and Haitians around Belle Glade. Most of them worked in the mills but these two were whores. It was a cathouse. Whether the younger girl was whoring yet or just the daughter of one of the women who worked out of the dump was anyone’s guess.

  No one answered so I knocked a second time. I heard movement and the door opened. Caroline stepped back, either from the stench or the strong smell of cheap liquor. There is a fine line between a drunk and a bum. Jerry Carmichael had been a card-carrying member of the former long enough that he was one eviction away from pushing a shopping cart down the street.

  “Well, who the hell are you and what do you want?” His voice was gruff and he squinted from the hangover he had.

  I reached for my wallet and pulled out a picture of Alexander Hamilton. I folded it and held it up in front of me between two fingers.

  “Just a few questions, no trouble. I’m not a cop. You answer them truthfully and we walk away.”

  He didn’t like the idea of answering any questions, especially with his head pounding like it surely was, but he liked walking away from his next bottle even less. He started to reach for the ten and then stopped. He looked at us then as though he were seeing us for the first time since he’d opened his front door.

  His T-shirt was stained with something red I might have mistaken for blood but for the yellow mustard stain above it. His jeans were worn so thin there wasn’t much material left between the pants and his smelly flesh. They were rumpled enough that he’d probably slept in them for days. His stench was godawful. He finally looked past us at the ‘Cuda and stopped squinting. He was alert now and I knew what was coming next.

  “Make it two sawbucks.”

  “One now, one after,” I said, handing him the ten. He nodded and made a motion with his head to come inside. He smelled so bad it would have been preferable to stand outside in the fresh air. It might not have been as conducive to him talking, however. I stepped inside and Caroline followed me. He plopped down in an old tattered recliner showing more cotton than vinyl and waited for us to sit opposite him, on a matching beat-up sofa. Caroline reluctantly sat on the edge, leaning forward; just in case she felt something crawling on her. Not feeling as masculine as I normally might have because of my salmon colored shirt, I did the same.

  “So, ask away.”

  “It’s about your daughter, Holly.”

  He stiffened. “She’s dead. Whatcha wanna know?”

  I thought I’d use what we knew to our advantage. He might think we knew even more. I said, “We know about Boon and her.”

  His eyes got really big. He was done squinting, headache or no headache. He was tense a moment, and finally shrugged. “Bastard never did come back and give me the other thousand like he promised me. By that time they’s so long gone I knew I’d never get it.”

  “What was the thousand for?”

  “Holly, of course! He was already bangin’ the little tramp behind my back, anyway. She was just like her mother. Caught her on her knees blowin’ Boon in the shower once. Son-of-a-bitch knocked me out cold, the bastard. I told him he was gonna have her like that, he was gonna pay for it. He said he was in love with her, can you imagine that? She was a pretty little thing, sure, but he meant, like love, ya know? I knew he liked ‘em young, hell, who don’t? But love?” His laughter was as lacking in humanity as he was. “Hell, there ain’t no such thing!”

  I glanced at Caroline and she was strangely still, oddly calm.

  “So he gave you two grand for her, outright?”

  He scoffed. “Naw, that’s what he promised he’d give me. Gave me a grand to go away. Said he’d send me another grand in a week or two. Never saw his sorry ass again.” He didn’t mention never seeing his daughter again.

  “How’d Boon come by his nickname anyway?”

  “Nickname? Oh! Hell, that ain’t his nickname, Boon’s his last name.” He laughed again and it was just as
unpleasant to listen to as it had been the first time. “First name’s Eugene. I seen his license once, how’s I know. Probably why everybody calls him Boon. Who the hell wants to go round bein’ called Eugene?”

  “I can see your point.” I took a shot in the dark. “You think he’ll ever come back? I mean, he’s got roots here in Florida, doesn’t he?”

  “Hell, he’s like a gator, him and the swamp. Born somewhere deep in the Glades. As good with a knife as anybody I ever seen.”

  “Did the police ever update you on the investigation into your daughter’s death?”

  He looked surprised at the question. “Them Frenchies? Hell, why would they? Told the cops here, it was suicide. I tried callin’ that damn record company after I found out what she’d done and that album came out. Never did see a damn dime, though.”

  I had more questions, but I had a name now, which was more than I’d had when I arrived, and I couldn’t stand the stench any longer. Worse was the man himself. It had been a long time since I’d felt as sorry for anyone as I felt for Holly Carmichael at that moment.

  I stood, handed him the second ten, and turned to go. I turned back because Caroline wasn’t following me. She was still sitting there, motionless. He realized she was staring at him and his face flushed. She whispered, almost inaudibly, “You’re a horrible man.” Surprisingly, I saw fear flicker in his eyes for a fleeting moment. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, because her light was too bright for his dark, decaying soul.

  Fourteen

  Caroline was quiet as we pulled away, not even bothering to ask where we were headed next. Knowing Jeanette rarely if ever took patients in the evening I had planned on heading out to Star Island so that she could listen to the tape. What happened inside the house while questioning Holly Carmichael’s father had changed my mind. I needed to set up an appointment to see Laura Garner, so I needed a phone. I also had a lead I needed Tammy’s help to follow up on: Eugene Boon. And now that it had been confirmed — at least in my mind — that Katarina had been the target of the explosion, I needed to warn Sonny.