American Tropic (13 page)

“Bizango? Who is Bizango?”

“A skeleton who rises from the dead. A zombie executioner.
He is the great corrector between right and wrong, between good and evil. He is the ultimate judge. Bizango kills evil people.”

“You’re telling me a zombie skeleton rose from the dead and killed Pat?”

Rimbaud stares fearfully and nods his head in an emphatic yes.

Noah turns off the micro-recorder. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. He caps the bottle and slips it back into his pocket. He fixes Rimbaud with a solemn gaze. “I know you’re innocent, kid, but if the only defense you have is that you saw a zombie kill Pat, then you’ll be convicted for murder.”

A
cloaked judge stares down from her elevated podium at the defendant’s table below, where Noah sits between Rimbaud and a young public defender. Behind the table stands a uniformed bailiff with a holstered .45 strapped to his waist. From the back row of benches, Luz leans forward intently, watching the proceedings in the crowded courtroom.

The judge dips her glasses low on her nose and glowers at Noah. “Because of your past inappropriate antics in a Florida court, you have been disbarred from practicing law in this state. What are you doing in my courtroom?”

The public defender quickly rises and answers in a nervous voice: “Your Honor, may I clarify that Noah Sax is
not here as legal representation for the defendant. I am the defendant’s counsel. I respectfully would like to make a motion to the court that—”

The judge cuts the young defender off. “These proceedings will not continue with Mr. Sax present.” She nods to the bailiff. “Escort Mr. Sax from my courtroom.”

The armed bailiff steps to Noah and pulls him up by the arm from his chair. Noah shakes free from the bailiff and faces the judge. “I’m not here as an attorney. I’m here as the defendant’s interpreter. The defendant has a right to an interpreter of his—”

The judge jabs her finger at Noah. “It’s at the court’s discretion to appoint the interpreter. I certainly did not appoint you.”

“But under Florida law the defendant has a right to an interpreter of his own choosing. It specifically sets forth in State Statute Number—”

“Mr. Sax, don’t push your luck. If you’re out of order here today, I’ll jail you for contempt.”

“Count on me, Your Honor, I’ll be a model citizen.”

“No wisecracks. I won’t tolerate it. If it were possible to disbar you twice, I would.”

Noah sits back down between Rimbaud and the defense attorney.

The judge bangs her gavel. “This hearing is postponed until the autopsy of the deceased victim, Pat Judy Benson, is complete. The defendant, Rimbaud Mesrine, is to be held without bail.”

Noah jumps up. “That’s not fair. If it please the court, I would like to—”

“No, it does not please this court. Nothing you do will ever please this court. Be seated.”

Noah stays on his feet. “I just wanted to say that I have information from the defendant regarding—”

The judge glares. “No more warnings, Mr. Sax. I’m locking you up right now if you don’t shut up.”

The defense attorney rises quickly. “Your Honor, if it please the court, may I—”

“Counsel, I already told Mr. Sax, this court is not pleased!”

The judge bangs her gavel. “Court adjourned!”

B
eneath the sway of palm trees the cemetery is a crowded maze of granite gravestones and cement-plastered tombs bleached by the sun to an otherworldly bone-white. Family plots are decorated with reposing stone lambs, winged angels in alabaster, and limestone Christian crosses. Tall white-feathered ibises stalk ghostlike on spindly legs across the sparse grassy turf. The birds’ long curved bills are held ready as they stare down to peck a scuttling brown roach or squirming grub. On top of a twenty-foot marble obelisk, a red-shouldered hawk is perched, alert for rodent prey among the bouquets of faded plastic flowers scattered in the weeds of unkempt graves. The hawk swivels its head and stares down from its lofty perch at Luz below, as she follows a meandering pathway through the city of the dead. Luz pushes Nina in her wheelchair; Chicken trots alongside. Luz stops and looks up at the hawk on the point of
the obelisk. The hawk stares back with amber eyes and screeches a high-pitched whistle.

Nina’s thin fingers nervously fidget with the stems of the fresh bouquet of white lilies held in her lap. She gazes at the hawk and winces. “It won’t hurt us, will it, Mom?”

“Not unless you’re a mouse, honey. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, with no hair on my head, my ears look really, really big. Maybe the hawk will think I’m Minnie Mouse.”

Luz smiles at Nina’s lightheartedness. The hawk whistles shrilly again. It spreads its wings and wheels off the granite point, soaring from sight into the blur of sun-bleached sky.

Luz continues pushing Nina down a path between rows of old and neglected graves with tilted and crumbling headstones. She stops Nina’s wheelchair at a well-kept site beneath the lacy green spread of a poinciana tree in full bloom with sashes of red flowers. The names carved into the surrounding headstones all read
ZAMORA
. Luz kneels and makes the sign of the cross. Her eyes mist over, and her lips move reverentially in silent prayer. Nina hands Luz the bouquet of lilies. Luz places one lily before each of the Zamora headstones and turns to Nina. “Our family has been on this island for five generations. We’ll be the last Zamoras buried here. After us the cemetery will be full up—no more plots left, even for the grandchildren of Cuban heroes.”

“I know, Mom. You tell me that each time we come here. But I don’t want to think about where I’ll be buried, it’s creepy.”

“Tradition is important. Tradition makes us all part of one another, part of something bigger. I don’t want you to
forget your heritage. There were slaves in Cuba. Zamoras fought against Spain to free Cuba in the 1868 rebellion. That’s the problem today.”

“What do you mean, that’s the problem today?”

“No one is willing to sacrifice. No one is—”

Luz notices Chicken sniffing aggressively, his nose pointed at a gnarly blob of a toad with bulging eyes and a milky substance foaming from its fat, warty lips. The toad squats in the grass next to a Zamora grave. Chicken stiffens, prepared to attack. Luz grabs the dog by the collar and pulls him back. “That’s a Bufo toad. He’s poisonous. One bite of him and you’re dead.”

Chicken barks, but not at the toad. He sees a dark figure outlined by the sun’s glare approaching through the gravestones. Chicken growls as the figure comes closer. It is Moxel. He stops in front of Luz, panting from the heat, the armpits of his blue uniform dampened by sweat rings. His words rush out hoarse from his dry throat. “I was just at your house. Joan told me you’d be here. The Chief wants you in his office.” Moxel glances down at Nina. “How you doing, little girl? Your mom should know better than to bring someone in your condition out in this hundred-degree heat. This sun will turn your skin blacker than charcoal.”

The toad next to a grave in the grass springs up and takes two lunging hops toward Moxel. He squints in the glaring sunlight at the toad. “What’s that ugly-ass frog?”

Luz keeps her hand tight on Chicken’s collar as the dog strains to get at the toad. “Poisonous. Don’t touch it.”

“Poisonous, no shit.” Moxel unsnaps his side holster, yanks out his revolver, and shoots, blasting the toad. Toad fragments spew into the air and splatter across the carved
name
ZAMORA
on a headstone. Nina screams and cringes in her wheelchair. Moxel shoves his gun back into its holster and grins. “I hope I didn’t blow away an endangered species.”

Luz spins Nina’s wheelchair around so Nina can’t see her whip her Magnum from its holster. She jams the pistol’s barrel into the side of Moxel’s head. “You are an endangered species.”

I
nside the Police Chief’s office, the Chief and Moxel stop their animated conversation as Luz enters. Moxel’s face reddens as he blurts at Luz: “You pulled a gun on me for shooting a frog! What the fuck is that? I’m the one who saved your ass in the bat tower. If I hadn’t climbed up that ladder and risked my life to help you, you would have fallen to your death.” Moxel swings around to the Chief. “What kind of force is this if she’s allowed to pull a gun on another officer? You should fire her for unfit conduct. You should—”

The Chief cuts Moxel off. “Calm down. I don’t have time for fraternal squabbles.” He turns to Luz and hands her a thick folder of papers. “This forensic report just came in. The Haitian kid’s fingerprints were found all over Pat’s boat.”

Luz takes the thick folder. “I’ll read it. What about Pat’s body? Were Rimbaud’s fingerprints found on her body?”

“No, nothing. Maybe the kid was wearing gloves.”

“Rimbaud told the interpreter he saw Bizango on the boat. Did the lab find any trace of that?”

“Zip, no fingerprints, no hair, no footprints, no nothing. If Bizango was on that boat, he doesn’t just wear gloves, he must be dressed in a glove. Only prints found were from the Haitian and Pat’s boat mate. You got something on the mate?”

“Found him up the Keys at the Pink Grouper strip club in Marathon. Checked out his alibi. Says he was at the club the night of the murder.”

“Witnesses to that?”

“All six of the pole dancers who performed that night. One of them says he shoved a hundred-dollar bill beneath her panties, up her butt hole.”

“Good to know some guys are still gentlemen.”

Luz looks curiously at the report folder. “Anything in here about the hooks puncturing Pat’s lips?”

“Mustad Super Marlin J-hooks. No prints on them, but we hit a different jackpot.” The Chief picks up a black micro–digital recorder from his desk. “A recorder like this was found inside Pat’s mouth.”

Luz eyes the recorder. “Same kind found in Bill Warren’s mouth at the bat tower. There’s a Bizango recording on it?”

“Yeah, but saying something different.”

“Is it in English, like the Bill Warren recording?”

“Of course, why?”

“Because Rimbaud only speaks French. I know this for a fact. He can’t be Bizango if this recording is in English.”

Moxel snorts derisively. “Did you ever think that somebody else recorded it for him? There could be a team of Bizangos operating in Key West.”

Luz moves closer to the Chief. “Maybe we should go public with the recordings. Can’t let this grow cold. We need anything we can get.”

“No, Moxel might be correct. If there are two Bizangos, I don’t want to give the other one the advantage of knowing we are stumped. That’s what he wants—he wants these recordings to be broadcast. Besides, the public is already frightened enough about the murders, they’re all over the news.”

“But somebody in the public might have important information, a lead.”

“There’s another reason to keep a lid on these killings. Eighty thousand big spenders are headed here for the Halloween Fantasy Parade. I won’t be held responsible for destroying the island’s biggest payday of the year.”

“You could be right. Play the recording.”

The Chief turns around to Moxel. “I want only Luz to hear this recording, it’s highly sensitive. Close the door on your way out.”

Moxel doesn’t budge. “Only Luz? Why her? I’m on this investigation too. I’m the one who busted the Haitian.”

Luz looks at Moxel and nods toward the door. “You heard, go.”

Moxel stares defiantly at Luz. “I want to hear the recording. Maybe that Haitian monkey is faking it and he really does speak English. Did you ever think of that, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes?”

The Chief shouts angrily at Moxel. “You’re out of line! Leave!”

Moxel shuffles past Luz, knocking hard against her shoulder. He opens the door, and the sound of its slamming behind him fills the room.

The Chief shrugs and looks apologetically at Luz. “He’s loyal but stupid.”

“You mean he’s stupid but loyal.”

“Anyway, he’s gone.”

The Chief cocks his thumb over the micro-recorder’s play button. “Now you’ll understand why I don’t want this going public. It’s much worse than the recording found in Warren’s mouth.” He presses his thumb down forcefully on the recorder’s play button.

N
oah’s trawler floats in the middle of the ocean, under a sky of high, drifting clouds. He sits in the pilothouse, in front of his jerry-rigged radio broadcast console, listening intensely to an irate caller.

“America is swamped by boat people, illegal refugees, undocumented workers, political-asylum seekers. These people are on the shit end of life’s stick. If we reach out to them, we’ll be covered in their shit.”

Noah answers in a steady voice: “I don’t agree with you. I recently saw a refugee raft from Haiti come in. People on that raft were not covered in shit, they were scorched to death by the sun in their desperate attempt to escape famine, disease, and fear.” He stops talking and picks up the rum bottle sitting on the console table. He takes a swig and continues. “The rickety raft I saw would have had a hard time making it across a hotel pool in Miami, let alone across seven hundred miles of open ocean between
here and Haiti. But you know what, it’s better to swim with sharks in the sea than be eaten by menacing, pathological, corrupt politicians on land. Next caller. You’re on pirate radio.”

“Hey, hot damn, I’m on.”

“The soap box is yours, pilgrim. Go.”

“Stop squawking about dead Haitian illegals when there’s three Americans murdered recently right here in Key West. Talk about something real. Nobody’s safe in Key West.”

“I don’t talk about those murders because they’re plastered all over the newspapers and TV twenty-four/seven. What’s interesting, though, is that the first two murders were Neptune Bay partners but the third victim was a boat captain. No coherent pattern. You’re right, nobody’s safe, but when were we ever really safe? Next caller.”

A deep male voice rumbles. “
Hola
, Truth Dog, this is the Nam vet. Today’s the day I’m goin’ to tell you how it’s all goin’ to end. The Permian Extinction Event in the Gulf!”

The pilothouse of Noah’s trawler suddenly sways hard side to side. The cell phones on his console table slide off and hit the floor. He grips the table’s edge and holds on as the boat rocks. Outside the pilothouse window, a cruise ship steams by; its turbo diesel engines roar, creating a huge wake. The ship’s twenty-story-high bulk blocks the sun, pitching Noah’s pilothouse into darkness. He keeps his hands gripped on the edge of the console.

Sunlight floods back into the pilothouse as the trawler stops rocking. Noah regains his balance. He looks outside and sees the name of the departing cruise ship painted on its white stern,
Titan Reef
.

He rearranges his three fallen cell phones back on the console table and turns them on. The red lights of the phones flash with incoming calls. He reconnects the microphone wire. He slows his heavy breathing to even out his anxiety and speaks calmly into the microphone. “Listeners, you just lost me there. I was almost the hit-and-run victim of a cruise ship, the
Titan Reef
, headed for Key West. I was like a Chihuahua going up against King Kong. Give me a minute while I adjust my speaker volume controls.” He looks around for his rum bottle and sees it on the floor. He picks up the bottle, uncaps it, and takes a long slug. He leans back into the microphone. “The cruise ships always sail too close to the coral reefs. You’ve heard me talk about the
Titan Reef
before. Last year it plowed right through a Caribbean atoll. What took nature millions of years to create was destroyed in one moment. There’s no reason for these ships to wreak environmental catastrophe. The captains know their nautical coordinates. They’re just taking shortcuts to save fuel. The
Titan Reef
captain who buzz-sawed his ship’s massive propellers through that atoll was not fired. His company paid off some government officials. That captain is a criminal who committed willful manslaughter against nature. He should be hauled before a world tribunal, should be made to walk the plank at the sharp end of a sword. Accountability, pilgrims, brings the bastards to justice.”

All the red phone lights flash with calls. Noah punches through one of the lines. A woman’s voice singsongs with exasperation. “Those monster ships shouldn’t be sailing these waters. They weigh more than a hundred thousand tons; they’ve got tennis courts, shopping malls, bowling alleys, movie megaplexes. People aren’t satisfied building
that stuff on land, they’ve got to float it out on the ocean too.”

“Right. Next caller. Show me the rage.”

From the big wooden speakers explodes an eerie, electronically altered voice.

“Truth Dog, you say you broadcast the truth!”

Noah is startled by the weird voice but snaps back: “I say I let people speak their own truth. Who is this? What’s with the audio masquerade? Use your own voice if you’re so interested in truth.”

“I’m challenging you. You keep a photograph of a woman in the drawer beneath your radio console.”

“How did you know that?”

“Open the drawer.”

Noah pulls open the wooden drawer beneath the console. In the drawer is a framed photograph of Zoe. He takes out the photograph. “So you know where I keep a photograph of my wife. When were you on my boat?”

“Turn the photograph over.”

Noah flips the framed photograph over; duct-taped to the back is a CD labeled
LAST KEY DEER MANIFESTO
. “What the hell? Who is this?”

“If you are not afraid of the truth, play the CD.”

Noah rips the CD from the back of the photo frame. “Is this about the endangered Key deer? I’m interested in that.”

“Play it.”

Noah flicks the disc back and forth between his fingers. The round surface glints with reflected blue and orange light. He leans into the microphone. “Listeners, for you who don’t know, the endangered Key deer live only in the Florida Keys. They are small, stand only thirty inches at
their shoulders. The Overseas Highway down from Miami runs right through one of their last refuges in Big Pine Key. A sign in Big Pine updates how many Key deer have been slaughtered by speeding cars on the highway each year. The count on that sign for this year is twenty-nine. That means there are fewer than three hundred surviving deer left. Countdown to Armageddon for those little Bambis. At the rate they’re being killed, they’ll be gone from this earth in a matter of years.”

The electronically altered voice jumps with a shout.

“Play the CD!”

Noah looks again at the shards of colored light sparking off the CD held between his fingers. “I’m asking one last time, does this CD have Key-deer information? Otherwise, I’m not interested. I won’t be tricked.”

“It has the information you want.”

Noah pushes the disc into the CD player on the console and punches the volume up. He grabs his bottle of rum, takes a swallow, leans back in his chair, and listens.

An earsplitting crackling static blasts from the big speakers, filling the pilothouse. Cutting through the static is an altered recorded voice reverberating with a metallic echo as if spiraling up from the depths of a steel underground chamber.

Bizango’s raging voice stops. A loud crackling static hisses from the big speakers.

Noah picks up his microphone and shouts into it: “Hey, you, caller, Bizango or whoever you are! You still out there?” Noah looks at the cell phone that the call came in on. The red light is off, the phone is dead. All the phones are dead. “Bizango, call me! I’m ready to rage right back at you!”