After half an hour of work, shirtless, wearing only khaki shorts and boat shoes, Thorn paused for a moment to enjoy a rare breeze that tossed the fronds of a nearby royal palm and sent small licks of shade teasing across the roof.
His hair was clumped with sweat and he raked it out of his eyes. From countless hours on the water, fishing the creeks and flats of Florida Bay, Thorn had scorched his hair to the shade and texture of summer straw. At six feet tall, he was still as wiry as he’d been in his teens and as darkly tanned. Although lately he’d been feeling some middle-age creaks, a little swelling in the finger joints, he was still agile enough to spider-walk the roof without strain. And that bedroom incident this morning, something entirely rich and strange, it gave him a jolt of confidence about the aging thing. Undiscovered territory lay ahead. Whole continents yet to be explored.
For the dozenth time since mounting the roof, he touched the alien lump in his pocket. It was silly for the device to make him anxious. But he couldn’t dispel the feeling that he was hauling around some living creature that might at any second squawk and demand attention. More than once in the past few minutes, he thought the cell phone had squirmed against his thigh and he’d fought the urge to snatch it out and heave it as far as it would fly.
For the next half hour he replaced the flashing around the three vents. When he was done he climbed to the peak to catch his breath and slug down some water from the thermos he’d hooked to the ridge seam.
With every degree the sun rose, the white aluminum glared more harshly. Sweat dribbled from his flesh and hit the roof and vaporized. He squinted into the brightness for a while, gathering himself for the next phase.
As he gazed out at Alexandra’s neighborhood from that height, seeing each house planted neatly in the center of its fifty-by-hundred-foot plot, and the streets running in a grid exactly north and south or due east and west, he felt a twinge of claustrophobia. A milder version of what that doomed man in the Poe story must have felt when he awoke and became slowly aware that he was locked inside a coffin.
He forced aside the pang and reclaimed some of the buoyancy he’d felt earlier. By God, he was determined to make this work. Resolved to beat back the qualms and give the city a fair shot. There was no other option if he and Alex had a chance. A woman every bit his equal in toughness and independence, and one who awakened in him a mix of tenderness and sensuality he hadn’t known he was capable of. He felt fresher around her, more confident than he had in years.
So this was his week to adjust, make last-second tweaks to his tranquilized Keys psyche before she returned. Find his place in this seething stew of humanity.
While he rested, a yellow cab drew over to the curb two houses away, parking in the shade of an oak. For an idle moment Thorn watched the taxi and listened to the snarl of several nearby motors. In the past hour three different gardening crews had descended on the neighborhood and were roaring up and down separate lawns like synchronized drill teams with their weed whackers and leaf blowers.
Thorn had another sip of the icy water, splashed some over his hair, and got back to work. He used Alexandra’s Makita drill to back out the screws. A fine tool that fit solidly in his hand and made a throaty purr that blocked out the leaf blowers and the rumble of traffic from a thoroughfare a few blocks to the west. One motor canceling out a dozen others. Maybe that was a way to cope. Get one of those exotic machines that produced the rumble of artificial surf and keep it running in the background.
He worked his way down the first panel, pocketing the stainless-steel screws while his rubber soles squeaked against the hot aluminum.
He slid the first panel aside and spotted the telltale rip in the roofing paper. As he was congratulating himself on his good fortune, a man’s voice called out a hello from the front yard.
Thorn rose and leaned forward, peering over the edge.
Standing on the lawn beside the front walkway was a lanky man in a baseball cap and mirrored glasses. He had on tight black jeans and a light blue button-down shirt with the tail hanging out. Coils of smoky gray hair showed at the edges of the hat. His flesh was a chalky brown, the shade of cinnamon latte with a splash of extra cream. He was in his late forties, maybe older.
“Can I help you?” Thorn said.
“I’m trying to locate a Mr. Lawton Collins.”
“Lawton’s not here.”
“Might you know where I could find him?”
Thorn had been steeling himself for a heavy dose of the brusque manner he’d come to know from the Miami hordes who invaded the Keys each weekend, bringing with them the buzz and tension of the city. It seemed that this town was brimming with impatient, overbearing folks who were used to brushing past the likes of Thorn.
So he was thrown off by the man standing in the yard below. His down-home drawl and the languor of his movements had echoes of the Deep South, as though he might be a throwback, one of those mannerly crackers who long ago populated the region, hacked away the dense native tangle and made South Florida habitable for the lesser mortals who would soon swarm its landscape.
“What do you want him for?”
The man gave the question thorough consideration, all the while looking up at Thorn with an impassive smile.
“And who would I be speaking with?”
“Friend of the family,” Thorn said. “And who are you?”
Thorn heard another man’s voice come from below. He didn’t catch the words, but the tone was abrasive—more like the city voice he’d been bracing for. Apparently the second man was pressed against the front of the house.
Acknowledging his partner’s words with a slight nod, the man in the mirrored glasses kept his face tilted up toward Thorn.
“This gentleman, Lawton Collins, he is in possession of an item belonging to me. I’ve come to have it back.”
“As I said, he’s not here right now. Won’t be home all day.”
The second man’s coarse voice sounded again, but this time the curly-haired man ignored his comrade, staring up at Thorn with a steady concentration as if Thorn had finally merited his full attention.
While the man himself was not openly threatening, the situation tripped a switch. The hidden partner, the studiously indifferent manner. Thorn felt the last vapors of his early-morning mellowness dwindle, his mood hardening into annoyance. He had promised Sugarman and Alex he would behave, and he’d prepped himself with calming thoughts, but all that flew away as the man in the yard and his hidden pal worked their game.
The bony man removed his sunglasses and looked down as he cleaned the lenses with his shirttail.
With no conscious thought, Thorn’s finger crushed the Makita’s trigger and the screw bit whirred. If the man in the yard heard, he showed no sign, just continued to clean his shades.
A few seconds later he tipped his head up in slow stages and finally allowed Thorn a clear look at his eyes—doing it with such dramatic emphasis, it seemed likely he’d used this tactic before to unnerve an adversary. His eyes were an unnatural blue with the silvery glint of one of those expensive martinis made with a dash of Curaçao.
As the man replaced the mirrored glasses, Thorn caught the second man’s shadow moving toward the front porch.
Thorn took a step to his right, coming a foot closer to the ladder. It was a twenty-foot leap to the ground. Good chance he’d sprain an ankle or blow out a knee if he tried it. No tree limbs near the house, and no Tarzan vines to swing down on. If he was going to get back to earth without risking serious damage, the ladder was the only way.
“Tell your friend to step out where I can see him.”
The man produced his smile again, showing teeth but no amusement.
“Up there on the roof, you’re not exactly in a position to give orders.”
Hearing the cold authority in the man’s voice decided it for Thorn. To hell with good-conduct medals. He skipped sideways to the ladder, got a hand on it, and was turning backward to start down when the man muscled it from Thorn’s
grip. The ladder tipped to the right and fell, clanging onto the cement walkway.
“Now take a deep breath, count to ten,” the man said. “We’ll be finished shortly and scoot along. This is no affair of yours.”
Thorn backed away from the edge of the roof.
Across the street at Bingham’s house an old Buick had pulled into the driveway and a dark-skinned woman in jeans and T-shirt got out. She opened the trunk and pulled out a sponge mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies. She glanced at Bingham’s car, then went to the front door and flipped up the lid of the mailbox and felt around inside.
But she found nothing, so she rang the bell, then used the clapper. After waiting a few seconds more, she marched back to her car, stowed her gear, and drove away.
The smoky-haired man missed the action across the way because he was focused on the front porch, where his accomplice’s shadow was emerging.
“Got it,” the invisible man said.
Thorn waited till the top of the man’s head appeared, waited a moment more until he came down off the porch and stepped onto the lush lawn, then dropped feet first onto the shorter man’s back.
CHAPTER SIX
Thorn and the man collapsed in a grunting tangle.
His split-second plan was to club the man with the drill, but in the jumble of thrashing arms and legs and the scramble to their feet, a photograph fluttered from the stocky man’s grasp and he clawed a small revolver from his waistband and was tipping it toward Thorn’s stomach.
Thorn, on his feet, shot out his hand reflexively, rammed the screw bit into the man’s upper arm, and mashed the trigger.
The man howled and buckled to his knees, and the pistol fell from his grip. Scooping it up, Thorn stepped back and directed it at the taller man.
“Raise your shirt,” Thorn said. “Turn around slow.”
“I’m unarmed,” the man said.
“I’m not saying it again. Raise your goddamn shirt.”
The man complied and made a slow rotation. Flat, hairless stomach. No sign of a weapon.
He knew he might regret it, but he’d had more than his share of misfortune with loaded guns, so he broke open the revolver, spilled the rounds into the grass, and sailed the pistol across Alex’s hedge into a neighbor’s yard.
He turned back to the tall man.
Blue Eyes hadn’t budged. He simply stared at Thorn with his eyebrows raised a notch as if he were pondering some lofty issue that had nothing to do with the events unfolding before him.
Whimpering, the other one struggled to his feet, his left hand clasping the bloody wound.
When he caught sight of Thorn, his lips drew back in a snarl and he staggered in Thorn’s direction.
Thorn lifted the drill and gunned the screw bit at his face.
“Want the next one in your forehead?”
“You bastard, you’re going to regret the shit out of this. When I’m done with your ass, you’ll wish you never laid eyes on me.”
“I’m already there,” Thorn said. “Now get out of here. Both of you.”
The chunky man glanced at the black-and-white photo lying faceup in the grass, then looked at his partner.
“You’re standing there not doing nothing. You’re supposed to be my ace boon coon. Have my back.”
Keeping a watch on the two, Thorn walked over to the photo and snatched it up.
“I’m going into the house now and I’m dialing the local constable. Maybe you’d like to stick around and explain this little episode to him.”
“Some tough nut you are, whining to the po-po.” The dark-haired man glared. “Why don’t you stay out here, dawg? I’m about to open up a super-size can of whoop-ass.”
Thorn squeezed the trigger again, and the dark-haired guy drew back. His hand came away from his wound and swept in front of his face as though dragging aside a cobweb. There was some gray in the guy’s hair. He was maybe three or four years younger than Blue Eyes. Though his speech and manner were more suited to a delinquent in his teens.
The tall one squinted at Thorn through the brilliance. Despite the circumstances, he gave off an air of stillness and resolve that struck Thorn as more menacing than his cretinous partner.
“Having that photo is a matter of great personal importance to me.”
“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t cut a lot of slack with me.”
On the man’s lips a wistful smile appeared.
“I can see we’ve employed the wrong approach. You’re an honorable man. Sneaking inside your home was an affront to your civility.”
He spoke the words with a rational disinterest, as though he were reminding himself of the strange moral codes followed by others.
“Why do you want that photograph?”
“I seriously doubt you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
“I’m dying here, Snake,” the other man said. “I need a fucking doctor.”
“It’s a family matter, none of your concern.”
The small man doubled over and retched into the grass.
“Snake?” Thorn said.
Snake spoke to the other man in a tone one might use with a slow child, while his eyes never unlocked from Thorn’s.
“Go get in the car, Carlos. We’re finished here.”
Carlos wiped the spittle from his lips and marched across the lawn, then down the sidewalk toward the cab.
In Thorn’s pocket the phone buzzed.
“Last chance to give me the photograph,” Snake said.
Thorn stared at the man but said nothing.
“All right. Then we’ll have to complete this transaction later.”
Thorn waited till he’d covered twenty yards before digging out the phone. He flipped it open and found the ON button.
“Thorn?” Alexandra said.
With a leisurely stride, Snake crossed the lawn.
“I’m here.”
She hesitated a moment, as if registering his tone.
“What’s wrong? You okay? What’s happened?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Everything’s cool. Nice town you got here.”
“Talk to me, Thorn. I’m on the plane; they’re about to shut the doors.”
Thorn watched Snake catch up to Carlos and fall in step beside him, heading back to the cab. Snake and Carlos, the names echoed somewhere in the dusty warehouse of Thorn’s memory.
“Thorn?”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I slipped off the roof. But I’m fine. Not even bruised.”
“Fell off the roof?”
“Listen, it’s okay. I landed on my butt. Nothing’s hurt.”
“You’re lying to me, Thorn. Don’t do that, don’t lie. I can tell.”
The cab U-turned and rolled slowly past, neither man looking his way.
“Everything’s cool. It’s this damn phone. It makes me sound weird.”
“The phone?” she said. “It sounds like more than the phone.”
She was silent for several seconds, and Thorn could hear the murmur of passengers around her. He hadn’t lied to her before, not about anything major. And he was trying to stay faithful to that history. Nothing but the truth, just slightly less than the whole of it.
Maybe he hadn’t handled the two guys with the most dexterity. He’d have to sort that out later, critique his effort. But at the moment he wanted to keep Alexandra on her way to Tampa with a minimum of anxiety. Tell her as much truth as possible without alarming her.
“I’m gone for an hour and you fall off the roof.”
“The good news is, I found your leak. First panel I removed, there it was, rotted roofing paper.”
He raised the photograph and gave it a look.
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “You could’ve broken your neck.”
“Hey, while I got you, let me ask you something. That photograph in the house, I was looking at it earlier. The black-and-white glossy of a boxing match, looks like Cassius Clay and Liston. Where’d that come from?”
&
nbsp; “Photograph?”
“Yeah, Cassius Clay, before he became Ali.”
“It’s Dad’s,” she said. “Alan Bingham gave it to him, the guy across the street. A gift. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s a nice shot. I was looking to see if I’m in it.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“February 1964. I was in the crowd that night. Dr. Bill was a big fight fan. He took me and Kate along. I think we were on the other side of the auditorium from this shot. We stayed that whole week in Miami. Very exciting time. Very memorable.”
“I’m getting off the plane,” she said. “You don’t sound right.”
“I’m fine, I’m good,” he said. “Call me when you land in Tampa. I’ll be wrapping up the roof about then.”
She weighed it for a few seconds. Thorn could hear an announcement over the plane’s intercom. Seat backs and tray tables upright.
Alex sighed.
“Promise me you’re not going to slip off any more roofs.”
“You have my word,” Thorn said. “I’ve had enough thrills for one day.”
“Okay,” she said. “Be careful, damn it. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Thorn shut the phone and slipped it in his pocket.
He plowed through the hedge and into the neighbor’s yard and found the pistol. A .22 revolver. He sniffed the barrel. He was no expert, but it did have a smoky tang as though it might’ve been fired recently.
He went inside, set the pistol on a kitchen counter, then poked through the house until he was satisfied nothing had been disturbed. He paused at the refrigerator door where the Harbor House monthly schedule was fixed with colorful magnets. Printed in bold letters across the top of the schedule was the facility’s address.
Snake and Carlos wanted the fight photo for a reason powerful enough to draw a gun. They’d known Lawton’s name, but even though they seemed to have no special interest in him, just the same, it wouldn’t hurt to drop in on the old guy. Maybe spring him for the day. Thorn would carry along the photo, see what Lawton had to say about it. It was, after all, his primary assignment this week, to look after the old man, make sure he was safe.
Magic City Page 6
