Authors: Tom Corcoran
I let her sleep. I finished the glass that she had poured for herself, then sat on the porch and stared at her. I asked myself if she was worth all my trouble and pain. I waited for an answer, but my brain went on strike. I shooed the flies, listened to her snore once in a while, and finished half the bottle.
15
D
EEP IN SIESTA,
I wasn’t fooled. I knew the ringing was on videotape, on another sailboat in the marina. Staniel Key’s only real phone was in a compact building two hundred yards away. The sounds I wanted were shallow harbor waves, tidal slosh on the hull, slapping halyards, gulls, creaks in the rigging, soft nautical tunes from a cassette player on deck. The television intruded, fouled my midday hammock idyll. I couldn’t believe that someone had spent thousands on a yacht to escape to this Bahamas outpost and still need a Betamax. Maybe they would find the irony, pitch it over the side. Sure as hell, and soon, the salty air would melt rubber rollers, corrode play-back heads, pock capstans so that a ringing phone would drag, go vibrato, sound like a water-filled trombone playing taps …
A ringing pulled me from my dream.
I woke alone in the queen-size, in my bedroom on Dredgers Lane. Doves cooed from power lines, dawn light played on high crotons. I went barefoot to the kitchen phone. Grit on the floor reminded me to sweep soon. I felt as if I had slept fewer than twenty minutes.
Sam Wheeler said, “I got it from Marnie that you’d hung in town an extra day. You get me my info?”
Beyond slipping the license tag numbers to Carmen and Bobbi Lewis, I hadn’t tried to track them further. I had been minding my problems, but that was a lame excuse.
“No sweat,” he said. “I’ve got plenty to keep me jumping. But don’t quit the case. I had a run-in yesterday, hell of a coincidence. Our boy Detective Marlow was riding his bike on the strand where Sunrise hits the ocean.”
“A man needs his leisure time.”
Sam said, “You should’ve seen him in his municipal bike helmet. He’s got another officer in tow, and this boy’s all tricked and buffed out. Elbow pads, knee pads, enough radios to monitor the Space Shuttle. He’s probably wired into NATO, filing flight plans for Air Force One. Got arms big around as my legs, but I didn’t call you to bad-mouth steroids.”
I heard the shower out back, checked the porch. Teresa had undressed where she’d slept and piled her clothing on the lounge chair. I said, “If Odin was exercising, where do his Benson & Hedges fit in?”
“They fit in fine. I walked out of this ratty-ass motel—I’ll get to that in a minute—and they’re sitting on their bikes, leaning against a post. Marlow’s fired one up. The other boy’s living clean. He’s checking out babes in wedgie bikinis, ogling the jailbait butt cracks. He’s resting his tongue on the handlebar. They acted surprised to see me.”
“They were waiting for you?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Sam. “The odd thing, after his huffy turf speech in the restaurant, he wasn’t pissed to find me nosing around.”
“He passed the time of day?”
“He spit out questions so fast, he could host an after-dinner quiz show. I was going to ask for prize money.”
“Did you get pushed into hiring a private eye?” I said.
“Marlow made his pitch. I pretended to take the bait, to maybe find out who’s been following me for thirty hours. I mean, let’s make sense, here. Why should I pay some fuckhead to be my shadow?”
“Was that one of those tag numbers?”
“The green Chevy,” he said.
“Did you call Captain Turk?”
“That’s the best part.”
“The ratty-ass motel part?”
“Not what you think. Turk remembered a dude nicknamed Wally Loads. Wally used to run a Midnight Express to the Gulf Stream.”
“Sightseeing cruises?”
“You believe that brand name? As if the boat was never supposed to be used in daylight. Anyway, Wally’s crew did heavy lifting and very little sightseeing. They’d work a bit, up to no good, and make it into the Dania canals in time for breakfast. Wally hung out in Lauderdale bars all day every day. He didn’t sleep much. Who did back then? Turns out Loads did some camp time for Uncle Sam, came back to a halfway house. They turned him into a motel desk clerk here on the beach. I found him in the phone book. You wish every ex-con was Wally Loads. He’s got more class than the damn motel, that’s for sure.”
“Did he help out?”
“Loads watched
The Godfather
once too often. He wanted to play hardnose.”
“Let me guess. You broke him down by talking fish.”
“How else?” said Sam. “I talked Florida Bay, Blackwater Sound, and the Content Keys. We talked baits, and old guides like Stu Apte and Lefty Kreh, Bob Montgomery and Page Brown. He said Montgomery’s in Miami these days, looking good but not fishing much. Anyway, we hashed out legends, then talked newer guides like Cardenas and Becker. After that, he got useful.”
“And?”
“He knew Lorie back then. He danced around the fact he probably had a fling with her. Not that I care, but get this: He recognized another girl in the pictures. He said this other girl’s brother was going around Lauderdale and Pompano about six weeks ago, looking for her. This brother, an Italian man from South Carolina, thought his sister might be dead.”
“Had she been missing…”
Sam said, “Seven years since her family had heard from her. Just so happened this guy stayed at the motel.”
“Another coincidence. Did Loads lead you to him?”
“Right out of a Ross Macdonald novel,” said Sam. “I had to slip him fifty for his help. Anyway, write this down. You ready?”
“Shoot.”
Sam gave me an address and phone number for Barry Marcantonio, in Beaufort, South Carolina.
“Shit,” he said. “I almost forgot about last night. I went to that saloon Goodnight Irene told me about. The place was packed, but some guy named Lorenzo thought I was hot shit. He likes people from the Keys, so he bought all my drinks. I asked Irene a couple favors. She might call you to leave us a message. I’ll hit a few more bars today, then I’m off to Chokoloskee in the morning.”
“You need to be watching your step,” I said.
“I’m watching my ass. I’m all eyes.” He hung up.
* * *
I attacked dot-sized ants that had swarmed my kitchen counter. Life in the tropics, and my cave dwellers had come to call. I poured out the wine I had forgotten to cork, opened windows in the kitchen and living room, and turned on the ceiling fans. Carmen, my alternate conscience, had accused me of multitasking. Not true. I do a lot of things, one at a time, early.
I still heard the shower running. If Teresa was trying to wash away sin, my water bill would bust me. Over the years, every time I had fallen asleep on the porch, I had ached for two days and blamed the lounge cushion, not the alcohol.
I doubted that Dr. Lysak would reveal personal data on Naomi’s health, but I wanted to try. I dialed his office and told the receptionist I didn’t need an appointment. I wanted to chat, and not about my body. She recognized my name and loosened her officious tone. She said that the doctor was having his one-hour workout at the health club on White Street. He would be back to the office at twenty after eight. I checked the wall clock. If Lysak’s hour was seven to eight, I could catch him leaving the gym in fifteen minutes.
I heard the shower go off. Somehow I knew Teresa’s hangover, the flames pouring from her eyeballs, would hurt me worse than her. I wanted to be on Fleming Street before she entered the house. I found a fresh T-shirt, pulled on shoes and shorts, and squashed a ball cap over my sleep hair. I grabbed Naomi’s Kodak Max and my sunglasses, took care not to slam the screen, unlocked my bike, and rolled.
Carmen once told me I had selective communication skills. When I was pissed, my clam-up skills far exceeded my desire to be logical. When I told Carmen I didn’t have time to discuss it, she threw a conch shell at me.
The streets were hectic with island locals going to work, mothers taking kids to school. Real life in the hotbed of tropical hedonism. What a concept. I’ve heard rumors that people even make loan payments and buy household cleaning products. Normal stuff, like up in America.
Duffy Lee came to the door in sweatpants and a Key West Shellfish ball cap. I showed him the Max.
“I’ve seen them,” he said. “You give it to a processor, you get back prints and negatives. The camera goes to the trash, like a Bic lighter. Fifteen years from now, we’ll own disposable cars.”
“That’ll make the island more crowded.”
“What’ll be different?” he said.
I handed him money. “You say ‘processor’ like it won’t be you.”
He winced, looked at the cash in his hand. “I can do it, but it’s not my style. If you ever tell anyone I’ve stooped this low, I’ll ruin your negatives for twelve straight months. Let me ask you something. You wanted prints from your negs, but you made a point of telling me not to print extras from the other rolls.”
“Why would I want another guy’s snaps?”
“You’re always curious about one thing or another.”
“I’ll bite,” I said. “Why should I be this time?”
“Two things. The minor thing, you didn’t see the corpse, right?”
“They hauled him away right as I got there.”
Duffy Lee pulled a five-by-seven from an envelope. He had zoomed into the negative so that only Gomez’s arm showed. “See the suntan line where his watch used to be? I checked an old video I kept after I taped a city commission meeting. Long story, why I taped it. Anyway, Mayor Gomez wore a beauty. I’m no expert, but it looked like an old Rolex. You think he took it off before he dusted himself? Who found him?”
The answer took a moment. “The neighbor,” I said.
“Will he keep it or pawn it?” said Duffy Lee.
“I say keep.”
Duffy Lee shook his head. “Pawn.”
“Ten bucks says keep.”
“Covered. Now, my other concern, but let me say this first. I always take time with prints. I go for perfection in the darkroom. It’s the old-fashioned way I learned all this. I worry about contrast, shadows, and highlights. I never paid attention to content until you started shooting this crime shit. Everything took too long to begin with. Now it’s twice as long. I might have to start charging you double.” He pulled out another print. I could tell by the grain and contrast that he’d had to compensate for overexposure. The view was from above and behind the body. Gomez had fallen on his side. It was an ugly sight.
I said, “Mush, and a bloody shirt.”
He slid the picture back in the envelope, and handed it to me. “Tell me how the shirt got bloody. The blast blew everything away from him, and he fell instantly to that position.”
All I could say was, “Damn. You’re right.”
* * *
White Street smelled of Cuban coffee and Laundromat soap. The Conch Train moved so slowly, I passed it without pedaling hard. Two art gallery owners swept sidewalks near their entrances. The moped rush hour was underway. Puffy clouds drifted eastward.
I caught up with Dr. Lysak as he left the gym, walked toward his Nissan Xterra, keys in hand. His T-shirt dripped sweat, and he still breathed heavily from his workout. He had fine-tuned his body language, his defense and quick getaway for people who approached him for off-the-clock health advice. He recognized my face—probably didn’t recall meeting me—and tugged on the towel around his neck, as if for security. His frost warmed as he studied my Cannondale. It loosened more when I told him I was a friend of the late Naomi Douglas.
“Wonderful woman.” He smoothed out his towel. “Not a strong woman, but her death surprised me.”
“She named me her executor. Aside from drawing up a will, I don’t think she saw the end this soon.”
Lysak waggled his head to one side. “I don’t know about that. You must know that the woman had cancer twice.”
“Yes,” I lied. “But only that much. She wasn’t the type to admit to pain. I wouldn’t have known if it had come back.”
“It was still in remission,” he said. “Thank goodness. She told me she hated painkillers more than disease. They made her feel like she was living her life in a fog. Another thing you may not know, and it does no harm now. It amazes me, every time I think about it. She drank. She hit rock bottom in her mid-forties. She took the pledge, then somehow defined her problem as hard liquor. She let herself have two glasses of wine per day. Alcoholics just plain can’t do that. No matter how smart or strong they think they are. She broke the rule, and she smoked until after she turned fifty.”
“She quit when the cancer hit?” I said.
“Yep. But there were all those years of self-inflicted damage. Are we not supposed to be surprised when her body quits?”
“You have no opinion as to what took her down?”
Lysak resorted to a reserved, pensive expression. The look doctors add to their repertoire in med school. “What we call ‘old age’ usually means a combination of weaknesses,” he said. “With Mrs. Douglas, it probably was multiple organ failure. In physician slang, the ‘domino effect’ of physiology. Given all I know, I’d play hell to pinpoint a specific cause.”
“Does it make sense to think that a body strong enough to quit smoking and curtail drinking, strong enough to whip the Big C twice, was not a body that simply gives up during a bad dream?”
The coldness returned. Lysak tugged his sweat towel with both hands. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Rutledge?”
“A death too soon.”
The chill went icy. Dr. Lysak clicked his remote, and the Xterra’s locks snapped open. “Do you suggest I had some part in her demise?”
“The exact opposite, sir. I don’t think standard medicine, symptoms or cures, had a part in her death.”
Lysak sniffed, focused his eyes on the sidewalk. “You think someone did her in?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t the various agencies have an opinion, here? The Key West Police, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement?”
“The sheriff assigned a detective,” I said. “She starts a week’s vacation today. The city sees no crime at all.”
“The FDLE?”
“A case this small, they wait for cues from the locals.”
“Are you getting carried away with your executor duties?”