Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1)

by J. C. Ferguson

  “Used to wrestle gators,” he says with a straight face.

  Who is this man, Jeremy Thorpe?

  Chapter 24

  I’ve lived in Florida three years and this is my first time in Miami. What I see is not like the city they show on television. You know, the fancy condos on the waterfront, the tall colorful buildings, the golden sunshine, and golden people. We’ve been driving through rundown neighborhoods and commercial areas, gray and depressing.

  But I feel a change when we reach the streets of Little Havana. People hang out on the streets. I open my window and the beat of Caribbean music fills the air. Scents of tobacco, spices, and flowers drift into the car. Sights, smells, and sounds of a different world. I love it. It’s a neighborhood, happy and alive.

  I want to jump out of the car and mix with the people, ask the first person where the Cubans from Fisherman’s Island are staying. I’ll bet they all know. But their strange stares at the Lee County Sheriff’s car tell me some people might not be friendly. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for Jeremy to come here in his cruiser.

  He pulls into the local police station and I open the door. “Stay in the car, I don’t want to explain you,” Jeremy puts his finger to my forehead, where I still sport a blue bulls-eye. “I want to check in. Let them know I’m snooping around the neighborhood.”

  I sit in the cruiser, flipping through radio stations. I settle on some salsa music. But when the music stops, the announcer talks in machine gun Spanish. I start the hunt again, finally turning it off. Where are you, Jeremy?

  Might as well take a nap. I tilt my seat backward and close my eyes. A tap on my shoulder wakens me. A lady cop standing outside my window gives me the hairy eyeball. “Are you all right?” Her accent tells me English is a second language. Her eyes are dark and worried.

  “I’m fine. Just napping.”

  “You don’t look very good.” She stares at the middle of my forehead and the bandages on my right arm. “You want to come inside?”

  Does she think I’m a domestic abuse case? “I’m fine. Waiting for the deputy to return. He’s inside.”

  She steps away and looks at the cruiser. “You’re from the West Coast?”

  “Yes, we’re looking for someone.”

  “Maybe I can help.” She leans on my window. This woman isn’t going away. She doesn’t trust me or she’s worried I need more help than finding someone.

  “There were six Cubans who came ashore on Fisherman’s Island a few days ago. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Why are you looking for them?” A question for a question. I’ll bet she knows something. Should I tell her the whole story? Why not?

  As I start my spiel, Jeremy arrives.

  “I’m Deputy Thorpe. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem.” She offers a hand to Jeremy. “I’m Roberta Perez. I was talking to your passenger about why you are here.”

  “I’m Ernie Pratt, by the way. Do you want me to finish the story?”

  “Yes, please. I’m curious.”

  Jeremy talks before I have a chance. “What it boils down to is we found a kid hiding on Fisherman’s Island after we sent refugees to Miami. If you let Pratt tell the story it might take an hour.”

  “I’d like to hear Ms. Pratt’s story. I might even be able to help.”

  “Okay, Perez. Where can we get some lunch?” Jeremy looks at his watch.

  Now that he mentions food, my stomach growls. The clock in the car says it’s almost three-thirty.

  “Leave your car. We can grab a bite across the street.” Perez points at a little café with outdoor tables. We cautiously pick our way, on foot, through the stop and go traffic.

  I tell my tale between bites of a delicious Cuban sandwich, plantain chips, and coffee strong enough to curl your toes just smelling it. I include the parts about falling from the tree and crashing into the door so that Perez will understand all my bruises. Jeremy is busy devouring a whole meal. The only sound from him is an occasional chuckle. Roberta Perez listens intently while sipping coffee.

  “I have heard of this group,” Perez says when I finish my story and sandwich. “Maybe they are looking for the child.”

  “How can they be looking when the state of Florida separates them?” I ask.

  “They could have gone back to your area. Ask around.” She stands next to the table.

  “Wait a minute. I might want some desert.” Jeremy scoops the last bite off his plate of food.

  “Go ahead and finish your meal. I need to return to the station.” Perez shifts from one foot to the other.

  “Do you have any suggestions about who to talk to?” I join Perez at the curb, waiting for Jeremy to pay the bill.

  She points. “Try the grocery. I heard them talking about a new group who came from the West Coast. I wish I could join you, but duty calls. If you have no luck, call me in the morning.” She hands me her card, then runs the obstacle course of creeping traffic across the street to the police station.

  Jeremy wanders to where I stand. “Wonder why the hurry?”

  “I thought she was going to help us. Strange behavior. I’ll bet she knows something.” I watch Perez disappear into the police station.

  “Come on, let’s start asking around.” Jeremy starts up the street.

  “Should we ask the people here at the Café?”

  “I talked to the waitress and the cashier. They know nothing.”

  “Wouldn’t you think they’d have at least read it in the paper?”

  Jeremy shrugs.

  “Perez suggested the grocery.” I point.

  We wander along Calle Ocho, Eighth Street. He holds a conversation in Spanish with the owner, who points further up the street to a cigar shop. We bounce into store after store, each person suggesting we talk to another. When my legs are giving out from walking and standing and I’m ready to head back to the car, a woman at a flower shop gives us an address.

  We head into a side street to an apartment building with a parking lot full of kids playing basketball. One shoots the ball at me, fast and hard. I catch it, lose my balance, and land on my tail. The players all cheer, so I dribble through the middle of the game, kids pushing and shoving on all sides. I yell, “Foul,” as I shoot. The ball sails through the net. The kids whistle.

  “Take the shot,” someone yells. I line up at the line drawn on the pavement and shoot. Miss by a mile. They shout, whistle, laugh, and go on with their game. People assume I play basketball. The coaches always wanted me on the team in high school, because I towered over the other girls. My height didn’t help when I spent most of my time sprawled on the floor.

  Jeremy asks questions in Spanish, kids point, and we head into the building. Inside, loud music competes from several directions. He bangs on one of the musical doors and gets no answer. He shouts in Spanish and the door cracks open an inch. Jeremy keeps talking, but the man peeking through keeps shaking his head and closes the door in Jeremy’s face.

  Outside in the parking lot, the basketball boys hoot and howl as we walk through their game. I hold out my hands for the ball and they oblige. Jeremy and I play for awhile, the two of us against six kids. We lose, of course.

  I lean panting against the fence and one of the boys leans next to me. “That some new style?” He points at my forehead.

  “Ran into a door.”

  “Whatever.” The boy looks doubtful. “He don’t beat you up?” He nods toward Jeremy.

  “No. He only beats up the bad guys.”

  That gets a grin in response.

  “Where you from? He ain’t no Miami cop.”

  “How’d you know he’s a cop?” Jeremy is wearing jeans and T-shirt.

  The kid shrugs like it’s obvious. So much for no uniform.

  “We’re from Fort Myers,” I explain. “We came looking for the people who landed on an island over there a few days ago.”

  “Why you want them?” He looks suspicious. “You gonna send them back?”

  “No
way.”

  “They do that sometime, you know, send them back. Why else you be lookin’?”

  “Because they lost a kid and we found him.”

  “Oh, man. How they do that?” His eyes open wide.

  “Don’t know how, but they did. They’re living in there, aren’t they?” I watch for his reaction.

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Why won’t they talk to us? Are they afraid of the cops?”

  He shrugs again. “Nah.”

  “You tell them we have their little boy. Tell them to call me.” I offer him one of my cards.

  He shrugs again, but takes the card. Then he’s off to play basketball again.

  Chapter 25

  By the time we get back to the police station, the sun is low in the west.

  “Should we go or stay?” Jeremy asks as we climb into his cruiser.

  “You mean drive home to Fort Myers?”

  “Yeah, we’re not getting anywhere. Nobody trusts us. Not even Officer Perez.”

  “She left me her number, said to call in the morning. And that boy I was talking to might call.”

  “Okay, we’ll stay if you let me buy you dinner.” He flashes me a grin.

  “You bought me lunch.”

  “Doesn’t count, Pratt. You packed a dress, I hope.”

  “I brought dress-up clothes.” I’m wearing white jeans and a T-shirt. I brought silk pants and top. Not going to show my scratched legs. No way to hide the slash on my arm, but I can cover the blue spot on my forehead with makeup.

  “Let’s find a room.” Jeremy starts the car and moves into the traffic. Some tourist has the balls to honk at the cruiser when we pull in front of him.

  “Finding a room won’t be easy this time of year.” It’s in season, but spring break hasn’t started yet. Maybe we’ll find something. Maybe cops are special.

  “I made a list of places with available rooms. We’ll find a place. There’s one not far from here.”

  We creep along Calle Ocho, which is also US41, the end of the Tamiami Trail. It takes us half an hour to drive two miles. One thing I don’t like about Florida is the traffic in the winter. Even in Fort Myers, US41 is a nightmare.

  We pull into a place that looks like an old Holiday Inn or HoJo’s, but the sign reads Sunrise Inn. I tag along after Jeremy to the front desk. A skinny girl with fuchsia hair, tarantula eyelashes, and black lipstick sulks behind the counter. She doesn’t look up.

  “Whatcha need?” She chews gum with her mouth open.

  “We need a room,” Jeremy growls, giving her his tough cop look.

  “We got one on first and one on third with ocean view.”

  “We’ll take the ocean view.”

  Tarantula Eyes throws a key card on the counter and holds her hand out for a credit card. She glances at me and almost smiles.

  “Hey, lady, I like that.” She’s staring at my forehead. “Is it a tat?”

  “Makeup,” I lie. Don’t want to get into details.

  “Cool.” She tosses Jeremy his credit card and a slip to sign, sits with her back to us, and opens a magazine.

  Jeremy rolls his eyes, signs his name, and we leave. There’s no elevator, so we climb outside stairs to the third floor. The only light is from the streetlights and one dim bulb on the stairway; the rest of them are missing or burned out. I stumble on the last step and almost fall, grabbing the rail. Something moves. I lift my hand and a roach about two inches long, or palmetto bug as they call them in Florida, scurries away. Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!

  Jeremy opens the door to our room and flips the light switch. Shadowy light gives the room an old worn look—it is old and worn. It’s one of those standard bedrooms with a queen-sized bed, a door to a bathroom, and a window covered by curtains at the end. I throw my overnight bag onto the bed and open the drapes. Dust flies. Our ocean view is of the shipping terminal across the channel. I check the bathroom, which is yellowed with age and smells of Clorox. At least it doesn’t smell moldy. I slide open the shower curtain. Three huge sleepy roaches sit around the drain.

  I give a screech and I’m outa there. Grab my bag, through the door, down the stairs.

  Jeremy leans over the rail and calls, “What happened, Pratt?”

  “Check the shower,” I yell.

  He disappears inside and reappears carrying his bag.

  #

  Next stop is a nice hotel on South Beach. We book a room that’s a small suite with a roomy bedroom in front, a living room in rear, and a balcony overlooking the beach. Must cost a mint, but I’m not asking. I doubt the Lee County Sheriff’s Department will spring for this. We stand on the balcony looking down four stories at the sand and water, lit by hotel lights. People are chattering and drinking, even a couple splashing in the dark ocean.

  “Want to explore the clubs?” Jeremy asks.

  “First I need a shower.” I head for the bathroom, which is shiny and bright like a stage with mirrors everywhere. My blue bulls-eye stares at me. A whirlpool bath looks tempting; I could soak for hours. I choose the huge shower. The granite walls gleam, not a trace of soap scum, no roaches hovering near the drain. They wouldn’t dare. Eyes closed, I stand under the hot steamy water, letting it massage my sore muscles. A hand touches me and I jump and turn, sputtering, water running in my eyes.

  Jeremy’s beautiful body takes watery shape in front of me. When my eyes travel to his face, he’s grinning. “Checking your back, Pratt. Looks like someone did an abstract painting.”

  He grabs a bar of soap and starts gently washing me, head to toe, including all the hidden spots. I take the soap and start to return the favor, but he lifts me, braces me against the wall, and slips inside. I’ve never tried sex in the shower before. It’s a bit awkward, but fun. I start to slide down the wall and Jeremy bends his knees to stay with me. His feet slip and he lands on the shower floor with me attached. I start giggling and he laughs with me. The shower pours hot water over us and we continue, sliding around on the soapy floor.

  Geez, Pratt. You just started the pill. But then all rational thought dissolves.

  #

  I stand in front of the mirror in my dark blue silk pants and top. The top is cut low, front and rear. No bra underneath, it would show.

  “How bad is my back?”

  Jeremy stands behind me in a dark suit with a white silk shirt, open at the neck. He looks luscious, and expensive. I have no idea about men’s clothes but I’d bet his didn’t come from Men’s Wearhouse.

  “The colors blend with what you’re wearing. Body paint. No one will notice.”

  I try to cover the bruise on my face with makeup, but wash it off because it looks like a dirty smudge.

  “Don’t worry, Pratt. You look very sexy.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.

  I have to admit, we look good together in the mirror. “Let’s strut our stuff.”

  South Beach is exactly like I pictured it. It’s crowded with people. There’s a mix of styles from daytime shorts and halters to dressed to kill. Stores are closing, lines form at restaurant doors, but the clubs look quiet.

  “Are the clubs dead because it’s Wednesday?” I ask Jeremy.

  “No, it’s too early. They’ll liven up later.”

  I spot one familiar face and then another. Who are they, celebs? People I’ve seen on the boob tube? I’m not much of a follower of the stars, at least not the people kind. I can hardly tell you who played in a movie the day after I see it.

  We stop at a restaurant that doesn’t have a long queue. Half-hour wait they tell us. Not bad. We mingle with the crowd. Some are dancing to the music piped from the restaurant. I feel overdressed, at least with the amount of clothes I’m wearing. Most of the women have a lot of leg showing, and plenty of other skin, too. They wouldn’t want to see my legs.

  Jeremy fits in pretty well. Lots of men in dark suits, but also many in bright colors. Some wild hair on men as well as women. I’m glad Jeremy doesn’t shave his head, like many of the deputies. Al
though I see some baldpates here, too. One has tattoos all over his scalp. Outrageous makeup on men and women.

  The traffic in the street is stop and go. Jeremy and I stand at the curb and the cars pass so close they almost touch me.

  “Thorpe,” a man in a tux calls from the restaurant door. We maneuver through the dancers and follow the tux.

  He seats us at a table in the corner. I can barely read the menu, but I can see the prices. This is going to be one expensive meal.

  The food is scrumptious. The bottle of wine Jeremy picks is perfect. The service is almost too much with someone at your elbow waiting on you every minute. When the bill comes, Jeremy won’t let me see it.

  As we emerge onto the street, the crowds appear larger. The clock on a building tells me it’s ten-thirty. Usually after a big meal, I want to sleep or at least sit around being lazy. But the energy in this town is infectious. We wander along the street, where the clubs are beginning to open. They’ll be open all night. The crowd carries an electric current that gets stronger as time passes, like they’re plugged into the profusion of neon lights.

  Few places will allow us to enter without exorbitant amounts of money or reservations. But Jeremy discovers if he flashes his badge and tells a few lies, we can get in anywhere.

  One place has beds, where you can lie around eating and drinking and partying all night. Most have flashing lights and loud, throbbing music. It gets into you, throbbing, making you vibrate and bounce, smushing brain cells, pushing away all thought, destroying eardrums. I don’t usually go for this kind of music, but it’s addictive. We wander, sometimes stopping long enough for a drink or a dance, which means you stand in the middle of a mob and move to the music. We rest our feet at a place with balconies, where we sit and watch the vast crowd on the dance floor.

  On the street, we run through the throng, energized by the night. At two-thirty in the morning, the street is packed with cars. I stop for breath, leaning against Jeremy.

  A strange noise, a thump, gets my attention and I turn to see a car hopping the curb and coming at us on the sidewalk. People scream and run for doorways, crowding against the side of the buildings. Jeremy and I duck into the entry to a closed restaurant. The car crashes through tables and chairs on the sidewalk. As it passes, a man leans out the window with a gun. Jeremy knocks me to the ground and falls on top of me. Bang! Glass shatters behind us.