MIAMI ICED

by Susan Sussman

  “Hey, watch that.”

  He laughs. “Darlin’, eighty is middle-aged around here. You’re still a kid.” The bolt stops glowing red. Quincy picks up his pliers and goes at it again.

  “What did Deke tell you about the murder?” I ask.

  “I never did talk to him. He’s got a bad ticker and was out on sick leave when I tried reaching him. I’ve been meaning to give him a call, see how he’s doing.”

  “I’d be interested to hear what he knows.” Quincy gives me a quizzical look. Should I tell him I’m sitting in the courtroom watching a murder trial to which I have no connection? As if he’s not worried enough about me already. “I’m just curious,” I say. “It’s been all over the papers.”

  “Well, if you’re ever up at the Tradewinds, look for Deke.”

  “Would he talk to me?”

  “Darlin’, if you prime the pump with a shot of Jack Daniels, you can’t shut that man up.” He glances out the window at Parker who’s ambling up the dock toward us. “Do you think he’s interested in buying?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “My St. Joseph statues keep floating away and all the stores are sold out.”

  “Joseph’s for landlubbers.” He bears down hard on the bolt and it gives. “Try St. Brendan.”

  Parker walks in. I put on my I’m-not-desperate-to-sell face. “She looks good,” he says, “but I’d like to take her on a little shakedown ride. Check out a few things.”

  “Now?” I ask.

  He glances at his watch. “It’s a little late for me. How about tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow? Joseph Galdino’s wife will likely testify and I promised to take notes for Lucille. “Saturday would be better,” I say.

  “Saturday it is.” He hands me a card, “in case you need to get hold of me.”

  The hallway outside my apartment reeks of lamb chops. Lamb chops? Even in Florida, the early-bird center of the universe, quarter-to-five is a little too early for dinner. As I open the door, smoke billows out and the alarm screeches.

  “I got it,” I yell, rushing to the hall closet, pulling out the portable fan, carrying it into the kitchen.

  “This is terrible!” says Bitsy, standing in the center of the room, whirling a dishtowel at the smoke, trying to shoo it away from the blaring alarm. I plug in the fan, turn it on ‘Hi’, and aim it at the open oven door. It pushes the smoke away from the alarm, out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  “Answer the phone,” I shout over the noise of the fan and alarm.

  “The phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not ringing.”

  The phone rings. “Tell Harry I’m broiling again.”

  Bitsy picks up. “Yes, Harry, she’s broiling again.” She hangs up and shouts, “Who designs a broiler that needs the door left open?”

  “Probably the same genius who installed the smoke detector above the stove.”

  “Does this always happen?”

  “Only when I broil.” The alarm shuts off. “Why the lamb chops?”

  “I invited a few people in for cocktails.”

  “People?”

  “Yes. You know. Arms, legs, heads, vital organs. They’re our neighbors.”

  Our? “What time?”

  “Sixish.”

  “You smell like smoke,” I say, “go freshen up. I’ll air the place and rescue the chops.”

  “They need two more minutes.”

  “Got it.”

  I use a heavy chair to prop open the front hallway door, then race across the apartment to slide open the living room doors to the balcony. Smoke drifts out. That’s when I notice that the apartment looks amazing. Bitsy has set up the bar with a wedding-worthy array of wines, liquor and mixers, lime wedges and bleu cheese-stuffed martini olives. She set dishes of candies and munchies around the room. Our mother’s fancy appetizer dishes and cloth napkins sit on one end of the buffet. Empty platters sport yellow post-it notes in Bitsy’s careful hand: Lamb chops Chopped liver Caviar pie Cheese Fruit platter. Bitsy and I have different ideas about entertaining. I open a couple of bags of chips and set out store-bought containers of hummus and salsa. If I really want to go crazy-fancy, I dump everything into pretty bowls. The lamb chop timer dings and I return to the kitchen.

  A naked man stands in the middle of the room. Nearly naked. Medium height. Square-built taught musculature of a longshoreman. He’s wrapped a towel around his waist and is dripping water on my floor. “Something’s burning,” he says.

  “I’m cooking.”

  “It’s probably done.” He watches as I pull the rack of lamb from the broiler. “You want to put those on a platter and tent them with foil,” he says, “let the meat absorb the juices.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Abraham,” he says, about to hold out a hand, reddening as if suddenly aware he’s not especially dressed. “I’m renting next door, heard the alarm. Here,” he grabs a roll of paper towels from the counter, gripping his towel with one hand while mopping his drips off the marble with the other, “don’t want someone slipping and hitting you with a law suit.” He tosses the towels into the garbage under the sink. “Didn’t mean to intrude,” leaving as quickly as he came. He trails a clean manly scent of soap and shampoo. I wonder if he’s one of the guests invited to Bitsy’s party.

  By six, the house is reasonably aired, the music on and Bitsy – freshly showered and changed -- looks radiant. She introduces me to people I’ve never seen before. Evidently they live in my building.

  A James Bond look-alike takes over the bar, mixing drinks, keeping up a friendly banter. “That’s Wendel,” whispers Bitsy, sounding a bit flustered, “Chairman of the Association’s Finance Committee.” Hey, hey, Sheldon-the-Shifty, there’s a new sheriff in town.

  It’s been months since I’ve practiced the fine art of small talk. I listen to Wendel hold court at the bar, tearing apart Carmine-the-Crook – apparently the complex manager – who Wendel is a hundred percent certain is being schmeared by assorted contractors. My scotch and I amble over to another group wistfully describing second and third homes they once owned in the Hamptons, Berkshires, Colorado. But the tech bubble burst and golden parachutes didn’t open, or suddenly jobless adult children moved back home with families, or catastrophic illness chewed up retirement money. Now here they all are, stuck sweating out the brutal Florida summer with the rest of us peons.

  “It could be worse,” one man tells me. “One of our poker buddies told us to invest everything with a financial genius named Bernie Madoff. A couple of us were looking into it when the shit hit –” he reddens “—when that whole deal blew up. Poor Morrie. One day he thinks he’s worth millions, the next day he’s back in Ohio living in his son’s basement.”

  The image of the homeless Professor living in the library park flashes through my mind. It’s not as if the people in my living room are dumpster diving for food trying to survive out on the street. Still, they’ve suffered severe reversals of fortune, forced to pinch pennies at an age when they expected to be retired in relative luxury. I feel my judgmental self soften toward them.

  Wendel flits around my sister when he’s not checking to see if anyone needs more liquor, food, etc. A stranger walking into the apartment would think this was his place. I’m wondering how soon my scotch and I can gracefully retire to my bedroom when the phone rings. “I’ve got it,” I say, escaping to my office.

  “Hey, Mom,” says Stacey. “Just calling to see how everything’s going with you and Aunt Bitsy.”

  “As a matter of actual fact,” I say, “we are at this very moment hosting a coven.” I hold the phone toward the living room so she can hear the voices.

  “I hear men,” she says.

  “Busted. We’re having an orgy.”

  She laughs. “Ethan and I didn’t know how it would be for you two to live together. You and Aunt Bitsy are a little oil-and-waterish.”

  “So far, no blood. How are you doing?” And as my beautiful girl fills me in
on her pregnancy – “You could set a table for twelve on my stomach,” -- I prop my feet on the desk, enjoying my daughter and my scotch. Michael’s museum-quality collection of pre-Columbian pottery smiles down from the shelves above. “So,” she says, when she runs out of news, “what’s happening in your world?”

  “Well, let’s see. Tomorrow, I’m taking notes for a friend at a….a meeting.” No need to mention ‘murder trial’ to a daughter already concerned about her mom’s mental health. “And, I may have a buyer for the boat.”

  “What?”

  “He came to look at it today.” There is an un-Stacey like pause. “Stacey? You there?”

  “You’re selling Dad’s boat?” It feels like a slap. “Dad loved that boat. We love it.”

  “Sweetie, I haven’t used it for seven months.”

  “Ethan can fly down, teach you how to —“

  “That’s not the point. I’m not interested.”

  “You can’t sell it.” I wince at the pain in her voice. Stacey, who still curls up with her Raggedy Ann doll when she’s sick has a hard time letting go of things she loves. The apple doesn’t fall far…

  “Look,” I say, “the boat market is worse than the housing market. I probably won’t sell it. But I am going to try.”

  “Mom—”

  “Honey, I have to.”

  “But—”

  “It’s too much for me. Too much work. Too much money to throw at something. It will be a lot cheaper for me to rent a boat when you and Ethan come down.”

  “But the Go Bears was Daddy’s boat. He loved her.”

  “I know, Sweetie, I know. It was Daddy’s boat. I miss him, too.” And this conversation is too much for either of us to continue. “I love you,” we tell each other, which is true, even when one of us might be angry at the other.

  I close the door to my side of the apartment, run a hot tub and slide in. A collection of photos crowds my vanity. Everyone who matters to me is here. Mostly, it’s Ethan and Stacey from infancy into adulthood. Track meets and birthdays and proms, Stacey changing from little princess to preppy to Goth to bride. I study Stacey in her nose-stud and black-lipstick period. Michael and I never minded her odd wardrobes and henna tattoos. Stacey’s appearance changed with the times, but she was always our joyful, loving, sweet-natured optimist. We were blessed. I hold my fingers backward to my lips and say “Poo poo poo” to ward off the evil eye.

  How was it for Brandy and Mel Lucas? Were their son and daughter always mean-spirited brats? Or is it possible their children did a Jekyll and Hyde -- nice kids when they were growing up in New Jersey, brats once their father became rich? Can people that young change that radically? And what about their cousin Caprice? Was she ever happy? Might a former sunnier self have been traumatized watching her father on trial for murdering her aunt?

  I dry off and pull on Michael’s old tee shirt and sweat pants, dabbing his aftershave behind my ears. In bed, I click the TV to something forensic. One of the investigators takes notes at the crime scene. Lucille! I nearly forgot. I pad to the office in search of paper and pen. Wendel is there studying the shelves of rare pottery.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He whirls around. “Oh, hi.” I expect him to ask about the collection but he says, “I guess I got turned around looking for the little boys room.”

  I set him on the right path, then find a notebook and pen and slip them into my purse for court tomorrow.

  Bitsy’s group leaves around ten and she stops in to say goodnight, her face radiant. “You okay?” she asks.

  “Just tired. I didn’t think I’d be missed. They seem like nice people.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Especially Mr. Bartender Man.”

  Her ivory cheeks flush red. “I’m going to clean up. See you tomorrow.” And she fairly dances out of my room.

  After the news, I turn the volume low, needing sound to help me sleep. My conversation with Stacey about selling the boat weighs on my mind. It kills me to make my daughter unhappy. I ache to call her but it’s way to late. Besides, what can I say that will be any different? I can’t afford to keep the boat. I just can’t.

  Even with the sleeping pill, sleep comes late and stays fitful until morning.

  10

  The jumble of TV news vans outside the courthouse look like a convention of Dr. Seuss characters -- odd-topped coils, satellite dishes, cranes akimbo. I squeeze through the sweaty blockade of wilting reporters. A shout goes up behind me as they shove microphones at arriving attorneys and police. “Is Galdino guilty?” “Do you think there’ll be a verdict today?” “Where is Brandy Lucas’ husband?” No one stops to give interviews.

  Upstairs, spectators push into the courtroom. If I hope to hear well enough to take accurate notes for Lucille, I need to sit up close. I squeeze into the pew behind the Lucas brother and sister. The boy slouches in his seat, head back, eyes closed, mouth agape. Next to him, his sister lists to lee side, her aqua-shadowed eyelids lowered to half-mast. It’s hard to party hearty on South Beach, which doesn’t rev up before midnight, then show up for morning court.

  In front of them, Caprice, erect and motionless, sits staring at her father’s back. No partying for this child of the accused murderer. How does she spend her evenings? What is she feeling? Sorrow, despair, fear? In my father’s ‘King Solomon’s’ court where people pled their own cases, I saw many defendants trembling as they approached the bench. I longed to assure them, “Don’t worry. My father’s a nice man, a fair judge.” One man, suing his dry cleaner for a botched pant alteration, was so overwrought he vomited, and that was a case about bad dry cleaning. This is murder. This is a young girl’s father fighting for his life. The mother in me longs to console her.

  Court begins and I’m ready with notepad and pen. A Palm Beach banker takes the stand. “After Mr. Lucas received the insurance payment for his injury,” says the prosecutor, “he deposited the check into his account at your bank?”

  “He made the deposit to our New Jersey branch,” says the pinstriped man. “I first met the Lucas’ when they moved to Florida. Mr. Lucas called and told me he wanted to withdraw the money in cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the money?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor feigns surprise. “The entire settlement for eleven million dollars?”

  A murmur goes through the room. The banker shifts uncomfortably. “Yes, that’s correct. Of course we tried to dissuade Mr. and Mrs. Lucas. But they were insistent.”

  I scrawl a bunch of zeros. My note-taking skills have atrophied. I give up trying to write everything word-for-word and shift into ‘write-the-gist’. Luckily, the southern prosecutor is given to slow and careful speech.

  “How did they take the money?” continues the prosecutor.

  “In hundreds.”

  “No, I mean physically. How did they carry so much cash?”

  “Mr. Lucas and his wife arrived with several large suitcases.”

  “And the two of them were able to take all the cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t they afraid of being robbed?”

  “Mr. Lucas hired private security to accompany them. Four very large armed men.”

  “Thank you. No more questions.”

  The defense attorney rises but doesn’t approach. “That certainly is a great deal of cash,” she says. “Why not leave it in a bank or buy stocks or CD’s or bonds? Or,” she puts her fists on the table, leans forward, “might it be, Mel Lucas liked the portability of so many millions? In case he should need to leave town suddenly and without a trace?”

  “Objection!” shouts the Prosecutor. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “That’s all, your honor,” says the attorney. But her questions created an unsettling image of the missing Mel Lucas fleeing with suitcases crammed with cash.

  The Lucas boy leans forward and snarls something at Galdino’s daughter
. I strain to hear what he’s saying. No luck. Oh to be a fly in that boy’s hair gel.

  A forensic accountant is called to the stand. I’ve always found listening to CPA’s marginally less painful than giving birth. I begin scribbling curly-cues and do-dads and twirly little lines. “I was unable to find any bank accounts or investment accounts for Mel and/or Brandy Lucas,” says the accountant, “no record of any trusts for them or their two children. Their traceable financial trail ends the day they withdrew their money from the Palm Beach bank. After that, all bills were paid with cash or cashier’s checks bought with cash.”

  The Lucas children, shoulders hunched forward, arms limp at their sides, stare grim-faced.

  Judge Kossoff calls a mid-morning break and someone in back opens the door to the courtyard. Rain whips in. It looks like I don’t go outside to de-ice. I tug down the sleeves of Michael’s sweatshirt. People stand, stretch, walk around. A space opens on the bench next to me. I spot Nikki a few rows back and wave her over. The aspiring actress considers a moment then joins me. Today’s wisp of a dress provides zero protection against the zero degree courtroom but she appears totally comfortable. Ah, yute.

  She glances at my notepad. “You a reporter?” she says, exactly mimicking the way I’d asked her that same question. The Lucas girl hears ‘reporter’ and looks around, sees my pen and paper. It’s the first time she’s moved since the accountant testified that her parent’s financial cupboard is bare. The girl looks listless, deflated. This confuses Nikki, an aspect of the bitchy Lucas daughter she hasn’t seen before. By the time court resumes, Nikki channels the girl, slumping her shoulders, hanging her head, letting her jaw go slack. Eerie. I once met someone who knew Meryl Streep when she was at Yale. They talked about how Streep was always watching people, studying the way they moved, talked, interacted. Nikki watches like that. I wonder if she has Streep-quality talent.

  The last witness of the morning works for the AAAcme Safe Company. The slide of the Lucas bedroom is projected on the screen, the tapestry pulled aside revealing the jagged hole in the wall.