Spiral (20 page)

”No.” Now a vertical shake from the head on the pillow. ”No, Veronica intuited that I would not be of much use to her if she told me... disturbing things.” A pause, and the lips parted in a slight, but genuine, smile. ”Which is not to say that she did not help me, John. Truly. With all my father has spent on formal ‘treatments,’ the allowance money that went toward those computer games probably brought me more joy than anything else. And that was because of Veronica.”

Since Helides brought up the ”treatments” issue, I decided to push it a little. ”Dr. Forbes said you’d had electroshock therapy?”

A visible cringe, the whole body drawing more tightly into the fetal position. ”Yes.... But even if I... wanted to talk with you about them, I could not. My... short-term memory before the... ‘sessions’ was wiped out by the current applied.”

Move to safer ground. ”Dr. Forbes also said you take some drugs now.”

The slight smile again as Helides relaxed a bit. ”I have no remaining pride on that subject, either. The Zoloft renders me impotent, and I must not mix it with alcohol or other substances.”

”So you don’t.”

”No.”

”Not even at your father’s birthday party.”

Another cringe and tightening of the body language. ”Let us not... avoid anymore. Get it over with, please?” Okay. ”What can you tell me about that day?”

”It was very... disrupting. Many people in the house, my brother’s friends, others. Dr. Forbes tried to keep me... at ease, but it was not possible.”

”I’ve seen Kalil Biggs’s videotape.”

”Another... disruption.”

”His doing the taping, David?”

”The noise, the unusual... movements. His lens... following me wherever I went.”

I didn’t recall Helides being on the tape, but then, perception is uniquely personal. ”You were there when Veronica sang to your father?”

The worst cringe of all, the body on the bed seeming to spasm painfully. ”It was... horrible.”

”You didn’t anticipate it, then.”

”No. Oh, when we played some of the computer games, Veronica would make some... remarks I assume she heard from my brother or his friends.” A pause. ”Sexually charged remarks. But to act out like that in front of her grandfather....”

”David, what did you do after Veronica ran from the room?”

”I... ran, too.”

”Where?”

”Into the corridor, toward my suite here.”

And the pool. ”Did anyone see you?”

The smile again. ”John, surely you asked Dr. Forbes that question?”

”I know what he remembers. How about you?”

”I remember him catching up to me in the corridor, saying something to me. Something... soothing, probably.”

”Then what?”

”I came back here.”

”Did you see Veronica?”

”Not after she left the room. I could... hear my brother though.”

”Hear him?”

”Veronica was behind me, running in the other direction at that moment. My brother was... yelling after her.”

”What was he saying?”

”Foul, foul language.”

”As best you can recall it?”

Helides braced himself. ”My brother said, ‘You little cunt, you’ve cut our fucking throats.’”

The room seemed awfully still. ”Do you remember anything else?”

”No. I came back here, as I told you already. I closed the door to... cushion the fall from hearing Veronica do what she did.”

”The song, you mean?”

”The song,” said Helides.

”Did you hear anything from the pool area?”

The vertical shake again. ”No, the... soundproofing in this house is quite good. Once that suite door is closed, nothing comes through.”

”So you never saw Veronica again, either?”

”No. Duy Tranh came to me later, so I wouldn’t stumble out into…"

His body quivered and drew itself more tightly.

”David, do you remember anything else?”

”Yes.” The eyes fluttered open. ”Yes, I do.”

”What?”

His eyes stared at the wall opposite the bed. ”I remember that in a family rather... short on love, Veronica gave me her version of it. A love I’d never felt, not even from my own… mother. It may have been bartered rather than freely… offered, but Veronica’s was love nonetheless to me.” Helides closed his eyes again. ”Do you remember when I talked about the... gumbo-limbo tree earlier?”

”The one the Native Americans used to catch birds?”

”A good listener you are, John. Yes. Well, not all the indigenous flora is quite so... benign.”

”What do you mean?”

”There is also the poisonwood, which grows as a tree but functions as poison ivy does up north. And the Christmas berry, which is a member of what you might know as the ‘nightshade family,’ with lovely five-petaled white or lilac flowers but also deadly fruit.”

Again, the voice got progressively stronger as Helides spoke about things botanical.

”But John, the one species I’d like to find is a manchineel. The local agricultural authorities tried to stamp them out, and I’ve never seen one, not even at Flamingo Gardens in Davie, though the books say it still grows in the wild. And, like the Christmas berry, it produces a deadly fruit the size of a crab apple. But better than that is its sap.”

”Sticky, too?”

”No. No, the sap of the manchineel is supposed to ooze out of its trunk and branches and even leaves. And it is so caustic, those Caloosa Indians used the tree to interrogate their captives.”

”Interrogate them?”

”Yes. The prisoner would be lashed to the tree with strong vines, and the sap would run onto his skin, burning the flesh off the captive’s bone until the Caloosas were told the truth.”

Jesus Christ.

Helides opened his eyes again, but this time they rolled around in their sockets. ”That is what I would do, John, if I could find a manchineel. I’d tie the one who killed Veronica to it until he told me why, why he had to take her like that.”

”David-”

”And then, after he finally told me the truth, I’d leave him there. To be... melted slowly by liquid fire as he yearned for even a drop of the pool water he used to kill Veronica.”

Standing up, I told David Helides that I hoped he’d have better dreams than I would.

Driving back to my hotel, I was stopped at a red light when the cell phone made a deedling sound. I picked it up and looked for a
receive
button near the
send
one. Not seeing any, I pushed
send
just as a green arrow in the traffic signal told me I could make my left-hand turn.

”Hello?”

”John, Justo here. Did you not get my message?”

”Where?”

”At your hotel. I tried you there three times today.”

”Justo, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you use this cell number?”

”I did that also.”

Which he could have, since I hadn’t been carrying the phone on me. ”What’s up?”

A pause, then, ”I grow weary, as I try to balance the demands of a law practice with my concerns about a certain client.”

Cryptic. ”Meaning, that since cellulars are insecure radios, you’d like me to call you back on a land-line?”

”Yes, as to security, but no as to calling me back. I just wanted to know if you have had any success with that client’s matter, since I am to drive up there tonight to see him.”

”Not much. And I’m pretty beat, too. Try me at the hotel later if you need me.”

”More likely tomorrow, John.”

I left my car in the hotel garage and walked through a lushly landscaped pool area to the lobby entrance. The desk clerk—who wasn’t my ”ally,” Damon—told me I could access their voice mail system from any phone. When I held up the cell unit, she nodded and gave me the number to call and the code to enter.

In my room, I saw the red dome light flashing on top of the telephone next to the bed. After showering, I plumped up two pillows and dialed for my calls. In between the three expected messages from Justo Vega were one each from Mitch Eisen, Spiral’s manager, and Malinda Dujong, Jeanette Held’s ”spiritual advisor.” Both just said to return theirs, and since Eisen’s had been the earlier, I tried him first.

”Hey, Cuddy, I’m glad you called me back. What’re you doing tonight?”

”Going to bed.”

”What?”

”I’m tired, Mitch.”

”Tired’s one thing, but eight o’clock is the shank of the fucking evening. You eat yet?”

I had to think about it. ”Not since lunch at Spi Held’s house.”

”Yeah, he called me, said you’d been out there. Well, look, you got to have dinner, right?”

”I suppose.”

”Okay, I’ll pick you up at your hotel in half an hour.”

”Mitch-”

”This first place, it serves great food, and we ought to be timing it about perfect.”

First place. ”Mitch, I’m not really up for a night on the town.”

”Just dress casual, account of it’s more like a seminar for you. Music appreciation, so you understand Spiral better as a band.”

I didn’t answer for a moment, thinking of how discouraging it had been for me to be with David Helides and most of the other people I’d interviewed that day.

”Cuddy?”

”Half an hour, Mitch. I’ll be outside the lobby, downstairs. What are you driving?”

”Don’t worry. You can’t miss it.”

I depressed the connection button, got another dial tone, and called Malinda Dujong’s number. After four rings, an outgoing tape of her voice repeated the seven digits I’d just entered before a ”please leave any message.” I said something like ”John Cuddy, returning your call,” and gave her the hotel number again.

Then I went back to the bathroom to dry my hair before pulling on a short-sleeved shirt and some olive-drab slacks.

”Didn’t I say you couldn’t miss it?”

Changing lanes, Mitch Eisen sent his eyes back to the road. The plugs of his hair transplant stood straight up in the wind.

I said, ”A fifty-eight?”

”Fifty-nine, like they used on
Route 66,
though that show was in black-and-white, so you couldn’t see the colors.”

From the lobby door, I’d watched the orange-and-cream Corvette slew around the circular drive, top down. Mitch Eisen had waved for me to climb into the passenger seat of the two-door sports car.

As we swerved around a delivery truck, I said, ”How long have you had it?”

”Just about a year, so it’s almost time to turn it in.”

”Turn it in?”

”Yeah. I rent them, I don’t buy them.”

I remembered Pepe telling me he could get me a flashier car before I chose the Cavalier. ”That’s cost-effective?”

”Hey, it’s ‘image-effective.’ A producer or promoter sees me drive up in wheels like this, he figures I’m still a player.”

Still
a player. ”I meant more, wouldn’t you be better off buying the car?”

”Oh. Used to, in fact. Had a sixty-five Imperial Gray Ghost, a sixty-nine GTO loaded. But you lease these things, you don’t feel so bad about the ding in the parking lot at the supermarket, you know?” Eisen grinned. ”Of course, I still got to pay the body shop.”

We turned onto Route A1A, which I remembered as the beach road. ”Where’s this place you’re taking me?”

”Just south of Las Olas. Great food, but that’s only the warm-up.”

The parking lot of ”Coconuts” was crowded, but Eisen found a space near some large boats docked on what looked to me like a spur of the Intracoastal. As we walked up to the restaurant, I could see it had an outside deck for drinks and dining. I wondered if Dr. Henry Forbes and I had passed it that day.

Eisen said, ”Outside’s nice for eating, but you can’t hear as well, so we’ll go inside.”

The hostess led us to one of fifteen tables, arranged cabaret style in front of a small, raised stage with three stools on it. Eisen ordered a bottle of Australian shiraz from the wine list. By the time we’d put napkins on our laps and opened the food menus, a waitress was popping the cork. After she dribbled a dollop into Eisen’s glass, he sampled the wine and approved it. We’d just told her our entrees— filet mignon for him, sirloin strip for me—when somebody dimmed the room’s lighting.

I looked around, didn’t see any entertainment just yet. Eisen said, ”They like to draw it out.” He lifted his glass, clinked it against mine. ”Here’s to what you got to do
not
being drawn out.”

As our salads arrived, two guys moved to the end stools on stage, leaving the middle one open. Both wore beards and seemed to be guitarists, though one took a harmonica from his pocket and slapped it against his thigh a few times.

By the time we’d finished the salads, each guitarist had played and sung a couple of easy listening pieces. Occasionally, Eisen would lean over to me and say, ”Remember Seals and Crofts?” or ”Next to last one Jim Croce ever did.” Our entrees arrived, and Eisen refilled the wineglasses. ”Kind of music we been hearing, you’re wondering what the fuck we’re doing here, right?”

I nodded.

He said, ‘Take a look around us.”

I did. It had become a standing-room-only crowd. The people were all ages and races, many dressed expensively. Then a rising buzz of different voices began saying ”Hey” or ”How you doing?” And a tall African-American woman in her twenties with a beautiful face and ginger-colored hair weaved through the well-wishers.

Eisen touched my forearm. ”The franchise.”

As the woman took the stage and the middle stool, one of the guitarists said, ”Give it up y’all for—”

The mounting applause drowned out the name.

Eisen leaned closer. ”L-A-G-A-Y-L-I-A, capital ‘L’ and 'G' pronounced ‘Lah-
Gale
-yuh.’” He leaned back as the woman moved her mouth toward the microphone in front of her. ”Now I’m gonna shut up, Cuddy, but once she starts, don’t forget to eat your food.”

After about two minutes, I knew what Eisen meant. LaGaylia could sing, yes, but the interpretations she put on the composer’s notes and lyrics, the facial expressions and hand gestures—of joy or pain, love or jealousy—were extraordinary. By the end of her set, I’d seen and heard the best female vocalist of my life.

I also realized that Eisen had been right about my meal. ”You want, they can doggy-bag the rest of the steak?” The crowd was still buzzing about LaGaylia as I lost sight of her. ”I can eat it cold.”

”Okay,” said Mitch Eisen, ”But we got two more places I want you to see before we call it a night.”

As we drove down Route 1, I said, ”Why haven’t I ever heard of LaGaylia before?”

‘You mean, she does Alanis, Mariah, even Melissa and a few more, with incredible range and fire, how come she isn’t a superstar herself?”

I didn’t get all his allusions. ”Basically, that’s my question.”

”Okay, Professor Eisen’s opening lesson of the night. The year LaGaylia was twenty-two, there were ninety-nine others her age with just as good a voice, face, and body. The year she was twenty-three, there were a hundred girls twenty-two, coming up behind her.”

”But how can the woman I just saw not be...?”

”Discovered?”

”And appreciated, I suppose.”

”Well, first of all, she is appreciated. LaGaylia’s a hell of a success down here. Packs them in three nights a week at Coconuts alone.”

”Okay.”

”Second, though, and more to your question, there’s got to be that magic of luck. Something special in a song, somebody like me hearing her sing it in a local place like Coconuts, with the right connections to launch her regionally and nationwide.”

”And even you haven’t made that happen for her?”

A glance over at me. ”Cuddy, I don’t represent the lady. I know what I do best, and unfortunately, her sound isn’t it.”

”But Spiral’s is?”

”Let you know later.”

The second place Eisen brought me was decorated in dark woods and brass, elegant yet comfortable. As we took seats at the nearly full bar, he said, ”Kitty Ryan started O’Hara’s on Las Olas about twelve, fifteen years ago. We’re in Hollywood—the name of the town, I mean. Kitty and her partner, Rich, just opened this branch, but once they’re finished, there’ll be a three-hundred-seat venue upstairs, big enough to attract national jazz acts.”

As a bartender named Mary brought us glasses of Merlot, I looked toward the stage. A diverse group of men and women started taking their places by different instruments, including a fiddle.

I said to Eisen, ”Jazz, not Irish?”

”Actually, the Pamala Stanley Band’s not really jazz, even. But despite not having an Irish person in the group— they’re Italian, Greek, Puerto Rican, Jewish—Kitty had them for her St. Patrick’s Day party in Lauderdale last year. You’ll see why in a minute.”

The group began to play, and after five terrific renditions, I hadn’t heard what I’d have called the same category of material twice. Blues to rock to folk to jazz, including some riffs by a woman named Randi on the fiddle that brought down the house.

At the band break, Eisen set his empty glass next to my half-full one. ”You up for another ‘lesson’?”

”Only if it’s on the way home.”

”It is.” He pulled out a tiny cellular phone. ”Lemme just make a call first while you finish your drink, be sure they got the right act there.”

I watched as Mitch Eisen walked out onto a fringe patio that bled into the sidewalk.

”Here, the valet makes sense,” he said, exiting the Corvette at our third stop.

Inside the main entrance, a tuxedoed doorman nodded to Eisen and said, ”Welcome to ‘September’s.” My eyes took some time adjusting to the cavernous space, a huge stage spotlit at a distance of at least a hundred feet, six or eight musicians and singers performing bombastically on it.

Moving toward them, we passed an oval, multitiered bar with female ‘tenders in black Eisenhower jackets and fishnet stockings. The ceiling rose twenty feet, with dark, rough-hewn beams and a jungle of plants trailing leafy vines. A lot of people held lit cigarettes, though, and the air was pretty thick with smoke under the kind of revolving glitter-globe I’ve always associated with
Saturday Night Fever.

Just as we ordered brandies, a slim black man in a double-breasted suit moved to the microphone at center stage, and the room grew quiet, even the people on the stainless steel dance floor stopping to watch.

”He’s why we’re here,” said Eisen into my ear.

The man began to sing, but with just murmurs of accompaniment from a keyboard and guitar. I'd heard the song before but never thought of the tune as a hit.

Until this guy began singing it.

The precision and control he had over his voice and mannerisms was astonishing, his range at the high end enough to shatter crystal. When he finished five or six minutes later, the stage went suddenly dark, and everybody stood and applauded wildly, including waitresses and bartenders who must have heard him in the past.

I turned to Eisen. ”Wow.”

”Johnny Mathis and AI Jarreau, rolled into one.” Recorded music came on, a guy in the raised booth taking over from the live entertainment.

Eisen said, ”You want to ask somebody to dance, go ahead.”

”Not tonight, thanks.”

He nodded before downing the last of his drink. ”We about ready, then?”