Contents Under Pressure (6 page)

The murder scene was the shabby room they shared in a six-story hotel. The cops in the lobby refused to tell me which floor it happened on, and wouldn’t let me go upstairs. Even usually talkative officers were inexplicably surly. They ordered me not to talk to hotel employees, and sent me outside to wait I was on deadline and couldn’t understand why they were being so secretive since the case was no whodunit. The suspect was in custody; in fact, the killer had summoned police himself. The cops were pissed off, I soon realized, because it was Super Bowl Sunday. They all wanted to be holed up with a TV set back at headquarters or some other air-conditioned hideout. The cops in the lobby were all clustered around a set in the corner.

So they never noticed when I slipped in a side door and went up the fire stairs. I popped the door open on every floor and found empty hallways. When I opened the sixth-floor door, breathing hard, there was Pete, hands cuffed behind him, sitting on a bench right outside the stairwell. He was a tall, skinny sad sack with a scruffy mustache and a hangdog expression. His short-sleeve shirt hung open, his stringy hair was askew.

Cops and ID techs were assembled in and just outside of the room across the hall. The body was still there, so was a TV. Somebody had turned it on and it was tuned to the game.

“Hi,” I said, and smiled at Pete.

“Hi,” he answered, his dark eyes watery and bloodshot.

I was delighted that he spoke English. Despite my last name, my Spanish is not that good. I asked what happened. He told me, and had been telling me ever since, more than I needed or wanted to know. Pete wanted to be punished. That was why he called the police to report what he had done. That was why he called again, impatient, when they did not come. He was waiting, eager to tell all, when they finally arrived.

Cops are usually happy as hell to see a killer who waits beside the body and confesses to the first officer at the scene. But they were furious at Pete, clod that he was, mad as hell that he had strangled Patsy during the third quarter of the Super Bowl. At any other time they would have treated him like a long-lost buddy, plying him with cigarettes, coffee, and sandwiches and listening raptly as he talked all night. But not during the Super Bowl. “It’s enough to piss off the pope,” one of the cops snarled, not for attribution. “The son of a bitch could have waited ‘til the game was over.”

Pete was a loser. After nearly seven months in jail, he had lost his desire to be punished and was even more depressed. Now he wanted my critique of a poem he had enclosed with his letter. I had to confess I had not read it, and explained that I was on deadline. That didn’t stop him; he slowly began to explain his complex new legal defense. His sluggish voice was deep and dreamy. “What if…”

I stifled the desire to moan aloud, and politely feigned attention while continuing to pound out my copper wire story, and the one after that.

Despite his friendly, easygoing demeanor, when Fred Douglas stops by your desk, he is never there for just a casual chat.

“You covering Hudson’s funeral tomorrow?”

“Nope, it’s my day off,” I told him.

“Never knew that to stop Britt Montero from covering a story,” he said heartily.

Uh oh, I thought. Fred is smart and creative, the best there is at the
News.
While some editors give you nothing but grief, Fred gives nothing but support and ideas that make you wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that?” It is impossible to say no to Fred.

But I tried.

“There must be somebody else who can go…”

“Hell,” he said, grinning, “it’s your story! You broke the thing, got the jump on everybody. And you know the widow, which gives you a leg up.”

“I only met her once or twice,” I grumbled. I hate covering funerals. I am embarrassed when the media pack stampedes through churches and cemeteries, shoving microphones and cameras in the faces of the bereaved. People in pain deserve some privacy. When I had covered newsworthy funerals with Lottie, she, at least, had been discreet, dressing in subdued fashion and shooting from a distance with a long lens. But few TV journalists show any respect. That is what gives reporters a bad name.

“Show ‘em how it’s done, Montero,” Fred urged. “It could be a nice piece.”

I frowned. I had laundry and grocery shopping to do, and needed some time off. “What about Janowitz, can’t he go?”

“Ahhh, he’s tied up on some weekend story, and besides,” he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and triggered both barrels of his famous persuasion, “he doesn’t have your touch.” He chuckled, his bow tie bobbing.

“There must be somebody,” I said, frantically scanning the huge newsroom.

“The city desk is shorthanded, as usual. You know how it is.”

Sure, I thought, the general assignment reporters always manage to look too busy on other projects when it comes to covering something nobody wants to do. Still, I began to waver. The story could be a good one, if done right. Hudson’s death was a big loss to the community. The man should have a decent send-off, a story his kids could read years from now, when they were grown up.

I left the office on time for a change, to have dinner with my mother, who had been complaining about “never seeing me.” We arranged to meet in my favorite neighborhood, South Beach’s Art Deco district, a treasure trove of architectural confections in pastel pinks, blues, greens, and white. For decades, the eccentric hotels of the 1930s housed only elderly retirees who drowsed and daydreamed in the sun. Then, like Rip Van Winkle, South Beach rose from its slumber. The neighborhood sprang to vivid new life with miles of hot pink neon, back-lit glass brick, wraparound porches overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and chic sidewalk cafes frequented by beautiful people from all over the world.

In one respect I liked South Beach better before it became the in place to be—at least you could find a parking space back in those days. My T-Bird crept along Ocean Drive, caught in a traffic jam of stretch limos, Porsches, Cadillacs, Mercedes, and BMWs. A dazzling long-haired model wearing shorts swept by on roller blades, making far better time than we did along a two-block stretch of palm-fringed oceanfront streetscape.

The rediscovery of South Beach was due primarily to a small band of preservationists who fought to save Art Deco from our city fathers who, given the chance, would have eagerly leveled it all to make a buck—and to a TV show about two Miami cops who dressed to kill and busted notorious drug lords and psychotic mobsters without ever messing up their perfect hair. Ironically, Miami city officials had strenuously objected to the television concept. They refused to cooperate with the production, insisting that it would further damage the city’s image, already tarnished by crime and violence. The successful show, now long dead, had left a legacy.

In its first season, the series showcased the glamorous discos, terrific-looking nightspots, and swank restaurants of Miami Beach. Such places were strictly fiction, of course. In reality, Miami Beach had become a ghost town after 10
P.M
. A bowling ball rolled down Ocean Drive after sunset would not have hit a thing. But life gradually began to imitate art. Within months, such nightspots did begin to open, and they were mobbed by the beautiful people. Where had they come from? I wondered. Where had they been hiding? Now we had traffic jams on Ocean Drive at 1
A.M
.

Since valet parking began at five bucks, I left the T-Bird at the new Miami Beach police headquarters on Washington Avenue and walked the short blocks to Ocean Drive. The city’s new cop shop is another prime example of the TV show’s style and influence. All the police stations built in Dade County since the sixties are formidably constructed fortresses. Not so the new Beach headquarters, built several seasons into the show. The structure is white and full of windows, balconies, and glass brick. The show’s producer shot an episode there before the cops even moved into the building.

In a later season, one plot had revolved around a fictional place called The Sex Club, a Miami Beach nightspot that headlined simulated sex acts on stage. I had joked with Lottie about it the next morning.

“Did you see that?” I said. “I bet some tourist from Kansas City will arrive at Miami International Airport any minute now, jump in a cab, and say, ‘Take me to The Sex Club,’” We shared a laugh because no such establishment existed.

Months later, Lottie received tickets to the opening of a new nightspot in Miami Beach. She invited me along. The name was different, but the concept was The Sex Club. Again, life imitated art.

Walking over to Ocean Drive was no problem. The evening was balmy, and television had even made the streets safer. If you and a sinister stranger are the only people on a dark street, you might be in trouble. But when you are part of a crowd headed for a trendy South Beach club or restaurant, there is safety in numbers.

Television had even performed its own brand of urban renewal, I thought, passing by the candy-striped awnings and arched windows of a small hotel, once crumbling, but now fully restored. When producers shot scenes at abandoned gas stations or aging hotels, they spruced up the places first, painting murals, installing neon lights, and leaving behind much improved properties. They had certainly done a better job at it than our local politicians.

I turned the corner onto Ocean Drive and spotted my mother’s convertible, parked at a meter in front of the classic Deco hotel where we planned to dine. How she does it, I will never know. When I found her inside, she already had us on the waiting list for a table in the subtly lit dining room. I would have liked to sit outside, next to a lavender keystone pillar, under the curved, overhanging porch roof. A jazz band was playing out by the pool, but my mother preferred air conditioning.

Small and neat with ash blond hair in a becoming Dutch girl cut, she wore a stylish dark suit, probably purchased at a generous discount from the upscale fashion house where she had been manager for the past fifteen years. She was smoking a long brown cigarette.

“I thought you quit,” I said in greeting.

“Britt, smoking is one of the few vices I have left in life. Indulge me.”

“Sure,” I said.

We waited at the black and green bar, once the hotel’s reception desk, for our names to be called. She ordered a Manhattan and raised her finely penciled eyebrows when I asked for a mineral water. “I have to make a few calls on a story later tonight,” I explained.

“You should have said so, I wouldn’t have ordered a drink.” She looked annoyed.

“No reason why you shouldn’t have one, just because I’m not.”

“Well, I’m uncomfortable…”

“Okay, okay. I’m having dinner anyway, so I guess it’s all right.” I hailed the bartender and changed my order to a Dubonnet, red, on the rocks.

“Maybe I should have wine,” my mother said.

“I thought you wanted a Manhattan.”

“What are you having?”

“A Dubonnet.”

The young, slick-haired bartender stood poised, the soul of patience though the bar was crowded.

“Okay,” she smiled brightly, as though doing me a favor. “A Manhattan.”

Nothing with my mother was ever easy.

We got our table, covered with pink linen, and our menus. “Now tell me,” she said, leaning across the place settings and patting my hand. “Why in the world are you working so hard? You spend too many hours at the office. I hope they pay you lots of overtime.”

“Not really, they say to take comp time, but you never get the chance. In fact, I’m working tomorrow.”

“Your day off?”

“It’s an important story, and it could develop into something.”

“Tell me all about it, dear.”

As I did, I saw her eyes glaze over and slowly wander the room. They came back when I got to the part about something just not being right about the police handling of the Hudson case.

“Britt.” She looked at me, lips pursed in disapproval, making me feel like an errant child. “You mustn’t antagonize the police department. They are the people you deal with every day, though God knows why you don’t try to get off that depressing beat.”

“It’s not depressing.” The waitress appeared with her pad.

“Why don’t you go ahead and order,” I told my mother.

“What are you having?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

She waited, watching me over her menu and the little half glasses she had put on to read.

“Okay,” I said, feeling slightly irritated. “I’ll have the
ropa vieja.”

My mother did a double take and wrinkled her nose. “This is not a Cuban restaurant, Britt,” she whispered, as the waitress wrote.

“No, but it’s on the menu.” I had always loved my Cuban grandmother’s version of shredded beef stew with tomatoes, peppers, onions, and wine.

“It’s not smart to order fish in a steak house, or beef in a seafood restaurant,” she said, trying not to move her lips as she spoke.

“Indulge me,” I said, and smiled at the waitress.

My mother closed her menu with a snap. She ordered the special, grilled tuna, with minted baby peas and a baked potato, then looked at me expectantly. “Shall we have another drink?”

“Would you like one?”

“Are you going to have one?”

“I’d rather not, but don’t let that stop you.”

She fidgeted with her silverware.

I ordered her another Manhattan.

She was saying, “You give them enough time, they’re not treating you fairly. You should find a job with decent hours. I hear there is an opening in the better dress department at Jordan’s. With your way with people and your figure…”

The dress department! She brought it up at least once a week. Because she adored fashion, she thought it should be my life’s calling, too. “C’mon, Mom, I love my job. I’m lucky to have it.”

“Think of the commissions, and the discounts. I mean, Britt, you’re so pretty, but look what you’re wearing. You never think about your appearance.”

I looked down at my crinkled cotton dress. I
liked
it. “It’s supposed to look this way, and I don’t have to iron it. The wrinkled look is in, Mom. I’m finally in style, after all these years.”

She did not smile. Instead, she leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Where did you ever find it? Those pooched-out pockets.” She made a wry face and then looked away quickly as though the sight was too ghastly to behold. “It’s a white summer dress, Britt, and this is September, after Labor Day.”

“I need pockets, and it’s eighty-five degrees outside. It’s absurd to dig out fall clothes and dark colors because of the calendar. This is Miami. It’s crazy to let the New York fashion world dictate what we wear here.”

“It’s that job,” she hissed. “You never have time to dress properly, shop, or visit. The girls in my building would love to see you, but no, you’re always too busy. And when’s the last time you had a decent date? You’re past thirty, Britt. Didn’t you read that report that says a woman past thirty is more likely to be killed by terrorists than find a husband?”

“I think I missed that one.” Mercifully, she stopped as the waitress delivered our salads. They looked good, but I was rapidly losing my appetite. Now I remembered why I had not gone out to dinner with my mother for several weeks. Why did I always think it would be different?

“Look Mom, someday, when the time comes, I’ll meet the right guy. And my job means a lot to me, a lot more than selling clothes would.”

She rested her fork on her plate and looked wounded. “Now you’re putting down how I earn an honest living. It raised you and put you through school.” She fumbled for a handkerchief in her neat little purse with the designer’s name on it, and appeared on the verge of tears.

I got scholarships and worked my way through school, but I didn’t want to mention that and spoil a good meal. I tried to remember how our conversation had taken this turn, to figure out how this always seemed to happen to us, despite my best intentions.

“You don’t just wait for a man to come along,” she said. “You don’t wait for your ship to come in. You have to swim out to meet it. But you don’t make any effort. Instead, you’re too busy with other things, like this story. What you are doing,” she accused, jabbing her cigarette in her best Bette Davis imitation, “is pushing your luck and making strangers hate you. You have no idea how dangerous some people can be. You persist in taking risks, taking chances, with no regard for me.”

I never should have told her about my friends on the bomb squad, and that bad night when we nearly got blown up. My first inkling of trouble was when I saw the experts summoned to dismantle the device running for their lives. What would have been my last thought, had the thing actually exploded, was how furious my editor would be when I failed to come back with the story.

“How are you ever going to meet a decent man like this?” she demanded. “Why must you throw your life away? Yours is just beginning. Mine is ending.

“What do you mean?” I felt a stab of fear. “Is anything wrong? Is there something I should know?”