Miami Noir (17 page)
Delreese said, “I call this game Meet Your Maker.” He laughed. “Ten Mississippi,” he said. “Nine…”
Cameron changed the channel and told me to stop crying. I told him I wasn’t crying, but I could taste the tears on my lips. Bugs Bunny aimed a pistol at Elmer Fudd, pulled the trigger, and a flag popped out of the barrel of the gun, unfurled, and said
Bang!
Bugs gave Elmer a big wet kiss. I couldn’t remember my mother’s face, just the back of her head. I knew I wouldn’t hear the gunshot, wouldn’t feel a thing. Everything would be over before I knew it. What would be the last thought I thought, the last picture I saw?
“Five Mississippi.”
What I did remember about Mom was her silence, her ratty chenille robe, and her pink Deerfoam slippers. When she thought I was lying, she’d tell me to stick out my tongue, said that if I was lying it would be black. It was always black, even those times I was sure I wasn’t lying. She’d wash my mouth out with Lifebuoy soap or spoon horseradish on my tongue. Cameron called her The Beast. Cameron, my twin, who looked exactly like me, people said, but was somehow more handsome, who always knew what I was thinking and could make me laugh at the drop of a hat, who fell into a life of drug addiction and robbed my parents blind, died in room 201 at the Pirate’s Inn in Dania, beaten to death by his playmates with a studded mace and a stone war club. He was twenty-four.
I realized that Delreese had stopped counting, and I waited and thought maybe I was dead already, that this dark stillness was life after life, that I’d already been shot, that I’d been wrong about death too, and Willis had been right after all; there is no pain, no past, no present, no future, just the everything all at once, just a floating toward a resplendent and cleansing light, so I opened my eyes to see it, to let it wash over me, and I saw Delreese, who must have been waiting for this moment, with the black barrel of the gun in his mouth, saw him smile and wink. I reached for his arm, and he squeezed the trigger.
I
never needed “stuff,” so it was easy to live—till Boozanne come along. Most stuff is just to impress women, and I didn’t need them either—till Boozanne. I had a cute face—like a puppy dog, I heard—but being 4’10", I was too short for normal chicks, too tall for a dwarf. I didn’t try to fit in. I could afford a handjob now and then. Did me fine. Keep it simple was my motto. When Danny DeVito retired, maybe I’d head out to Hollywood, but for a young guy like myself, the deal I had going was almost as good—till Boozanne messed me up.
Ma had always told me, if you’re gonna steal a VW, might as well steal a Cadillac. Well, Ma had that wrong. A VW would’ve been the right size for me. But when I got outta prison for stealing the Caddy, I gave up car theft altogether. My home was gone. Ma had passed on, bless her soul—Pop was never around. Being broke and alone, I hitched down to Florida, remembering how warm it was that winter when Ma and me took vacation, my best memory as a kid. I met Weasel in Miami, and he’s the one told me about this gig. It fit me perfect, even better than a VW.
What you do is find a big old wood house, with two foot of crawling space underneath, and cut a hole in the floor under the bed. Easy, if you can look in and measure. Beds are never moved. Weasel burgled his way around the islands, so by the time each hole got discovered, he was long gone. With my carpenter experience, and considering I needed a home more than anything, I went him one better by saving the piece of floor, so I could latch it back in place underneath. Not many nice wood houses left in Miami, but one should’ve been enough. No mortgage, no taxes, and free food as long as you’re not greedy. Nobody would notice, even if they ran a dust mop over the hardwood, a thing that—I’m telling you—most people never do.
My home with the Lamberts, Bob and Melodie, was walking-distance from the beach, came with
Sports Illustrated
and
Gourmet
subscriptions, cable, big-screen TV, and a cat. It had those wood Bahama shutters that hang down and cover the windows, so nobody passing by could see in. A carport instead of a garage was good for knowing if either car was home, and thick foliage around the perimeter made it easy to sneak to the back and go under, though I did most of my crawling in and out in the dark. I had plastic sheeting and a rug remnant from Goodwill under there, my clothes sealed up in black garbage bags to keep out the bugs, a flashlight, toss pillow, and a
Playboy
to pass the waiting time. I never needed toiletries like toothpaste, shampoo, or deodorant, cause the Lamberts were well supplied. Didn’t shave, or I would’ve got my own razor. It was like living in a full-service motel, except I had to clean up after myself. I was set—till fuckin’ Boozanne.
Bob and Melodie got home each night at 7 or later—depending if they ate out—so I’d drop down the hole around 6:30, crawl out at dark, and head to a cheap local bar, or out on a scrounge, then later to my chair on the beach to doze until it was getting toward dawn, time to head home. I’d picked ’em good—upper-middle-class workaholics, too distracted about their jobs to notice the house much, lotsa loose change and doggie-bag leftovers that they usually tossed into the bin within two days. Somebody might as well enjoy it all. Once in a while, I stuck a pepperoni down my pants at the grocery for extra meat. I didn’t take big chances, didn’t need much. Any violation would send me back to a cell.
I didn’t have to be too careful at home, as long as I remembered to pick my long black hairs off the pillowcase, go easy on the tidbits and liquor, and wash my lunch dishes. Sometimes I got sick of looking at Bob’s coffee cup that he’d leave on the bathroom sink, and I’d wash that too. I was kind of a dark male Goldilocks, only nicer. I grew attached to the Lamberts, seeing that I knew so much about their food tastes, possessions, and living habits. Melodie was like the sister I never had, little and dark-haired, big-eyed and innocent in her pictures. I felt protective toward her. Bob was like an older brother I could live without.
One day, Melodie came home early—I was lucky the lunch dishes were done—and I was in the living room to see the car pull in. I barely made it out the hole. She ran in and tossed herself on the bed and wailed. Her sobs broke my heart while I laid under there listening. I stuffed my face into my pillow not to make a whimper. I thought maybe her ma had died. After that, all signs of Melly disappeared for most of a week. Her black dresses were gone, and there were tons of used Kleenex left in the wastebasket in her bathroom. She must’ve had her monthly on top of it all, so I hoped no cramps. Eventually, from the sympathy cards, I figured out it was her pop that died.
Trying to be of help, I dusted, wiped out the refrigerator, vacuumed, and cleaned the toilets for her while she was gone. Bob didn’t go to the funeral, and I knew he wouldn’t take over the cleaning neither. I couldn’t do anything obvious, but I just thought she’d feel better if the place somehow didn’t seem to get dirty—and the refrigerator needed cleaning bad. Bob was your regular slob and never noticed nothin’.
Melly brought home some mementos from her father, his fishing license and a pin from the Marines, so I knew they were close. I admired the old fella, seeing he probably enjoyed life and had guts. I found some heavy dark-blue folders too, sitting in plain view on the desk. I thought they were books at first, but when I opened ’em up, they smelled musty and were filled with U.S. silver dollars in little slots marked with the years, the real silver dollars that this country don’t make no more. I could tell by the edges. I didn’t know what they were worth, but there were close to four hundred of ’em, from the 1880s to the 1960s. I wondered if Melodie knew the value. I wished I could warn her to put ’em in a safety deposit box, in case of burglars, like Weasel.
I buddied up with their cat. He liked his water freshened a couple times a day, and he would have starved while Melodie was gone if I didn’t refill his dry food. I really performed a service. He was smart, and I taught him to give paw and roll over for Whisker Lickin’s tuna-flavored treats. I hid the packet in the empty cabinet above the refrigerator, and I had to laugh every time I pictured the Lamberts finding it and being downright stumped. I expect Bones thought I was his owner, considering all the quality time we spent together. I wished I knew his real name. I listened sometimes, waiting under the house, but the words were usually too muffled to make out anything, unless Bob and Melodie were having a fight. Bob could get pretty loud. I went through their address book, hoping for something like
Tiger’s vet
, but no clues. He answered to Lazybones—or Bones—as much as any cat answers.
I generally took a long nap each day with Bones on my chest. It was like working the night shift, except no work! I sold off a lawn mower and weed eater—garage items from down the block—and got myself a gym membership so I could shower, swim, hot tub, and work out with the hardcore sissy fellas every evening if I wanted, and especially on weekends when I was stuck outside all day.
Things were going good. One night when I was still holding some cash, I thought I’d slug down a few shots at one of them outdoor South Beach bars, take in the fancy scenery, meaning women. It was just then, when I’d got my life all in order, I run into Boozanne. I come up to the bar and there she was, her back to me, lapping a little over the stool in the thigh area, a big girl with lots of curly orange hair and freckled white skin on her upper arms. She had on a thin nylon shirt that clung to every ripple of her—the handles of love and the lush flesh above the back of her brassiere. When she turned my way, there were those double-Ds staring at me, talcum still dry between ’em, and the smell of a baby wafting off her, even in eighty-five degrees and heavy humidity. Stars were winking in the black sky over her head, so I shoulda known the joke was on me.
A flamenco guitar strummed away in my left ear, traffic and ocean crashed together in the right. “Hi there!” I yelled. I pointed at the only empty seat, the one next to her, where she had parked her pocketbook.
“I’m Junior,” I said. I was more often called Mouse, but I didn’t like it.
“Name’s Susanne,” I thought she said.
I nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Susanne.”
She scrunched up her little pig nose with the freckles on it, but I didn’t know what the problem was. She had a puckered set of red lips to go with that nose. “Boooz-anne,” she drawled.
That there was the killer. Her voice flowed out like syrup and I damn near choked. I wondered if she could be a Kentucky girl, hot and smooth as the bourbon I’d left behind those two years ago. I musta stared at her—I wasn’t sure what was polite to say.
She picked up her beer can. “Booooz-anne!” she hollered. “Buy me one.”
The bartender looked at me, and I put up two fingers.
Boozanne stared at my legs. “You need a hoist onto that stool, pal?”
I ignored her and used the step under the bar to give me the extra lift. Boozanne lit a cigarette. Her cheeks sucked in and her lashes kinda flickered in pleasure as she drew the smoke. When her chin tipped back on the exhale, I remembered how Ma used to aim her smoke at the ceiling by protruding her bottom lip like a funnel. Boozanne’s white neck and the pattern of freckles spilling down resembled one of the girls’ chests in Bob’s porno video. The smoke hung in the air and the flamenco ripped to a finale as she focused on me.
“You’re pretty cute for a shortie. Been working out?”
“Some,” I said. It came to me that she might want to get naked, despite my body being two-thirds her size. I wasn’t against it.
“You know how long a man’s legs are supposed to be, don’t you?”
I shook my head, getting ready for a joke about my height, figuring it was worth the ridicule to get laid.
“Long enough to reach the ground,” she said. “Abraham Lincoln.”
“Abraham Lincoln said that?” I scratched my head. “He had real long legs, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. Yours are long enough.”
I smiled. “It all evens out horizontal, don’t it?”
She laughed, and after that my memories are spotty. Sometime, Boozanne and me staggered across the street, holding hands and bumping together. We stumbled over the sand toward the water, to my favorite wooden lounge chair, chained behind a low dune of shore grass, far enough from the street to be dark. My mind wasn’t working too good, but I recall taking off my pants, falling over once into the sand.
Next thing, there was Boozanne, buck-naked and white as whip cream, like an art model with all the rich layers of her unfolding, as she laid down on the lounge and opened her arms to me. I stopped trying to brush off and leaned over her and straddled one of her thighs. We did some tonguing, I think, but mostly I remember the feel of her, meaty and cool, as I pawed over her big tits and nuzzled her neck. When I scooted on down, that baby powder drowned out the fishy smell of the beach. I suckled her nipples and crawled onto her lap. She weren’t my first woman, but there hadn’t been many, and none of this size. I poked into her soft gut and jelly thighs a few times, and then I located that sweet spot you don’t never forget.
Over the next week things heated up even more, and I needed extra money to show her a good time. Besides sorting most of the quarters out of the change jar, I made some easy pickings from a tree service trailer, and took a chain saw to the South Dixie Pawn Shop. Boozanne—surprise, surprise—could put away the liquor. I convinced her to go to my usual local bar, where it was homey. Quantity was more important to her than scenery, so she didn’t complain much.
Besides liking the sex, she was a woman who could tell a joke. I enjoyed her stories about idiots at the office, and the quick way she saw through her boss with his snooty manners. She had some schemes for easy money, and she promised to let me in. I’d started talking to Bones about her, and when I pictured her pretty face I felt something way stronger than the tightness in my balls.
One night when we were sitting on the lounge chair smoking some weed, I dropped the roach into my shirt pocket and the damn fabric flared right up. Boozanne was fast with her hand to pat it out. “Your heart’s on fire for me,” she said. She was laughing, but I couldn’t deny it. I took that as a sign.
Course, the subject came up of going to my place instead of the sticky, sandy lounge chair, and I couldn’t fend her off for long. She had an efficiency and a roommate, so it was up to me to make arrangements if I wanted to “continue enjoying her womanhood.” Now, I was really working her pussy hard, and I had a suspicion that she liked the fucking as much as me, but I knew there were plenty more men where I come from—taller ones, with better income—whereas she was the only woman ever come on to me that didn’t ask for money up front. The chair hurt her back, and she wouldn’t get on top cause she was embarrassed about how she outweighed me. She kept harping on it until I let loose of the truth.
I thought it would be the end of us, but it turned out my living conditions were a real amusement. I’d lied that I was on disability, but now I gave out all my secrets, including my nickname Mouse—which she promised never to use—and my recent incarceration.
Before I had time to think, she’d took the day off work, and I was sneaking her in between the air conditioner and Bob’s moldy garden hose. I had to bend some bushes to get her through, and they took some damage, but the Lamberts hardly went into the yard, far as I could tell.
I had a long sheet of plastic stretching to the edge under the house, so I could crawl on my stomach without getting dirty, and Boozanne surprised me with the ease she wormed on through. She weren’t afraid of the spiders or nothing. I went first and moved the bed aside, and she stood and took my hand, and stepped up into the room like a lady. It was a big hole, but she pretty much filled it. I’d told her I could go inside and unlock the back door for her, but she said the porch was too visible, and that was true. She went wandering around the house, while I slid the wood to cover the hole, enough so Bones couldn’t get out, and scooted the bed back in place so the room looked nice.
