1 Margarita Nights (23 page)

“How ’bout going out to Hog Heaven for some barbecue?” I suggested. “I’m starving.”

He shook his head wildly in denial. “Can’t,” he said, “can’t. It’s all poison.” Letting go of the fence, he backed into the tall grass, his hands pumping up and down as if he held invisible bottles of salad dressing that he was trying to mix. “I got your call about the tape.”

He stopped. “Holy Grail,” his head jerked spasmodically. “Jimmy said put it in a safe place.”

“And did you?”

His face molded into a sly look of amusement like he’d put one over on me.

“Where is it? Where did you hide the tape?” He charged the fence. Grasping the chain-link, he pressed his body towards me and whispered, “Casablanca.”

“Where?”

“Casablanca.”

“The movie?”

He pushed away. The fence vibrated and clanged with the force. “Gotta go, gotta go.”

“Wait,” I yelled. I couldn’t let him go or I might never get another chance. “Do you want to go back to your apartment? I’ll take you there.”

Wild-eyed, he swung to face me. “Can’t.” He rushed back towards me, glaring, with his jaw clenched. “You know that!” he growled.

I felt real fear but as quick as it surfaced I tamped it down, telling myself this strange person was still Andy. “Can’t go back there.” His jaw worked.

“C’mon, let’s go for a drive,” I begged, not ready to give up yet. “Have something to eat.”

He canted his head to one side, listening. He nodded and came to the gap in the fence. He froze. I waited. At last he seemed to feel safe. He ducked through the wire and joined me on the pavement.

I jumped into the truck to unlock his door.

“Where do you want to go?” He didn’t put on his safety belt and I sure as hell wasn’t going to suggest it. I rolled the window down and leaned towards it, trying to keep the smell of him at bay.

As we headed inland to the Florida of cattle ranches and citrus farms, Andy turned on the radio, twirling the dial to stop at the Dixie Chicks. The music fit the landscape.

At first Andy ranted and raved and held long conversations with ghosts, but slowly his frantic motion eased and his conversation with the invisible men grew less strident.

“How come you’re driving Jimmy’s truck?” he asked.

“My piece of junk gave out again. Jimmy’s taken the
Suncoaster
on a little trip. So he let me drive Big Red.”

Near Caloosa we drove through a desolate burnt-off area from last summer’s fires. All that was left of thousands of acres of pines was black poles poking skyward. This time next year it would be green again with saw palmettos. Even some of the pines would miraculously come back to life and once again wild pigs, small, dark and mean—rather like my daddy— would populate the thick and wild palmetto jungles. We passed two men on the side of the road, one of them carrying a three-foot gator by the tail. Andy pointed to them and said, “They’ve got dinner.”

We bumped down a gravel road to a gritty barbecue place called the Firepit on the Myakka River, where we sat outside at a weathered picnic table under a live oak bearded with Spanish moss and ate burgers and fries. Andy was calm.

“There’s a path along the water.” I gathered up the debris of our meal and added, “Let’s go for a little walk.” He followed me without replying.

At the beginning of the narrow meandering path, a pair of otters chased and dived in the dark brown water around the gnarled roots of a Cypress tree, slipping away in the water at our approach. We walked down the twisting dirt path in single file as it followed the edge of the river. A heron lifted off and flew low over the water in front of us.

I walked in front of Andy, head down, weighing my options. I wasn’t kidding myself that I was just thinking of Andy. I needed Andy, needed him lucid. He was all that stood between me and a murder charge. My chances of finding the tape without him were just about nil, and without the video I had no other evidence that the
Suncoaster
explosion was anything but me saving money on a divorce lawyer. Also, the fact was, if anyone could figure out where Jimmy was it was Andy. If Jimmy was going to get in touch with anyone, it was Andy.

Let’s face it, the only thing standing between me and the electric chair was Andy. I needed him out of Lalaland. I needed drugs, lots and lots of drugs.

I was vaguely aware of the quietness. Even the country rock spilling out of the Firepit had faded, but I was too deep in thought to realize I’d wandered into danger.

We rounded a curve in the path, hidden from the world. Andy reached out and grabbed me.

“Please,” I begged. My hands went up to clutch at his forearm across my neck. I was going to die. “No, please, no.”

He held me tight to him. I let my body sag, turning my head and tucking my chin into my shoulder while pulling down on his forearm, hoping I could slip out from beneath his hold.

Andy’s other hand grasped my left arm, his nails digging in. “Watch,” he whispered. He let go of me and pointed past us. My eyes followed to where a large gator, sunning on the bank of the river, blocked our way. I sagged back against Andy.

“Shit.” My heart was going like a jackhammer. “Thanks,” I breathed and whimpered. “Let’s turn back.”

Shame washed over me. I was angry with myself that like everyone else I’d seen his difference as dangerous. I couldn’t believe I’d doubted him and swore to myself I never would again. But the truth, hiding down deep in my gut, was far different from what I was telling myself. I was afraid of Andy, afraid of what he might do to me in his delusional state.

It was the old “Be careful what you wish for.” I’d found Andy but what did I do now? I needed help to get Andy sane. The men’s room was on the outside of the restaurant, around the back near the kitchens. While Andy went there, I headed for the payphone out on the screened veranda overlooking the river. I called the Crowns and told Mr. Crown about Andy’s condition.

“Our son is no longer our responsibility,” Mr. Crown informed me in a cool professional voice, probably the one he used to tell people their life savings had just been wiped out by a correction in the market. “We’ve done everything we can for him. My advice to you is to drop him off at the nearest hospital.”

Andy came out the screen door of the restaurant to stare at me. I gave him a little wave. He smiled and ambled over to a rough-plank table on the opposite side of the veranda. He plonked himself down and stared out the screen to the river. Around him a dozen bikers were sitting on top of picnic tables, their boots on the seats, laughing and drinking beer. Andy ignored them, but the bikers kept a wary eye on him.

“What about his doctor?”

“Dr. Steadman can’t do anything if Andrew doesn’t want help and it’s been our experience that Andrew never wants to do things the easy way.”

“Can you just give me Steadman’s number?”

He did so reluctantly.

“I could really use some advice here,” I told him.

“I’ve already given it. Drop him off at the hospital.” The line went dead. Just like that. No goodbye . . . no nothing.

I slammed the receiver back into the cradle and snarled, “Asshole.” A biker, overweight and nasty-looking, stopped in his tracks and gave me a startled look.

“Not you,” I told him, flipping through the yellow pages of the telephone book. “I was talking to another asshole.”

“Jacaranda Hospital no longer has any psychiatric beds,” the person at the other end of the line informed me. “We converted them all over to orthopedics. Take your friend up to the hospital in Sarasota.” I called Peter.

“Do you have any motel rooms that go empty at night?” He made growling sounds in his throat, the aging playboy still on the prowl.

“Not for me, you fool. I’ve got a friend who’s in trouble.”

“All of your friends are in trouble.”

“This one is the best of show. A little psychotic: a little dangerous. I’m worried about taking him home. There’s a newspaper on the bar with the story of Jimmy’s death and white lilies with a sympathy card. Hearing about Jimmy is going to send him over the edge into Never-Never Land. Hell, I’m not sure he hasn’t already passed the edge.” I pressed my forehead against the rough paneling. A small throbbing headache was eating its way through my head. “I don’t want to take him home.” It was a confession of fear and inadequacy.

“God, don’t take him to your place.” The alarm in Peter’s voice warmed me but his concern only lasted a second and then he went right back to being the same old on-the-make guy. “Tell you what—if there’s an empty room tonight, it’s yours. If there isn’t, you dump him at your apartment and come and spend the night at my place.” I laughed out loud. “You never stop, do you?” “When I stop trying with you, you’ll know I’m dead. Please call the mortuary.”

“Andy’s in pretty rough shape. I hope he doesn’t scare the rest of your clientele.”

“They’re all in rough shape. He’ll fit right in.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

“For you, anything.”

“Do you want to sleep on my couch tonight? I’ll whip up a big pot of spaghetti and pick up a cherry cheesecake.”

“No.” Just the thought of it was enough to get him agitated. “They’ll be watching there.”

“It’s my cooking, isn’t it? You can be honest with me, most people refuse dinner invitations.”

No answer.

“Tell you what. A friend of mine owns a motel. I know he’ll let you stay in an empty room for a few days.”

Andy tilted his head to the left, listening to a conversation only he could hear. “Good, good,” he said, bouncing his knees up and down nearly to his chin with excitement. “They won’t expect that. Let’s go.”

At least it was a temporary solution—time to figure out where the tape was.

The three high-kicking dolls on the neon red sign of the Kit Kat Klub were left over from another era. As a little girl in the backseat of whatever clapped-out vehicle my mother was driving at the time, coming down from my grandmother’s in Sarasota, the three Bettys were the signal that we were almost home. I pulled into the shared parking lot with the Pelican Motel next door, praying Peter had told his staff to expect us. “Do you want to wait in the truck while I get the key?” Andy nodded rapidly, staring out the side window and never once looking my way.

Would he be in the truck when I got back? I took the ignition key with me.

Everything about the desk clerk was thin—thin hair, thin body and thin cigarette-stained teeth with gaps in between them. I told him that Mr. Bryant had left a room key for me. He leered and licked thin lips. I didn’t want to know what he was thinking but maybe I was just getting as paranoid as Andy. Or maybe Peter had a naughty habit that I didn’t know about.

The room had last been decorated about the year I was born and, from the smell, that was also the last time anyone opened a window, but Andy was pleased.

“Good,” said Andy looking around with satisfaction.

“Good.” He turned on the TV and settled down in front of a rerun of
Friends
.

“Andy.” It took a moment for his eyes to focus on me. “Do something for me.”

“What?”

“Take a shower. You’re really developing a nasty pong.” He went back to the TV. But when the program ended he got up and went into the bathroom closing the door behind him.