Tropical Heat

by John Lutz

  But he could change the tire, get in the Olds, drive away, and his part in the man’s death probably would remain unknown. The prospect was tempting, but Carver couldn’t bring himself to run from the awesome finality of having killed a man. That would make it worse for him somehow, even if he was never suspected.

  Carver realized that his hands were shaking. He felt cold. He glanced to the side of the road where the man had gone over the embankment and his mind flashed on the lifeless face, the unseeing but infinitely wise flat eyes staring up at him.

  Carver reminded himself that he’d been a cop in a city with problems. He was supposed to be used to that kind of thing. But how many cops, of the public or private variety, ever actually killed someone?

  He again felt the desire to change the tire, climb into the Olds, and get out of there. But he resisted it. He began to feel better. The trembling had passed; his hands were steady now.

  Ten minutes later, a pickup truck loaded with jagged sections of broken concrete came laboring around the bend. Carver flagged it down, stood in the dust and told the shirtless kid behind the steering wheel there had been an accident and that a man was dead, and asked him to drive into Solarville and send the police.

  Then he spat grit from his mouth, sat down on the hard ground in what little shade the Olds provided, and hoped he’d done the right thing.

  High and far away, the large bird was still circling above the swamp, its arced wings fixed to the wind.

  CHAPTER 16

  CARVER WAS FREE TO leave Solarville police headquarters late that afternoon. Armont had waited for the coroner’s preliminary report and lab findings before speaking with him. The chief didn’t like somebody coming into his quiet if corrupt little town and causing problems. Not that he seriously thought Carver had murdered the Latino, but problems of the sort that were raised could lead to problems of another sort. And Armont didn’t need more problems of any sort.

  “We snooped around and found the dead man’s clothes and identification in a locker at the bus station,” he’d said to Carver, when Carver had sat down before Armont’s desk. Armont remained standing behind the desk, absently rubbing his protruding stomach with his left hand, as if he suspected he might give birth to something he had grave doubts about. “His name was Silverio Lujan. He was a Marielito.”

  Carver knew about Marielitos. In 1980 Castro emptied the prisons and mental institutions of Cuba and sent the inmates, along with legitimate refugees, in the boat lift from Mariel harbor in Cuba to Florida. Only a small percentage of the Mariel refugees were Marielito Banditos, as the press called them for a while. But their numbers were in the thousands. Some of them never were set free on American soil. And many of them had been returned to Cuba by agreement with Castro in 1985. But thousands remained in the United States, and they were criminals of such fierce nature that even the hardest homegrown criminals feared them in or out of prison. It hadn’t taken long for the Marielitos to become deeply involved in drugs, prostitution, and murder.

  Murder.

  “Why would a Marielito try to kill me?” Carver asked.

  Armont stopped massaging his stomach paunch and let both hands drop to his sides, as if suddenly they had become unbearably heavy. “Maybe somebody hired him. He did an expert job of driving a honed piece of steel into your tire, so it would go flat suddenly in a short distance when the metal worked its way loose. Nifty. Or maybe he wanted to rob you.”

  “He never asked for money,” Carver said.

  Armont sneered. “Hah! Why should he ask? You might deny him the pleasure of slicing your guts out. You don’t know these Marielitos, Carver. Not the ones that stayed in southern Florida, anyway.”

  Carver thought that some of the Marielitos he’d dealt with in Orlando weren’t the sort you’d want your maiden aunt to date, but he said nothing.

  “This Lujan might have just felt like killing somebody today,” Armont said. He wanted to believe that, Carver knew. That would be the simplest explanation for him.

  And maybe it was the most likely explanation. Carver hadn’t been in town long enough for Lujan to take a bus in, rent a car, and try to do a contract murder. Unless Lujan had been following him before he’d come to Solarville.

  “What bus did he arrive on?” Carver asked.

  “No bus,” Armont said. “He drove. He rented the car five days ago in Miami under another name with forged identification. It looks like he didn’t expect to be in town long enough to have to get a motel room, so he set up housekeeping in a bus-station locker.”

  “Do you know when he got into town?”

  Armont shook his head. “There’s no way to pin down the time. Even come close. But I know what you’re thinking. I had my men ask around; nobody remembers seeing him earlier, either in town or around the Tumble Inn before the fire.”

  “What about priors?”

  “Lujan’s got a record of playing with knives in Miami. But the police there don’t have anything on him before 1981. And there’s no way to know his background in Cuba. He cut up a few people seriously in Miami, though; seems he was one of those guys fascinated by sharp steel.”

  “Which is why he might have tried to kill me just for sport.”

  “Exactly. He’s killed for sport before, even though he managed to avoid prosecution.” Armont suddenly dropped into his desk chair and sighed, as if some silent signal had allowed him finally to take his weight off his feet. “You probably know that some Marielitos have tattoos on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger. Lujan’s tattoo was of an arrow and the word madre. That’s ‘mother’ in Spanish, but to a Marielito that tattoo signified that Lujan’s specialty was murder. His mother probably wouldn’t claim him. He was fond of killing.”

  Carver had gathered that, on the road outside of town. “Any drug arrests on Lujan’s record?” he asked.

  Armont arched an eyebrow at him. “Sure. Cocaine possession. I’d be surprised if there hadn’t been any narcotics charges against a hard-ass guy like Lujan. Against any Marielito.” Armont shifted to the side in his chair and frowned. “Funny you should mention drugs. There’s a DEA agent named Alex Burr who’s coming into town tomorrow to talk with you. I’m supposed to tell you to be available.”

  Carver had seen the Orlando police work in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Administration. It was a federal organization formed for the express and vital purpose of winning the government’s declared war on illicit drugs and the people who sold them. And the DEA had slowed the flow of narcotics coming into the U.S. by ship or plane, though the width and density of that flow was such that it could be temporarily lessened but not stemmed. Carver didn’t like the idea of talking to a government agent. They had a knack for stuffing things into cubbyholes where they didn’t fit.

  “What’s the DEA got to do with this?”

  Armont shrugged his muscle-bunched shoulders. “Federal. You know how they are. They got ways of finding out things almost before they happen. Sometimes they even make them happen. And the DEA is all over Florida these days, what with the government’s war on drug trafficking. Florida is where it’s happening, all that coastline, the little inlets and islands where boats can go without being seen, where drugs can be transferred. Most of the drug game is played south of here and along the coasts, but to the DEA Florida is a war zone. All of Florida.”

  Carver took a chance. “I’ve heard narcotics crops are grown in this part of the state.”

  Armont grinned at him. Carver didn’t like the grin. “I’ve heard that too, Carver.”

  “The Malone brothers have been mentioned in that context.”

  The grin stayed. “You’ll have to ask them about that. I already have asked; it’ll get you nowhere.”

  “Maybe the rumors are only that.”

  “Tongues do wag of their own accord,” Armont said.

  Carver thought now seemed a good time to go, if he was still free. He stood up. “Will you let me know if you learn anything more about Lujan?”

>   “Sure,” Armont said. “And you let me know what you learn.” He seemed to dismiss Carver from his mind and bowed his head to size up the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk while he’d been delving into attempted murder. Carver remembered how the chief had wielded his pen viciously on the last visit. Judging by the sour expression on his wide face, Armont didn’t care for paper. Crinkly, irritating stuff. He gave the impression that any second he might wad it all up in one big ball and toss it aside.

  Carver set his cane, leaned on it, and headed for the door. It would be good to get out into the free, hot air.

  “Make sure you stick around for this Burr character,” Armont said behind him.

  After leaving police headquarters, Carver walked down the street to Wilt’s Shell Station, where his car had been towed. Wilt was there, full of grease and gab. He tried without luck to sell Carver a new set of radial whitewalls. Carver put the cost of the tow and tire repair on his Visa card, then drove from the station.

  On the way to the Tumble Inn, he began thinking about the expression on Lujan’s face when he’d come with the knife and the gleaming dullness of death in his eyes staring up from the swamp. Sudden death always carried with it surprise and a hint of prophecy. When Carver drove past the point on the road where it had all happened, his hands began to tremble on the steering wheel. It took a few minutes for them to be still.

  He parked the Olds by his room, then walked back across the parking lot to cut through the lobby to the motel restaurant. He needed something to eat, and a couple of cold beers.

  The swamp seemed to loom around him, dank and threatening, full of life, full of death. None of it subject to reason. There were eyes watching from the black shade beneath the moss-draped trees. And eyes not watching. Eyes like Lujan’s.

  When Carver entered the Tumble Inn lobby, he saw Edwina sitting on the stiff vinyl chair near the desk. She was wearing a white blouse and a pastel yellow skirt and had her long, nyloned legs crossed. The air-conditioning in the humid lobby was fighting a losing battle, but Edwina looked cool as a glacier queen on her throne. She sensed him near her and looked up from the tattered Newsweek she’d been reading. The magazine had a photograph of a marijuana plant on its slick cover.

  She said, “I hope you’ve kept busy.”

  CHAPTER 17

  AFTER EDWINA HAD CHECKED in at the Tumble Inn, Carver took her to dinner at The Flame. They sat in a booth near the back, where they could see the regular customers, and the few tourists who’d been driving through and stopped to eat. The place was crowded; Carver noticed that most of the regulars—easy to spot by their casual clothes and familiarity with the waitresses—were having the Seminole Sizzler steak special.

  There was a boisterous conversation among half a dozen men at the counter over the relative merits of different types of shotguns. It interested Carver because two of the men had been referred to as Sean and Gary. The Malone brothers. They were short, muscular men with similar strong, handsome faces. Sean was the heavier of the two, in his mid-thirties, about five years older than Gary, who told everybody to hell with shotguns, he was a good enough shot to use a rifle; shotguns were for blind men and pussies. Both Malone brothers had amused blue eyes, and noses that seemed to have been broken several times and never set. Sean dribbled his beer when he drank, and he laughed a lot with an annoying, nasal giggle; Gary’s remark about blind men and pussies ranked high on his list of things funny.

  “Is this the best place in town to eat?” Edwina asked.

  “It is for us.” Carver sipped his water, which was cold but tasted as if it had been pumped straight from the swamp. “This is where Sam Cahill has some of his meals. Besides, you might be surprised by the food and service here.”

  “I thought you were watching Cahill on the sly, to see if Willis contacted him,” Edwina said. She sniffed her water, turned up her nose. City girl.

  “I was,” Carver said. “But there’s no point in that now. He knows I’m in town, why I’m here.” Carver told Edwina everything that had happened since he’d arrived in Solarville. She leaned forward over the table, her expression serious, when he got to the fire that had almost asphyxiated him, then the murder attempt and the death of Silverio Lujan. He found it disturbingly gratifying to see the concern in her eyes.

  “But maybe none of this has anything to do with Willis,” she said. She wouldn’t let go. Willis didn’t deserve her.

  “Maybe not,” Carver said, “but it would be quite a stretch of coincidence if it didn’t. Cops, present or former, don’t believe in coincidence. Except for Chief Armont. He believes hard. It’s a prerequisite for his job.”

  “Sam Cahill will recognize me if he comes in here,” Edwina said. “We worked together for almost a year at Sun South.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It might be interesting to see his reaction when he notices you.”

  A waitress Carver hadn’t seen before approached the table and asked if they were ready to order. Edwina asked for a tuna salad sandwich. Carver played it safe and ordered the steak special. The waitress, a very tall woman with dark hair and elongated, horsey features, tucked her order pad into her belt and walked off. Carver didn’t see Emma, but Verna Blaney was working behind the counter, passing orders back to the kitchen. When the tall waitress handed her their order slip, Verna glanced over at Carver and Edwina blankly, then looked away. The scar on the side of her face and neck flushed fiery red.

  “Maybe Sam Cahill is just what he appears to be here,” Edwina said. “He might be selling real estate, trying to line up financing for the subdivision the police chief mentioned.” A thought startled her. “You’re not suggesting that Willis is going to back him with the supposedly stolen money, are you?”

  “No,” Carver said. “A hundred thousand dollars might help procure financing, provide collateral for the first installments. But I don’t think Cahill intends to build anything in or around Solarville.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cynical me, I guess. And I don’t see people lined up to live in the swamp.” He took another sip of water. “I’ll take my cynicism further. We can’t be sure anything going on in Solarville involves Willis. We stepped into something nasty and dangerous, but it could be unrelated to what we’re after. However, since they’re so friendly, if it involves Cahill, it might very well involve Willis. Or it might only involve those two muscle-headed types at the counter. The Malone brothers. They’re reputed to be active in drug smuggling.”

  “They don’t act like they have enough sense to know which end of a joint to light,” Edwina said.

  Carver had to acknowledge that point. It had been bothering him, too.

  “Maybe they’re working for somebody.”

  “Not for Sam Cahill,” Edwina said. “It’s not his style to get involved with that sort.”

  “Is it Willis’s style?”

  She appeared uneasy. “I don’t think so. But I’m getting surprised a lot about Willis, aren’t I?”

  Carver looked across the table at the agony in her eyes. He wanted to reach across and squeeze her hand, wanted to hold her, reassure her. Wanted to kick Willis Davis where it hurt for doing this to her.

  Emotion, he warned himself. Don’t let it get in the way of your life, your judgment. Remember your children you seldom see, Anne and Fred Jr. Remember Laura, how it felt when she left. Not again. Not yet, anyway.

  “Sorry to keep you all waitin’,” a voice said. The tall waitress with their supper. She set dishes and glasses about on the table quickly and expertly, then loped away.

  The tuna salad sandwich looked okay. At least some small thing was going right for Edwina. Carver took a bite of his pan-fried steak. He understood why the special was popular at The Flame, and why he’d never be a gourmet like a P.I. he’d met in Boston.

  The Malone brothers finished drinking beer and arguing about guns and swaggered out. The place was much quieter in their absence, and the food tasted better.

  “The waitress behind t
he counter,” Carver said, “the one with the scar on her face. She and Cahill had a thing going, I’m told. Or at least they had a strong friendship.”

  Edwina lowered her sandwich onto her plate and turned slightly to study Verna. “I’d bet on friendship,” she said. “This isn’t a criticism of the girl, but it isn’t like Sam Cahill to be with a woman disfigured that way. He prides himself on perfection. The kind of guy who suddenly runs outside to buff a smudge from his car. He sees his women as having to pass inspection, like all the rest of his possessions. They’re reflections of himself, or how he sees himself.”

  “Maybe,” Carver said, “but who knows about love?”

  “Who knows?” Edwina repeated. She swallowed, not tuna salad.

  “Cahill seems to be putting on the outdoorsman act here,” Carver said.

  Edwina shrugged. “Sales technique, probably. Cahill will do whatever he has to in order to swing a deal. He enjoys that part of the business, fancies himself a manipulator of people.”

  Carver took another bite of steak, wondering how Edwina could see Cahill so clearly, but not see Willis.

  “How’s your sandwich?” he asked.

  “Like the rest of Solarville. Tolerable.”

  Carver kept quiet and chewed.

  Sam Cahill didn’t come into The Flame that evening. After supper, Carver and Edwina drove back to the Tumble Inn in the Olds with the top down. The heat of the night was moderated by the breeze that whipped around the windshield and rushed back to splay Edwina’s dark hair across her cheeks and forehead. In the constant flow of wind she looked oddly like a beautiful woman underwater, drowned and alone. When Carver slowed the Olds to take a curve in the road, the breeze lessened and the close scent of the swamp crept in for a few seconds, until he built up speed again. The secret of life: keep moving.

  “We might as well leave here tomorrow,” he said, glancing over at Edwina. “If Willis was here when I arrived, he isn’t anymore.”