He takes a loud slurp on the coffee.
“Pass the sugar, man.”
I slide the sugar jar across the table. It's one of those glass jobs with the little metal gate that swings open when you pour. Red doesn't bother using a spoon or measuring. He just pours the white stuff in until his coffee thickens up like Karo Corn Syrup.
“So where is your friend now?”
“Squeegee?”
“Squeegee.”
“Are you even listening to me, man?” Red holds up his hands and shakes them near his head like his brain is about to explode. “He's no friend of mine. I have zero sympathy for that devil. The dude tried to kill me.”
“When?”
“After he stole my old lady.”
“You had a domestic dispute?”
“He came after me with a rusty blade, man! A machete! Said if I didn't back off, he'd go get his gun!”
“Squeegee has a gun?”
“Hell, yeah! How do you think he shot the billionaire on the beach? Don't you guys read the papers?”
“Where does Squeegee live?”
“Same place as me, man. Here, there, everywhere.”
“You're homeless?”
“Ever since the night those brown bastards drove us down.”
“Who?”
“The Dominican death squad, man! They said they'd smoke us out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And we had such a groovy thing going. Had the whole hotel to ourselves! You could take ten bedrooms if you didn't mind sharing space with Mother Nature's children … seagulls and shit….”
“Where was this hotel?”
“Up north, man. The Palace! It was like Camelot, and Gladys was my Guinevere!”
“Gladys?”
“My ex. My old lady. It was paradise, man.”
“What happened?”
“Reginald Fucking Hart. He pushed us out, man! The white man pushes out the Red man once again….”
Red is, of course, a Caucasian. The only minority he belongs to is old guys who eat too much ice cream and do too many drugs. While he shakes his head and fumes, he also clinks his spoon against the sides of his sundae glass, trying to scrape up any melted ice cream or cherry juice or chocolate fudge he might have missed on the first pass.
“Squeegee was working for The Man.”
“For Hart?”
“No—the jack-booted thugs. I figured he had some plastic-fantastic deal worked out with Mendez….”
“And who is Mendez?”
“Come on, man—keep up with me, okay?” He does the head-exploding shaking hands thing again. “Mendez was the leader of the pack. El jefe grande. Squeegee cut a deal with Mendez, I know he did. I swear that's why my old lady left me. Thought she could really be princess of The Palace by shacking up with King Squeegee. But whatever he told her? It was totally bogus. Squeegee got squeezed out, too. We all did.”
“What happened?”
“Couple weeks ago? We had to split. Mendez said he'd torch the building and use us for kindling if we didn't vamoose. So we packed our shit and split, hit the beach. I slept under the boardwalk. On the beach. Spent a couple nights on a cot in a church….”
“Have you seen Squeegee since you vacated The Palace Hotel?”
“Here and there. Here and there. I try to avoid him because of the bad vibrations that emanate from his aura. But I'll be honest—we both have substance abuse issues.”
Ceepak does this “really?” expression, pretending like this is some sort of news flash.
“So, sometimes, by sheer necessity, I have to deal with the devil, dig? Squeegee's always got good shit. The best.”
“Where does he procure his merchandise?”
“Where do you think? The Dominicans, dude! They have their fingers in every pot and, like I said, Squeegee worked out some kind of deal because even though he had to leave the hotel, he still has this primo powder, dig? And my old lady? She says they have plans. Big plans. You ever notice, man—chicks dig the dark, dangerous dudes like the Squeege? Even the bikini babes? From the beach?”
“Yeah?” He's got my attention.
“They dig him ’cause he's like this wild sex beast they want to ride and tame. Oh, yeah. I see the young chicks crawling under the boardwalk with ol’ Squeege all the time, promising to unsnap their jeans….”
“Springsteen,” Ceepak says.
“What?”
“‘Chasing the factory girls underneath the boardwalk where they all promise to unsnap their jeans.’ That's from a Springsteen song.”
“No, man. Not factory girls. These are like college co-eds. High-school chicks.”
Ceepak lets it drop.
Apparently Red's head is so fried, it's like an iPod somebody toasted in the microwave and the MP3s have melted together into one huge playlist shuffling randomly through his brain. He has no idea where the songs are coming from or which one's about to cycle into his consciousness.
“You ever see him at the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
“What? Having sex with factory girls?”
“Or doing anything.”
“Sure. He sets up shop there some nights. His own little drug store. I only go see him when I'm desperate, because lately the dude's been extremely cranky—ever since they canned his ass at the car wash on account of his thieving ways. He stole loose change from ashtrays. Groceries out of back seats. Shit, he even stole this little girl's stuffed dog from her car seat and then told everybody it was me who copped it.”
“Why'd he steal so much,” Ceepak asks, “if he had the drug income like you say?”
“Why does the devil keep on keepin’ on? Evil is writ large upon his soul. Squeegee is Beelzebub in disguise, telling dirty lies….”
I have no idea whose lyrics Red's ripping off this time.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A week ago. I needed some shit, and he was already lit up and talking about righteous retribution. How the last were going to be first and the first would be last. You know—that Jesus shit. Said judgment day was nigh and all slumlords would soon be summoned forth to pay.”
“Is that what he called Hart? A slumlord?”
“No. Squeegee never called Hart a slumlord. Him he called a ‘fucking slumlord.’ Can I get another one of these?” Red slides his empty ice cream dish across the table.
Ceepak pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“Get yourself two.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What's your 10-38?” Ceepak asks the chief.
“I'm at HQ. Ready to roll to Chesterfield's.”
Ceepak tilts the radio microphone to check his Casio G-Shock. It's 10:32.
“I thought the breakfast meet was set for 0-10 hundred?” Ceepak says, releasing the mike button to hear the chief's reply.
“Roger that,” the chief growls back. “But I had to go home and put on a goddamn tie. They want me on TV in an hour. I have to give a statement. Stand up in front of all those goddamn cameras and give a progress report. We got any?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“What?”
“A witness.”
“To the murder?”
“No, sir. An acquaintance of Squeegee's who links him to Mendez. We need to go to Chesterfield's and Mendez needs to be there.”
“He is,” the chief says, sounding excited. “I have Malloy and Santucci stationed out front. They saw him go in. Ms. Stone is registered upstairs. Neither one has come out.”
“Excellent,” Ceepak says. “We'll meet there.”
“Ceepak? The mayor is crawling up my butt. People are packing suitcases and leaving town. You see the beaches this morning? They're goddamn empty. We need to wrap this up quick. Now!”
“Roger that. Just don't let Mendez leave the restaurant.”
“10-4.”
“Our ETA is five.”
“Good. Move it!”
Ceepak clicks off the radio and does one of those Hollywood “Cavalry, Ho!” han
d gestures.
I stomp on the gas.
We proceed to haul some ass.
We arrive three minutes later.
Malloy is sitting out front in a cruiser with Tony Santucci. Santucci's behind the wheel, chomping more gum and looking like a total hardass. He wears those mirrored sunglasses like redneck sheriffs do in movies and rolls his short sleeves up so you can see more of his muscles.
Chesterfield's is a big Victorian bed & breakfast with gables and peaks and gewgaws. It's the kind of place my mom would love and my dad would only enter with a gun pointed at his head.
Or on Mother's Day.
I double-park the Explorer near the cruiser.
“You puke your breakfast again this morning?” Santucci asks, cracking his Dentyne.
I'd say something witty in reply but Ceepak is bounding up the front steps and I'm right behind him.
Two seconds later, I hear the Chief's big Expedition screech to a stop in the street.
“Inside, Malloy. Santucci? Off your ass! Move it! Move it! Go, go, go!”
The coach is sending in the whole team. Behind me, I hear the sound of heavy men thundering up the porch steps, jangling all the tinkley wind chimes hanging off the ceiling.
Chesterfield's front foyer is stuffed with antique furniture. Doilies and little glass candy dishes sit on top of everything.
Room number two features wingback chairs on oriental rugs in front of green-striped wallpaper and oil paintings of hounds and horses. Cozy.
Ceepak looks completely out of place, making his way to the main dining room, his pistol hanging by his hip in his hand.
He reaches the hostess at the double doors. Do we have a reservation? She studies her big burgundy binder while Ceepak looks over her head, trying to locate Mendez.
“May I help you, sir?”
She's wearing some kind of costume with a frilly shower cap, like she just came inside from churning butter.
“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says firmly, yet politely. “Please vacate these premises immediately.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Danny?”
“Out here, ma'am,” I say.
“Ceepak?” The chief is lumbering up the hall behind us. Malloy and Santucci are with him. They all have their weapons in their hands.
“Mendez and Stone are the only diners,” Ceepak says. “I'm going in. Cover me.”
“Roger that,” the chief whispers.
Ceepak makes a swing move into the dining room.
We swarm in after him like we're on military maneuvers. A waiter sees us and drops his tray. Muffins go tumbling everywhere.
“Upstairs,” Ceepak yells to the waiter. “Now. Go!”
The guy thinks about picking up his muffins for a second and then hightails it out of the room.
Cynthia Stone and her companion are sitting at a corner table under a brass wall sconce with a flickering glass globe that's lit kind of low to set a more romantic mood. They were both sipping mimosas before we so rudely interrupted.
“Mr. Virgilio Mendez?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“Keep your hands on the table, where I can see them.”
“Yo. Why you actin’ like G.I. Joe all of a sudden? Take it easy, son.”
“Officer?” Ms. Stone swivels around to face Ceepak. She sees the small army assembled behind him. “I hope you gentlemen have an explanation for this unwarranted intrusion.”
Ceepak ignores her. His beef is with Mendez.
“Mr. Mendez, in my book, a man's word is good as gold—until he breaks it.”
“You got that right.”
“You were dishonest in your dealings with me this morning.”
Mendez looks insulted.
“I will not tolerate a liar.”
“Say what?”
“You stated you had never met nor had any contact with the man we are searching for, the street person known as Squeegee.”
“I say I might, you know, see him around, here and there, maybe over to the car wash. But, yo—I do not know the dude….”
“You two never had discussions concerning his need to vacate The Palace Hotel?”
“You tellin’ me he's one of those skanks squatting up there?”
“You tell me.”
“Damn, they all be lookin’ the same to me. Every shaggy-assed crackhead junkie one of them.”
The chief bulls forward.
“What's the story here, Ceepak?”
“At the car wash, Danny and I interviewed a witness who stated Mr. Mendez here had several conversations with our suspect.”
Ms. Stone started to say something, then thought better of it.
“Mr. Mendez was working for Mr. Hart,” Ceepak continues.
“Removing unwanted tenants from an abandoned property….”
“Nah-uh, I was, you know—measuring the windows for curtains and shit….”
“This witness went on to state that Squeegee was attempting to work a deal with Mr. Mendez. Some way he and his girlfriend could remain in The Palace Hotel. They were negotiating.”
“Say what?”
“Did you work out a deal, Mr. Mendez? A way for this junkie, as you call him, to pay his rent? Was Squeegee your hired assassin? Your hitman? Did he murder Mr. Hart for you?”
“What? What's a deal like that gonna do for me?”
“Maybe allow you to sell me a time-share.” Ceepak pulls the Sea Palace brochure out of his back pocket. “When did Mendez Enterprises take possession of this property? Yesterday? Sometime shortly after 7:15 A.M.?”
Mendez almost leaps out of his chair to go nose to nose with Ceepak.
“Don't answer that,” Ms. Stone now says. “In fact, don't say another word.”
“Mr. Mendez?” Ceepak and Mendez are both about the same size. Same height. Same build. They stare into each other's eyes. Mendez blinks first.
“She don't want me talkin’ to you ’cause she the one who call me. That's right. Yesterday morning. Say she got the damn power of attorney. Until they pro-rate the dead dude's will and all, she in charge of every damn thing Hart owns. His whole damn empire. You want you a casino or some shit like that? Maybe a shopping mall? She'll cut you a deal, bro … cheap too.”
I hear the chief start breathing real loud, his nose hairs whistling like he's a lobster in a pot about to boil.
“All right,” he says. “That's enough. Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work. Malloy?”
“Yes sir?”
“You and Santucci—run these two clowns down to the station.”
“Don't be preposterous.” Ms. Stone smoothes out her skirt like she's ready to order her eggs benedict and skim the Sunday funnies. “On what possible charge?”
“I don't know,” the chief grumbles. He looks like one of those guys in the antacid commercials, like his stomach is ballooning up with gas and his face is going to turn green, then explode. “I'll think of something later. Haul them out of here. Hustle! Move it!”
“Yes, sir.” Malloy and Santucci go to the table. “Sir? Ma'am?”
Ms. Stone stands.
“Chief Cosgrove, I am going to sue your ass and nail it to a cross—”
“Get them out of here!” the chief hollers.
Malloy and Santucci escort Ms. Stone and Mendez to the front door.
“Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Check out this hotel. This Sea Palace place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chances are, Squeegee is holed up nearby. See if there's a dock up there, too. Find the goddamn boat he used.”
“Will do.”
“Move it. Go.”
The three of us stomp out, rattling curio cabinets and shaking Hummel figurines as we go. When we hit the porch, Malloy waves for the chief to come over. Quick.
“What?” The chief stomps down the steps. “What is it now?”
“Dispatch,” says Malloy. “You just received a fax at the house.”
>
“What? Another damn newspaper reporter?”
“No, sir. It's from Squeegee. It's a ransom note.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I was simply carrying out Mr. Hart's wishes,” Ms. Stone is saying. “It's what Reginald would have wanted.”
“The ex-Mrs. Hart just smiles.
“Were you sleeping with him?”
“I don't see how that is relevant.”
Lucky me.
I'm stuck in the chief's office with the two of them.
Ms. Stone is waiting to be processed on whatever charges the chief cooks up.
Betty came to hear what the ransom note says.
“Ladies?” I say. “Would either of you like some more coffee?”
Trust me—caffeine is the last thing these two women need right now. They're pacing around, twisting the chief's paper clips, rubbing their arms, doing all kinds of itchy, twitchy stuff. But this is my assignment. Stay with the ladies. Get them what they need, keep them comfortable, and keep them away from everybody else while the chief and Ceepak and this guy from the state police study the ransom fax.
“When will we see the ransom note?” Betty asks. “Hear this man's demands?”
“Soon. I promise. They just want to have a few experts, you know, comb over it for clues….”
“I see.” She smiles. Her eyes twinkle.
“Experts?” Ms. Stone chuffs. Her eyes never twinkle. They burn like flares at a car wreck. “Hah! Who? That idiot from the state police? The slob on TV yesterday?”
“No, ma'am. Mr. Slominsky went back to—”
“Who then? That goody-two-shoes Ceepak?”
Stone sits. Betty paces to the window.
“Tell me, Ms. Stone,” she says while she stares out at the ocean, “did Reggie actually say he was going to marry you?”
“Again, I refuse to answer any questions—”
“He would've left you, you know. Eventually. It would only be a matter of time.” She's staring out the window like she sees herself a few years back. “Reggie was always looking for someone younger. He liked his girls young. Did you know that? The younger the better….”
“Well then, if I were interested, that would certainly give me an advantage over you, wouldn't it?”
Meow. Hiss.
“Ladies? Let's try to remember why we're here, okay?”
Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 12
