New Hope for the Dead (19 page)

Hoke and Aileen climbed the porch. Hoke took out his
badge and ID case and showed it to the old man. Mr. Lewis, who had gray hair and a gray face, turned pink, and his arms and legs trembled.

“Police Department, Mr. Lewis,” Hoke said. “I understand that you owe this little girl three dollars.”

Mr. Lewis got to his feet and handed the miniature poodle to the old lady in the next chair. The tiny dog snarled at Aileen and began to bark. Mr. Lewis took out his wallet, removed three dollars, and held them out to Hoke. His fingers were trembling, and he worked his mouth in and out. Hoke shook his head and inclined it toward Aileen.

“Give it to the girl.”

Mr. Lewis gave Aileen the three dollars. “I was planning to eat on that money this week,” he said. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Bullshit,” Hoke said. “If you can pay a hundred a week to live at the Alton, you can pay for getting your dog washed. You can also apologize to the little girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Lewis said. He put his wallet back into his hip pocket and retrieved Thor from the old lady. The dog stopped yapping immediately. Mr. Lewis walked to the doorway that led into the apartment house foyer. He opened the door and turned. “I’m
not
sorry! I’m
not
sorry!” he said in a high reedy voice. He then stepped swiftly through the door and into the foyer, pulling the door closed behind him.

On their way back to the Eldorado, Aileen said, “If Mr. Lewis needed that money to eat on, Daddy, I’d rather not take it. But he never told me that this morning.”

“He’s a liar, Aileen. Don’t feel sorry for him. A miniature poodle like the one he had, if he’s got the papers on it, sells for two or three hundred bucks. If he gets hungry enough, he can always sell the goddamned dog. At any rate, you’ve washed your last dog over here. Some of these people over here on South Beach are crazy as shithouse rats. You and Sue Ellen put on your bathing suits and we’ll all go over to the beach for a swim. If we’re lucky, maybe we can get an hour or so on the beach before the rain starts.”

Hoke only had one credit card, a Visa card from an obscure bank in Chicago. He had applied for it in person when he had taken a prisoner to Chicago, and the bank never checked his abysmal credit rating. He called two different seafood restaurants before he made a reservation; he wanted to make certain that his Chicago card would be honored. The card itself was good because Hoke always paid the ten-dollar minimum charge every month. He knew it was the only credit card he was ever likely to have.

La Pescador Habañero’s maître d’ assured Hoke over the phone that his Visa card was acceptable. Jackets were required at La Pescador, but if Hoke didn’t have a jacket, there was a suitable selection in the cloakroom, and he would be furnished with a jacket at no extra charge. Ties, of course, were not required, but if the visitor from Chicago found the evening too humid, he could have a corner table in the courtyard, where the absence of a jacket would not be noticed by the other patrons.

“Never mind,” Hoke said. “We prefer the dining room, where it’s air-conditioned. And I’ll be wearing a leisure suit.”

“Excellent!” the maître d’ said. “As I understand it, leisure suits are coming back into style again.”

“And I’ll want a bottle of wine. Bordeaux, if you have it—”

“Any particular vintage?”

“I don’t care. Just have it uncorked and breathing on the table when we get there.”

That’ll cost me, Hoke thought, but what the hell? He hadn’t been laid in a long time …

Hoke had mixed feelings about having dinner with Loretta. He was horny, but he was far from confident that he would end up in Loretta’s bed. Was she interested in him as a lover, or did she take him up on his invitation just because she wanted an expensive dinner? In a way, Hoke knew he was indirectly trying to buy a piece of ass, but a man could spend a lot of money on a woman and end up without so much as a good-night kiss.

This woman was sexy as hell, and physically attractive, but Hoke knew how
he
looked. He had no idea how Loretta felt about him. One thing Hoke knew for sure: Some women liked to fuck cops just because they were cops, and he hoped that Loretta was one of them. This was something he and Henderson had talked about and taken advantage of often enough in their police careers.

Women were attracted to power and money—not just to a man’s looks. They were interested in a man’s personality, his occupation, especially interesting occupations. How a man
looked
was way down there, about seventh on the list. As Henderson had put it once, “Every woman wants to fuck her daddy, Hoke. A cop’s got a badge and a gun, so he’s an authority figure. She can’t screw her daddy, so a cop’s the next best thing.”

Henderson’s opinion was oversimplified perhaps. Still, look at Harold Hickey. He had power and confidence,
plus
good looks, or Loretta wouldn’t have married him. Hickey had been on the verge of big fees when she had married him, and she had known he would make it. That’s why Hoke hadn’t believed Hickey when he said Loretta had been sleeping with Jerry. She was too smart to jeopardize her marriage by sleeping with a skinny, run-down junkie. It didn’t make sense—unless there was something going on Hoke didn’t know about.

On the other hand, Hickey took himself so seriously that he didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it. What did the kid say when Hickey had charged the boy with screwing Loretta? “I didn’t think you’d mind, Mr. Hickey.” If that wasn’t sarcasm, what was it? And if the fat next-door neighbor had really told Hickey about the so-called affair, how had she found out? Did she peep through the windows? She was purportedly a friend of Loretta’s, but it didn’t seem likely that Loretta would confide that kind of information to anyone. More likely, Ellen Koontz had merely suspected it, then reported her suspicions to Hickey as fact. And he had bought her story.

Loretta was attracted to power all right. Otherwise she wouldn’t want to own her own shop—a business she could run her own way—instead of working as a designer for someone else who would have all of the problems. The problem was, Hoke didn’t know Loretta well enough to make any educated guesses about her. The best thing to do, Hoke decided, was to get Loretta to talk about herself. Once he got to know her a little better, everything would work out fine.

Before Hoke left the hotel, he shifted his holstered pistol from the small of his back, where he usually carried it, to the front. When they got to the restaurant, he would unbutton his jacket so Loretta could see the butt of his revolver showing above the waistband. As Henderson once said, “Showing a woman your pistol is just like showing her your cock.” Maybe so, and maybe not, Hoke thought, half-amused at Henderson’s ready theories; but with a face like mine, I need every advantage I can get.

The dinner went very well, Hoke thought. The bottle of wine was only twenty-eight dollars and the bouillabaisse for two, as recommended by their waiter, only thirty. A green salad and a rice pudding with raisins were included with the dinner, and they finished their meal with two dollar-fifty espressos.

Loretta Hickey, in a low-cut white chiffon dress, looked
lovely to Hoke. She was wearing a lavender orchid (Hoke had ordered it and charged it to the Eldorado’s telephone) pinned to her narrow waist. Hoke had told the Vietnamese girl at the Bouquetique to hand the orchid to Mrs. Hickey when she left the shop, figuring that if he was going to order a corsage, he might as well give Loretta’s shop the business. Loretta was delighted with her orchid.

“You may not believe it, Hoke,” she’d said when he picked her up at her house in Green Lakes, “but it’s been years and years since I’ve been given any flowers. People think that because I have my own shop, I can get all I want free. That may be true, but I do love flowers, and I certainly didn’t expect such a lovely orchid. Even if I did pick it out myself.”

“On the phone I told the girl to pick it, and to hand it to you when you left.”

“Oh, no, Dotty wouldn’t dare risk her taste against mine. She’s a Vietnamese refugee, you know, and she’s practically helpless around the shop. But she’s all I can afford at the moment. What I really need is a good designer. Because I’m usually working in the back, I miss a lot of gift sales in front. Dotty Chen couldn’t sell a Cuban a cup of coffee.”

Hoke grinned. “And they drink ten cups a day.”

Three strolling guitar players came to their table in the dining room and played and sang a song. Although Hoke’s Spanish was limited, he got the drift that the three singers wanted to die in combat in Cuba with their faces turned up toward the sun. He gave the player nearest him a dollar bill and they strolled off, singing lugubriously, to another table.

“The only thing worse than three Spanish guitars,” Hoke said, “is one violin.”

“That’s right. Three are okay, but one violin sounds screechy.”

“How’s business, Loretta?”

“Not all that good, lately. It should be good, but it isn’t. There’re too many street people on corners selling old cheap flowers, and the prices I have to pay are ridiculous. I
have to sell roses for five dollars apiece, and people just won’t pay that much for roses. I’ll be glad when summer’s over and the season starts.”

“I guess you have to borrow money before holidays?”

Loretta nodded. “At sixteen percent. And it’s always a guessing game. For Mother’s Day I bought too many carnations. For some reason, no one wanted any this year, so even though I was busy for three days, I had to eat the carnations. I just barely broke even. If I could find a buyer, I sometimes think I’d sell the shop.”

“Then what would you do? It might be hard to work for someone else after you’ve owned your own business.”

“But I wouldn’t have the headaches. A good designer, and I’m a good one, can work anywhere in the country. And people in the business know me, too. I put on design demonstrations at the last two floral conventions in Miami Beach. And I’m not so crazy about Miami that I want to stay here forever. If I wanted to, I could go to Atlanta like that!” Loretta tried to snap her fingers, but they wouldn’t.

“Why don’t you, then?”

“What?” Loretta laughed. Her face was flushed from the wine and the food. “And give up my own shop? I’d be crazy to give up my shop in Coral Gables to work in Atlanta. At least we can still walk down the street in the daytime. The last time I was in Atlanta, I was afraid to walk down Peachtree by myself at high noon.”

“Do you want an after-dinner drink, a post-prandial? A short Presidente brandy maybe?”

“We can have a drink back at the house. I’ve got beer and a bottle of bourbon at home.”

Hoke grinned. “Sure you don’t want to go out to a disco first?”

“Please!”

Although Hoke had to pay another dollar for valet parking, and the attendant had stolen his toll change from the ashtray, he thought he got off lightly for the evening. The wine had been good, but Hoke had poured most of it for
Loretta. She was feeling the effects of it, too. On the drive to her house, Loretta gripped his arm with both hands and once in a while rubbed her face against his shoulder.

When they got into the house, Hoke took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. Loretta went into the kitchen and came back with an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Black label.

“I usually don’t buy bourbon,” she said, “because no one ever drinks it. I’ve had a few parties here, but most people want Scotch or vodka. Miami’s mostly a vodka town, isn’t it?”

“Or a pot town, a coke town, and a ’lude town.”

“Do you want some pot? Being you’re a policeman and all, I thought—”

“No, no pot. I’ll just have a short Jack Daniel’s with a little water. If I have too many drinks, I can’t perform, and I can feel the wine a little. I’m mostly a beer drinker, but what I want most right now is you.” Hoke pulled Loretta into his arms and kissed her. She tasted like wine, and she forced her hard, hot tongue between his dentures.

Hoke unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on top of his jacket on the couch. He unbuckled his belt in front and unclipped his holstered pistol.

Loretta looked at the picture window and the opened draperies, and laughed. “The neighbors across the street can see you. Maybe you’d better undress in the bedroom.”

“I understand.” Hoke grinned. “You want the neighbors to think you’re after me for my money.”

Loretta, carrying the bottle, led the way to the bedroom, and Hoke followed her.

Loretta switched on the bedside lamp. The unmade bed was a mess. While Hoke undressed, she swept the long-legged dolls to the floor, removed the crumpled quilt and top sheet, and pulled the flowered bottom sheet tight. Hoke plumped up the pillows, stretched out on the round bed, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Hoke’s erection throbbed with anticipation. Loretta went
into the bathroom; Hoke listened to the water run in the sink and thought he could hear his heartbeat above the sound of the running water. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bedside table. He unscrewed the cap, took a mouthful of whiskey, and swished it around for a moment before he swallowed it. He took another, shorter drink and recapped the bottle. He felt fine now. Because of his dentures, he always worried a little about his breath. A man never knows for sure whether he will get laid or not, Hoke thought, even if he’s married. Especially if he’s married. The woman, finally, always selects the man, the time, and even the place.

Once, when Hoke had thought he had a sure thing, he had driven the woman home, locked his car, and walked to the front door, expecting to spend the night. She had unlocked her door, stepped inside, said goodnight and slammed the door right in his face. He had been astonished. The next time he took her out—and he had called her again—everything had worked out well. He asked her why she had slammed the door on their first date.

“You locked your car,” she said. “And when you locked your car, so damned confident and macho, I said to myself, the hell with you, boy.”

Women, sometimes, were hard to understand.

Loretta had scrubbed the makeup off her face, removed the barrettes from her hair, and brushed it out. Her thick hair was fluffy around her shining face. Her breasts were fuller than he had thought they would be, with prominent pink nipples. The triangle of pubic hair was darker than her long blonde mane.

“Should I switch off the lamp?”

“No. I like to see what I’m doing. And you’ve got a damned nice figure.”

“Lay back,” Loretta said, “the way you were before, with your hands behind your head.”

Hoke stretched out again, clasping his hands behind his
head. Loretta, on her knees, crawled between his spread legs and sat back slightly. She reached beneath Hoke’s balls, searching for his anus with a greased forefinger. She found it and shoved her finger in.

“Don’t!” Hoke said. “I don’t like that.”

“It got you hard, didn’t it?”

“Hell, I was already hard. I’ve been hard all day.”

Hoke reached for Loretta, but she ducked below his hands and buried her face in the hair on his stomach. She bit into it, sucked up some skin, hard, very hard, and made slobbery sounds. This is what she did to Jerry Hickey, Hoke thought. She put those hickeys on his neck the night he died.

Hoke’s erection collapsed suddenly and, he thought, irrevocably.

“That’ll do,” Hoke said.

“What’s the matter?” Loretta laughed. “Don’t you like love bites? You can give me one if you want.”

“Turn over.”

“What?”

“I said, turn over. On your stomach.”

“Why?”

“I want to put it up your ass, that’s why.”

“Oh, no you won’t! I’ll do anything else you want, but not that—”

“Why not? Haven’t you ever had an anal orgasm?”

“No, and I don’t want one, either. Why don’t you just let me suck you off? I’m very good at it, I really am.” She licked her lips and smiled. “I’ll give you an around the world—”

“You can blow me next time, after I’ve put it up your ass.”

“I can’t, Hoke,” she said. “I’ve got hemorrhoids; it would hurt too much. Hemorrhoids go with floral designing. I’m on my feet all day, every day, and I’ve sure got them. If you don’t believe me—”