Carl Hiaasen (46 page)

Gloomily JoLayne thoughr: If only the lottery paid the jackpots in one lump sum, I could afford to buy Simmons Wood
outright. I could match Squires dollar for dollar until the sweat trickled down his pink midwestern cheeks.

“Excuse me, Clara, may I—”

“Three point seven!” Bernard Squires piped, from reflex.

“—borrow your phone?”

Clara Markham pretended not to have heard Squires. As she slid the telephone toward JoLayne, it rang. Clara simultaneously lifted the receiver and twirled her chair, so she could not be seen. Her voice dropped to a murmur.

JoLayne snuck a glance at Bernard Squires, who was flicking invisible dust off his briefcase. They both looked up inquisitively when they heard Clara Markham say: “No problem. Send him in.”

She hung up and swiveled to face them. “I’m afraid this is rather important,” she said.

Bernard Squires frowned. “Not another bidder?”

“Oh my, no.” The real estate agent chuckled.

When the door opened, she waved the visitor inside—a strong-looking black man wearing round glasses and a business suit tailored even more exquisitely than Squires’ own.

“Oh Lord,” said JoLayne Lucks. “I should’ve known.”

Moffitt pecked her on the crown of her cap. “Nice to see you, Jo.” Then, affably, to Squires: “Don’t get up.”

“Who’re you?”

Moffitt flipped out his badge. Bernard’s reaction, Clara Markham would tell her colleagues later, was so priceless that it was almost worth losing the extra commission.

When he hadn’t heard from JoLayne, Moffitt had driven to Grange, jimmied the back door of her house and (during a neat but thorough search) listened to the voice messages on her answering machine. That’s how he’d come across Clara Markham,
a woman who (unlike some Florida real estate salespersons) wholeheartedly believed in cooperating with law enforcement authorities. Clara had informed Moffitt of JoLayne’s interest in Simmons Wood and brought him up to speed on the negotiations. Something ticked in the agent’s memory when he learned the competing buyer was the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. Moffitt had spent the early part of the morning talking to the people in his business who talked to the computers. They were exceptionally helpful.

Clara Markham invited him to sit. Moffitt declined. His hovering made Bernard Squires anxious, which was for Moffitt’s purpose a desirable thing.

Squires examined the agent’s identification. He said: “Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? I don’t understand.” Then, for added smoothness: “I hope you didn’t come all this way on government business, Mr. Moffitt, because I don’t drink, smoke or carry a gun.”

The agent laughed. “In Florida,” he said, “that puts you in a definite minority.”

Bernard Squires was compelled to laugh, too—brittle and unpersuasive. Already he could feel his undershirt clinging to the small of his back.

Moffitt said, “Do you know a man named Richard Tarbone?”

“I know who he is,” Squires said—the same answer he’d given to three separate grand juries.

“Do you know him as Richard or ‘Icepick’?”

“I know
of him,”
Squires replied carefully, “as Richard Tarbone. He is a legitimate businessman in the Chicago area.”

“Sure he is,” Moffitt said, “and I’m Little Richard’s love child.”

JoLayne Lucks covered her mouth to keep from exploding. Clara Markham pretended to be reading the fine print of the
union’s purchase offer. When Moffitt asked to speak to Mr. Squires privately, the two women did not object. JoLayne vowed to hunt down some doughnuts.

Once he and Squires were alone in the office, Moffitt said: “You don’t really want to buy this property. Trust me.”

“The pension fund is very interested.”

“The pension fund, as we both know, is a front for the Tarbone family. So cut the crap, Bernie.”

Squires moved his jaws as if he was working on a wad of taffy. He heard the door being locked. The agent was standing behind him now.

“That’s slander, Mr. Moffitt, unless you can prove it—which you cannot.”

He waited for a response: Nothing.

“What’s your interest in this?” Squires pressed. He couldn’t understand why the ATF was snooping around a commercial land deal that had no connection to illegal guns or booze. Gangsters bought and sold real estate in Florida every day. On the infrequent occasions when the government took notice, it was the FBI or Internal Revenue who came calling.

“My interest,” Moffitt said, “is purely personal.”

The agent sat down and scooted even closer to Bernard Squires. “However,” he said, “you should be aware that on May 10, 1993, one Stephen Eugene Tarbone, alias Stevie ‘Boy’ Wonder, was arrested near Gainesville for interstate transportation of illegal silencers, machine-gun parts and unlicensed firearms. These were found in the trunk of a rented Lincoln Mark IV during a routine traffic stop. Stephen Tarbone was the driver. He was accompanied by a convicted prostitute and another outstanding public citizen named Charles ‘The Gerbil’ Hindeman. The fact that Stephen’s conviction was overturned on appeal in no way diminishes my interest in the current firearms trafficking
activities of the young man, or of his father, Richard. So officially
that
is my jurisdiction, in case I need one. You with me?”

A metallic taste bubbled to Squires’ throat from places visceral and ripe. Somehow he mustered a stony-eyed demeanor for the ATF man.

“Nothing you’ve said interests me in the least or has any relevant bearing on this transaction.”

Moffitt jovially cupped his hands and clapped them once, loudly. Squires jumped.

“Transaction? Man, here’s the transaction,” the agent said with a grin. “If you don’t pack up your lizard valise and your cash deposit and go home to Chicago, your friend Richard the Icepick is going to be a frontpage headline in the newspaper:
‘ALLEGED MOB FIGURE TIED TO LOCAL MALL DEAL.’
I’m not a writer, Mr. Squires, but you get the gist. The article will be real thorough regarding Mr. Tarbone and his family enterprises, and also his connection to your union. In fact, I’ll bet Mr. Tarbone will be amazed at the accuracy of the information in the story. That’s because I intend to leak it myself.”

Bernard Squires struggled to remain cool and disdainful. “Bluffing is a waste of time,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more.” From a breast pocket Moffitt took a business card, which he gave to Squires. “That’s the reporter who’ll be doing the story. He’ll probably be calling you in a few days.”

Squires’ hand was trembling, so he slapped the card flat on the table. It read:

“A real prick,” Moffitt added. “You’ll like him.”

Bernard Squires picked up the reporter’s card and tore it in
half. The gesture was meant to be contemptuous, but the ATF agent seemed vastly entertained.

“So Mr. Tarbone doesn’t mind reading about himself in the press? That’s good. Guy like him needs a thick hide.” Moffitt rose. “But you might want to warn him, Bernie, about Grange.”

“What about it?”

“Very conservative little place. Folks here seem pretty serious about their religion. Everywhere you go there’s a shrine to one holy thing or another—haven’t you noticed?”

Dismally Squires thought of the gimp with the bloody holes in his hands and the weird couple chanting among the turtles.

“People around here,” Moffitt went on, “they do not like sin. Not one damn bit. Which means they won’t be too wild about gangsters, Bernie. Gangsters from Chicago or anyplace else. When this story breaks in the paper, don’t expect a big ticker-tape parade for your man Richard the Icepick. Just like you shouldn’t expect the Grange town fathers to do backflips for your building permits and sewer rights and so forth. You follow what I’m saying?”

Bernard Squires held himself erect by pinching the chairback with both elbows. He sensed the agent shifting here and there behind him, then he heard the doorknob turn.

“Any questions?” came Moffitt’s voice.

“No questions.”

“Excellent. I’ll go find the ladies. It’s been nice chatting with you, Bernie.”

“Drop dead,” said Squires.

He heard the door open, and Moffitt’s laughter trailing down the hall.

Without rising, Demencio said: “You’re early. Where’s the lucky lady?”

“She’s got an appointment,” said Tom Krome.

“You bring the money?”

“Sure did.”

Trish invited him inside. It was a peculiar scene at the kitchen counter: she and her husband in yellow latex gloves, scrubbing the shells of JoLayne’s baby turtles.

Krome picked up one of the cooters, upon which a bearded face had been painted.

“Don’t ask,” Demencio said.

“Who’s it supposed to be?”

“One of the apostles, maybe a saint. Don’t really matter.” Demencio was despondently buffing a tiny carapace to perfection.

Trish added: “The paint comes right off with Windex and water. It won’t hurt ’em.”

Tom Krome carefully placed the cooter in the tank with the others. “Need some help?”

Trish said no, thanks, they were almost done. She remarked upon how attached they’d become to the little buggers. “They’ll eat right out of your fingers.”

“Is that right.”

“Lettuce and even raw hamburger.”

“What my wife’s trying to say,” Demencio cut in, “is we’d like to make JoLayne an offer. We’d appreciate the opportunity.”

“To do what?”

“Buy ’em. All forty-five,” he said. “How’s two grand for the bunch?”

The man wasn’t joking. He wanted to own the turtles.

Trish chirped: “They’ll have a good home here, Mr. Krome.”

“I’m sure they would. But I can’t sell them, I’m sorry. JoLayne has her heart set.”

The couple plainly were disappointed. Krome took out his billfold. “It wouldn’t be hard to catch your own. The lakes are full of ’em.”

Demencio said, “Yeah, yeah.” He finished cleaning the last turtle and stepped to the sink to wash up. “I told you,” he muttered to his wife.

Tom Krome paid the baby-sitting fee with hundred-dollar bills. Demencio took the money without counting it; Trish’s job.

“How about some coffee cake?” she offered.

Krome said sure. He figured JoLayne would be tied up at the real estate office for a while. Also, he felt the need to act friendly after squelching the couple’s cooter enterprise.

To give Demencio a boost, he said: “I like what you did with the Madonna. Those red tears.”

“Yeah? You think it looks real?”

“One-hundred-proof jugular.”

“Food coloring,” Trish confided. She set two slices of walnut cinnamon coffee cake in front of Krome. “It took a day or so for us to get the mixture just right,” she added, “but we did it. Nobody else in Florida’s got one that cries blood.
Perfumed
blood! You want butter or margarine?”

“Butter’s fine.”

Demencio said the morning’s first busload of Christian pilgrims was due soon. “From South Carolina—we’re talkin’ hell-fire and brimstone, a damn tough crowd,” he mused. “If
they
go for it, we’ll know it’s good.”

“Oh, it’s good,” Trish said, loyally.

As Krome buttered the coffee cake, Demencio asked: “You see the papers: They said you was dead. Burned up in a house.”

“So I heard. It was news to me.”

“What was that all about? How does somethin’ screwy like that happen?” He sounded suspicious.

Tom Krome said, “It was another man who died. A case of mistaken identity.”

Trish was intrigued. “Just like in the movies!”

“Yep.” Krome ate quickly.

Demencio made a skeptical remark about the bruise on Krome’s cheek—Bodean Gazzer’s last earthly footprint. Trish said it must hurt like the dickens.

“Fell off a boat. No big deal,” Krome said, rising. “Thanks for the breakfast. I’d better run—JoLayne’s waiting on her cooters.”

“Don’t you wanna count ’em?”

Of course, Krome already had. “Naw, I trust you,” he said to Demencio.

He grabbed the corners of the big aquarium and hoisted it. Trish held the front door open. Krome didn’t make it to the first step before he heard the cry, quavering and subhuman; the sound of distilled suffering, something from a torture pit.

Krome froze in the doorway.

Trish, staring past him: “Uh-oh. I thought he was asleep.”

A slender figure in white moved across the living room toward them. Demencio swiftly intervened, prodding it backward with a long-handled tuna gaff.

“Nyyahh froohhmmmm! Hoodey nyyahh!”
the frail figure yo-deled.

Demencio said, sternly: “That’ll be enough from you.”

Incredulous, Tom Krome edged back into the house. “Sinclair?”

The prospect of losing the cooters had put him into a tailspin. Trish had prepared hot tea and led him to the spare bedroom, so he wouldn’t see them swabbing the holy faces off the turtle shells. That (she’d warned Demencio) might send the poor guy off the deep end.

To make sure Sinclair slept, she’d spiked his chamomile with a buffalo-sized dose of NyQuil. It wasn’t enough. He shuffled groggily into the living room at the worst possible moment, just as the baby cooters were being carried away. Sinclair’s initial advance
was repelled by Demencio and the rounded side of the gaff. A second lunge aborted when the crusty bedsheet in which Sinclair had cloaked himself became snagged on Demencio’s golf bag. The turtle fondler was slammed hard to the floor, where he thrashed about until the others subdued him. They lifted him to Demencio’s La-Z-Boy and adjusted it to the fully reclined position.

When Sinclair’s eyes fluttered open, he blurted at the face he saw: “But you’re dead!”

“Not really,” Tom Krome said.

“It’s a blessed miracle!”

“Actually, the newspaper just screwed up.”

“Praise God!”

“They should’ve waited on the DNA,” said Krome, unaware of his editor’s recent spiritual conversion.

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!” Sinclair, crooning and swaying.

Krome said: “Excuse me, but have you gone insane?”

Demencio and his wife pulled him aside and explained what had happened; how Sinclair had come to Grange searching for Tom and had become enraptured by the apostolic cooters.