It Takes Two (18 page)

“We all like a good time,” Wanda purred, her voice measured and confidential but light. “Do whatever you want. But you might take that policeman friend of yours up to Margo O’Hara’s place in Sarasota. Margo’s a very artistic person. She knows how to toss a salad—mixes up the men and the women so nobody feels uncomfortable. And everything stays under cover, so to speak. I could make a call to introduce you.”

I didn’t want to discuss my sexuality, or Bud’s, with Wanda. “So to speak, right. But you’ve got it wrong. Detective Wright is a friend of mine. We go fishing.”

“Don’t pay any attention to me, then. But I did hear you were seeing somebody. And I thought…” She laughed. “It’s all the same to me, Dan.”

“I’d have to go rent an oyster farm if I was getting as much shack-time as people say. Where’d you hear that one?”

She thought over her answer quickly. My position of economic power—I could keep her out of the hotel if I wanted to—probably made the difference. “Carmen Veranda’s a singer with big lungs. But, you know, people always gossip about their honchos.”

She was right. Emma Mae had made essentially the same observation over breakfast. And hadn’t Bud and I just finished speculating on our own bosses’ secrets?

“You want to gossip,” I said. “Tell me about Hillard Norris. You ever see him?”

Wanda would probably have broken confidence about the dead man if I’d demanded it. But her answer sounded honest enough. “He wasn’t interested in girls like me,” she said. “And I don’t mean that like it might sound.”

“According to what I read in the paper,” I said, “he had a wife, daughter, family business, civic responsibilities, blah, blah, blah. Happiest frog in the pond. He also spent a lot of time in my club last November and December. But he was no big gambler and didn’t drink much. So what was he interested in?”

“He married the boss’s daughter,” Wanda answered. “You know how it goes. They say he had a dark-skinned honey on the side.”

That tallied with what I already knew. “Norris tried to reserve a hotel room for himself and a colored woman last December,” I said. “When we weren’t able to accommodate him, he got nasty. Far as I know, he hasn’t been back since.”

A series of dull clicks suddenly hit my ear. I wondered if the line might be tapped. I was about to ask Wanda if she could hear anything when she laughed. “That’s me,” she said. “I was counting back the weeks to December on my fingers. And I probably shouldn’t repeat this. But they also say that Mr. Hillard and Sheriff Gene Hollipaugh drove over to the East Coast for a couple of days between Christmas and New Years. You did know they were friends?”

When I whistled, Wanda laid out the story she’d heard in the country club locker room. Norris and Hollipaugh had stayed at the luxurious Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. They’d played golf with the sheriff of Palm Beach County, gambled at Bradley’s casino and attended the horse races at Tropical Park.

Wanda’s nails click-clicked the telephone again. “The talk at the club is that our friend Mr. Hillard planned to set up a gaming operation in Lee County. On his own account. With strippers on weekends.” At this point, she dropped her voice. “With Gene Hollipaugh protecting his back.”

“For a share of the take?”

“You didn’t hear it from me. But everybody says things are getting too hot over on the East Coast.”

“Actually,” I said, “we’ve been trying to get up a mixed doubles game.”

“And Bruce Asdeck and Betty Harris sound like the perfect twosome.”

“Thanks, honey. You sure 7:30’s OK? I’ll introduce Miss Harris to the admiral.”

Wanda made kissing noises into the phone. “Till then.”

OK
, I wondered.
Who’s double-crossing who? Would Asdeck sell me out? Did Hollipaugh cut a deal with Asdeck, then look for better terms when the Caloosa take came up short? Or did he merely go for a Palm Beach joyride and then tell Norris, quite literally, no dice? And how would Hollipaugh react if Bud implicated him and the Klan in the killing at the Royal Plaza Motor Lodge?

None of it added up. Willene, the heir of a Klan leader, would hardly have welcomed her husband’s affair with a black woman. In that sense, her shooting spree was understandable. And yet it wasn’t. She might have killed her husband in a fit of rage. But why kill the husband of his honey? And in so public a mixed-race place? But then again, if she wasn’t the killer, why had her jacket been found in the room with the bodies?

Since returning to Florida, I’d read the
News-Press
,
Miami Herald
and
Tampa Tribune
whenever I could get them. I knew that Miami war veteran George Smathers and a band of crusading prosecutors and editors had begun a campaign to drive illegal gambling and strippers out of Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties on the state’s east coast. Assorted sheriffs, mayors and county commissioners—many with ties to both the Klan and the Mafia—were being indicted for protecting casinos, horse race wires, nightclubs and numbers games. Times were changing. And the changes made some people nervous.

Jamie and Barbara Mayson, for example, checked out of the hotel the next morning, four days ahead of schedule. The desk clerk called before breakfast, informing me they’d just rung for the bill. I was ready with a smile and a discreetly folded statement when Barbara stepped off the elevator wearing a linen suit and alligator pumps.

“Danny,” she said. “It’s all been so grand. But Jamie has to see some people over in Miami. This came up out of the blue.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “The Klan’s brand of Southern hospitality isn’t for everybody.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she answered, patting my hand.

“But I do. We have the sheriff ’s office checking into it. What happened is probably all a mistake. You know the white-sheeters didn’t come any closer than the parking lot? You sure you can’t change Jamie’s mind?”

She pulled a gold compact out of her alligator handbag. “Listen, we had a great time. And with all the hospitality you arranged for us—the boat trip, the picnic, the people we met. Well, then, what happy memories we’ll enjoy later, up north in the snow.”

After inspecting her makeup, she added in a sympathetic voice, “Lou can be a lot of fun. No complaints in that department. But can I tell you, just between us, that he gets above himself, puts on airs?” She repaired an invisible flaw in her lipstick. “He’s got to learn how to behave around a higher class of people. He doesn’t like to take orders from a woman. Especially when he’s a little worked up. You know what I mean?”

“He was a torpedo greaser,” I said. “In the Navy. Waiting tables may even be beyond his capabilities. Should I get rid of him?”

She touched her hair, then put her mirror away. “Women probably spoil him a lot. What about you find somebody to give him etiquette lessons? Clean him up.”

I laughed. “You ever tried to train an alley cat?”

A sable eyebrow arched upward. “Every tom can’t be a Persian, can he?” She pursed her lips and threw me a kiss. “I had you figured for a sis, Dan. But you arranged everything perfectly. You’re quite a guy. Sorry you’re not into party games. She must be a lucky girl.”

The usual chill cut through my gut and balls. This time, I ignored it.

“Forget about the nights you and Mr. Mayson reserved,” I said, accentuating my Tampa drawl. “There’ll be no charge. We got empty rooms so it’s no loss. After the disturbance the local yokels put you through, I’m not surprised you’re leaving early.”

She waved away any suggestion of inconvenience. “Too kind,” she answered airily. “But like I said, this is strictly because of Jamie being called away, on account of business.”

“It’s fine.” I smiled. “What else?”

She set her handbag on the counter. “You know,” she said. “I called down for Lou this morning when I was packing. To give him a little something for his time, and for being a good sport and all. He never showed.”

Reaching into the open handbag, she drew out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to me. “Give him this after we’re gone,” she said. “Just so there’s no hard feelings. About us leaving early, I mean.”

I thought:
This is class
. What I said was: “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” I slipped the note into another envelope and wrote Salmi’s name on it.

She signed the bill without reading it. “It’s been swell, Dan,” she said, handing back the fountain pen and the typed sheet. “And you’re doing a swell job.” She reached across the desk and rumpled my hair. “It’s real tough what happened last night. But you’ll get things fixed up. And Jamie and I, we’ll be back next winter.”

Barbara closed the handbag and slung it over her arm. “Half of Jamie’s employees back in Michigan are Negroes. We have different laws up there and that puts a real lid on this kind of bullshit, if you know what I mean. Maybe guards and a night watchman—a little more security? With Lou’s military background, maybe he could help you out?”

We both laughed.

“Security is right at the top of my list,” I said. “Discussed it with the admiral yesterday. Gonna be the rock of Gibraltar next time you stay with us. And Lou will be wearing a collar and a bell.”

By five minutes to two that afternoon, the limestone steps of the First Methodist Church were three-deep in late-arriving mourners. A Cadillac hearse and two limousines were parked out front, flanked by three black-suited undertakers, eight pallbearers and a cigar-chewing
News-Press
photographer.

Hillard Norris was definitely traveling first class.

The pallbearers looked self-conscious and vaguely official, like county commissioners running for reelection. Bowing to ladies and children and occasionally touching the white carnation boutonnieres pinned to their lapels, they greeted other men with handshakes and shoulder-pats. The undertakers muttered to each other without moving their lips. The photographer kept glancing around, clearly waiting for something that hadn’t happened yet.

Two dozen Klansmen, some in robes, others in wash pants and flannel shirts—or whatever else constituted Sunday best—were assembled to the right of the church door. Their womenfolk had been sent inside. The few blacks present, all Norris family employees, I guessed, and all dressed in strict black and white mourning, slipped quickly past the white knights, their eyes searching the ground for nickels.

Bud didn’t like me attending the funeral. “You can’t find anything better to do?” he’d complained the day before. “You some kind of ghoul?”

“If it’s gonna fuck up your investigation real bad,” I had answered, “I can skip it. But you can’t blame a guy for wanting a better look at the bitch who tried to kill him.”

“Don’t sit near me,” he’d replied, scowling. “I’ll be in the back. And I’ll be working.”

Entering the sanctuary, I scanned the crowd. Bud wasn’t there. Ralph Nype, the city-desk reporter for the
News-Press
, was one of the few people I recognized. He was seated about halfway up the center aisle. Back in December, he’d written a feature story on the hotel’s new menus and waitresses. He’d also done the whitewash job for the Hillard Norris obituary.

Nype favored Sears-Roebuck suits, suede shoes and flower-pattern neckties. Today’s shoes were dusty black, the suit a nubby green raw-silk model with not enough shoulder padding. The tie was stormy-weather gray with coconut-brown orchids. Nype had a narrow face, birdcage torso and long stork’s legs. Journalism had clearly not made a man of him.

Firmly ignoring an usher’s peremptory push toward an empty space behind a column, I walked forward, tapped Nype on the shoulder and stepped around his knees. Glancing over the top of his glasses, he made room in the pew and stuck out his right hand.

“Glad to see you,” I whispered, shaking his hand with both of mine. “You working or a friend of the family?”

“Little of both,” he answered, returning the handshake and adding his left hand on top. A gold wedding band gleamed dully. “You know them well too?”

“Just him,” I said. “He was a valued friend of the house. We like to honor our patrons in any way we can.”

Nype cocked an eyebrow but didn’t inquire about the nature of Norris’s business at the Caloosa. His eyes stayed busy, checking off each soul who entered the church.

“What’s this gonna be like?” I inquired as if innocently, wanting to keep the information flowing. “Bell, book and candle? Hellfire and brimstone?”

“The Norrises being Methodists,” he answered, “it could be anything from trumpet solos to a two-hour sermon on free will versus predestination. Give me a good Christian evangelical funeral any time. That’s what we had up Ohio way.”

“In Tampa,” I countered, “we always tip back a few in honor of the dearly departed.”

Nype smacked his lips primly. “Not in church, I hope.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Before the service, during and after. My family is Episcopalian. Altar wine for everybody.”

“Roman Catholics use the same ritual,” Nype said somewhat snidely.

“I’m also sightseeing,” I admitted. “Trying to get to know Lee County a little better. You’re probably friends with everybody in town. Everybody that’s anybody.”