Pumped for Murder (20 page)

“No progress yet,” Helen said. “Drake wants to set up a meeting with them. He says the IRS wants me to pay taxes, not overwhelm me with penalties. I hope he’s right.”

Kathy pulled the minivan in front of the airport terminal.

“I can’t believe we’re at the airport already. It seems like I just got here,” Helen said.

“You did,” Kathy said, handing Helen her suitcase. She kissed her sister good-bye and said, “Beautiful, clear sky. Not a cloud anywhere. It should be an easy flight home.”

It was. Helen’s plane touched down at the Fort Lauderdale airport fifteen minutes early. Phil was waiting at the gate. Helen ran to him, suitcase bumping over the colorful carpet.

“I missed you,” she said, throwing her arms around him.

They exchanged light kisses and conversation on the way to the parking garage. While travelers rushed past them, Helen told her husband about Kathy and Tom and her niece and nephew. She waited until the parking garage door was in sight, then mentioned that her lawyer was planning to set up a meeting with the IRS. They pushed through the air lock into the evening heat. Phil didn’t ask any more questions about Helen’s tax problems. “Your manager called this morning,” he said. “Derek wants you to report to the gym tomorrow.”

Helen sighed. “I knew it was coming. I have to work on Shelby’s case.”

The soft, salt-tinged Florida humidity felt like a welcome caress to Helen. “I think it’s cooler here than in St. Louis,” she said.

“I drove the Igloo,” Phil said. “Thought you’d appreciate the cool air.”

Inside the PT Cruiser, Phil gave her a deeper kiss, then stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Helen said.

“We have to work tonight,” he said. “Mark Behr’s old friend Danny Boy Cerventi will be tending bar at Granddaddy’s. I’ve been there enough that I’m becoming a regular. Danny starts drinking most afternoons, and he’s pretty bombed by evening. I thought we could sit at the bar, have a burger and a beer, maybe talk about old times.”

“I’m always willing to eat a burger in the line of duty,” Helen said solemnly.

“This time order your own fries,” Phil said.

“Let’s go there now,” Helen said.

“Can’t. You need to go home and change. Granddaddy’s is a bit of a dive,” Phil said. “You’re too well dressed. Ditch the pantsuit for jeans.”

“With pleasure,” Helen said.

It was Helen’s favorite time of day, when the setting sun stained the subtropical sky a delicious pink. The icy white Coronado apartments turned a soft peach and the palm trees cast long blue shadows. Margery was waiting in one of those shadows, wrapped in cigarette smoke.

“Hey, gumshoes,” she hissed.

“Huh?” Phil said.

“Got the drop on you,” Margery said. “There’s a dame out by the pool waiting to see two shamuses.”

“Shelby?” Helen asked.

“That’s her,” Margery said. “She’s here for the dope, if you get my drift.” She blew a cloud of smoke at Phil and Helen.

Margery dropped the forties talk and led them to the pool. Shelby was dressed for work Florida style—a yellow summer dress and heeled sandals—and chatting with Peggy. Pete watched their client. Helen thought the parrot had a skeptical look.

Shelby smiled and waved when she saw Helen and Phil. “Thought I’d better stop by,” she said. “You haven’t been returning my calls.You two been busy with my case? I want to know how the investigation is going.”

“Pete and I better turn in for the night,” Peggy said, getting up from her chair.

“Bye!” Pete said. Margery had melted into the shadows.

“I’ve seen Bryan every day the gym has been open,” Helen said. “He usually works out four to six hours a day. He was at the gym at six o’clock the morning Debbi was murdered, but the police wouldn’t let anyone inside. Bryan spends a lot of time with his trainer, Jan Kurtz, but their relationship is professional. There’s no one else he’s interested in.”

“There is,” Shelby said. Helen thought she saw tears sparkling in their client’s eyes. “He’s been restless as a caged cat since the gym closed. He wanted to show houses this afternoon but said he didn’t have time to clean his car because he had to go running. I said I’d take his car in to be washed.

“I found an open condom wrapper under the front seat. I’m on the pill. Why would a married man need a condom?”

“Maybe it fell out of a client’s pocket,” Helen said.

“I don’t think so,” Shelby said. “He’s up to no good. I know it. I hate being a fool.You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’d be surprised,” Helen said.

H
elen walked into Granddaddy’s Bar and stopped dead. Phil ran into her back.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.There was no need for him to lower his voice. The customers were screaming at the Marlins game on the three big TV screens. Cries of “Yeah!,” “Go, go, go!” and “Boo-yah!” drowned out everything, including the game’s announcer.

“This is like walking into that video of Mark’s birthday party,” Helen said, “except the bar is a quarter century grimier. I think these are the same people, too, just older.”

The men definitely had useful jobs in an area better known for beach bums. Sitting at the long, dark-wood bar (also jumping up and down, cheering and twirling) were mechanics, cable-company workers and hurricane-shutter installers, all holding beers. Helen knew their occupations by the trucks parked in the lot and the uniforms on their backs.

The rest of the customers wore T-shirts, mostly Marlins shirts.

The neon palm tree was still on the wall, but one side flickered. Helen thought the booze brands had gone down a notch since the 1986 video. There were no fancy blender drinks on the menu board. Helen was one of the few women in the bar. Even in jeans and a shirt, she was the best-dressed woman. Granddaddy’s was no longer a place to bring a date.

Danny Boy Cerventi was behind the bar.With his drinker’s potbelly and scrawny arms and legs, he looked like a spider with a bad haircut.

“Danny Boy looks about the same,” Phil said. “His hair is just as black.”

“It’s dyed,” Helen said. “I can see that across the room.”

She and Phil gently pushed their way through the beery, cheering crowd. Helen found an empty barstool by the register. Phil stood behind it. Helen could see Danny Boy’s bloodshot eyes and the roadmap of red veins on his nose. He wiped his hands on his dirty apron and said, “You brought the old ball and chain tonight, Phil.”

Helen ground her teeth at that remark but remembered they were here on a case. Once they found Mark’s murderer, she’d never have to go to this dump again.

“I’ve been telling Helen your burgers and fries are the best in Lauderdale,” Phil said. “She wanted to see for herself.”

Danny Boy grinned, revealing stained, ratlike teeth. “Is that what you’re both having—burgers and fries?”

“Medium rare for Helen and walk it through a warm kitchen for me,” Phil said. “Two orders of the fries and two beers.” Helen nodded. Beer wasn’t her first choice, but she knew better than to order white wine in a dive.

She was surprised by the photo of Mark Behr on the wall next to the cash register. That was him, wasn’t it? She leaned in for a closer look. Time hadn’t faded that glorious fiery hair. It was definitely Mark, raising a frosty mug of beer in a smiling toast.

Another picture in a heavy oval frame hung above the register, a brownish photo of an old man with a black handlebar mustache.

When Danny Boy returned with their food, Helen said, “Is that your grandfather up there on the wall?”

“Sure is,” Danny Boy said. “Bought this bar with the money Granddaddy left me in his will. That’s how the bar got its name. I keep his picture here to honor him.” Helen heard him slur “picture” as “pick-shure.”

“He has a terrific face,” Helen said. “Makes you want to order a beer.”

“Good idea,” Phil said. “I’ll have another beer. What about you, Helen?”

“I’d better switch to club soda,” she said. “I have to work in the morning.”

“Work,” Danny Boy said, “the curse of the drinking class.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, as if he’d just heard it for the first time.

“I hate to drink alone,” Phil said. “Can I buy you a Heineken, Danny Boy?”

“Don’t mind if you do,” Danny said. “I like a little Heinie.” He leered at Helen and spritzed soda water into a glass for her, then filled two frosted mugs with draft beer. He moved with the slow, precise movements of a longtime drunk. He slid one beer toward Phil.

“Perfect draw,” Phil said, holding up his mug and admiring the golden brew. “Not too much foam on that beer.”

“I’ve had some practice,” Danny said, and winked at Helen. He gulped down the beer, then drew himself another. His hand slipped on the tap handle. The beer was getting to him. Helen hoped he’d be drunk enough to answer their questions.

“Who is that handsome man in the photo next to the cash register?” she asked.

The smile slid off Danny Boy’s face. “An old friend,” he said. “Mark Behr. That photo was taken at his thirtieth birthday party. He had one hell of a party here that night. I still have the video to prove it. He’s dead now, poor bastard.”

“Was he an actor?” Helen asked.

“No. Mark was good-looking enough to be one. He was a mechanic, believe it or not.”

“He could definitely drive my car,” Helen said, and grinned at Danny Boy.

Phil frowned. He didn’t like Helen flirting with the drunken bartender. Too bad, she thought. We’re on a case.

“Mark drove a lot of ladies wild,” Danny Boy said. “He used to hang out here at Granddaddy’s. It’s sort of our clubhouse, except they pay me for the beer.”

Danny Boy laughed hard again—too hard—then turned serious. “I got outta high school, but I never left high school. I don’t need a reunion. My friends are here ’most every night. That bald guy there in the gray shirt? That’s Bobby. He used to be a plumber. Damn good one, too, until the economy tanked and he lost his job. Now he’s my day bartender. Hey, Bobby!” he yelled over the boozy crowd.

Bobby was sitting two seats down at the bar. He raised his beer in Danny Boy’s direction, then went back to watching the game, his arm draped around a bottle blonde on the stool next to him.

“Jack there with the marines tattoo works for the phone company,” Danny Boy said. “I like him anyway. Hate the phone company, though. Hell, Jack hates it, too, but he won’t admit it.

“See the guy in the khaki uniform at the end of the bar? That’s Tom, another old friend. Tom still has all his hair; it’s just grayer. He installs hurricane shutters. I got lots more friends, but those are the only ones here now. South Florida’s not known for what you’d call a work ethic, but these guys break their butts all day. They come here to unwind.”

Except for Bobby, Helen thought, who stays here after work.

“Did you always want to own a bar?” Helen asked.

“Me?” His hard, harsh laugh had a sorrowful sound. “Old Danny Boy here was gonna be a filmmaker. Not a moviemaker, nothing common like that. I was going to be an artiste.” He crooked a pinkie in a mincing gesture. “Danny Boy was going to win awards at Sundance. I had that kind of talent. I’d make films with messages. You know what they say in Hollywood: If you wanna send a message, get Western Union. Wonder if they still say that. Do people even know what Western Union is, except for old farts like me?”

Danny looked lost for a moment. Sweat rolled off his forehead, and his badly dyed hair stuck to his scalp. He poured another beer with shaking hands and took two deep drinks. Danny put down the nearly empty mug and asked Helen, “Know what happened to my film career? I work three afternoons a week before the bar opens for a video-duplication service, dubbing wedding and anniversary tapes onto DVDs. If I hear ‘Proud Mary’ one more time, I swear I’ll machinegun the whole wedding party.

“That’s my big film job. I don’t get any Sundance awards for my work. Mostly I hang out here, drinking beer with my friends, killing time until it kills me. Turns out my career as an artiste peaked the night of Mark’s birthday party. That’s the last movie I ever made. The last picture show for me and Mark both.” Danny gave a high-pitched giggle.

“What happened to Mark?” Helen asked.

Danny looked like he’d been punched. “Sad case, Mark.” He shook his head. “He was the best and brightest of us, and he put a bullet in his brain. Shot himself in the head. Just as well, I guess. If he lived, he’d be as old, fat and fucked as the rest of us. We’re all fifty-five now, and none of us are what you’d call beauties.”

“Hey,” Bobby yelled. “Speak for yourself. I look pretty damn fine, and Tiffany here thinks so, too.”

Tiffany had bright yellow hair, short shorts that exposed veiny legs, and a tube top that showed a flabby cleavage. She giggled girlishly, and Bobby patted her double-wide rear end.

Helen saw a flash of movement in a back doorway and whispered to Phil, “I need the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

Danny didn’t even notice that she’d left.

Helen recognized the doorway. Mark’s last birthday cake had been carried through it by the sequined, shoulder-padded woman in the old video. The doorway opened onto a short, dark hall ending in a back room. The restrooms were in the hall. Helen thought she saw someone she knew in that room. She used the restroom, then peeked in the back room. The small room seemed even more crowded because of the hulking customers crammed in it. They looked like bodybuilders.

Helen recognized Tansi from Fantastic Fitness. Her bright green sweats made her look like the Geico gecko. The lizardlike bodybuilder was talking to an iron pumper the size of a furnace. Helen didn’t see anyone drinking anything.

Bobby the day bartender blocked her way into the room.

“May I help you?” he asked. His tone was not friendly.

“I thought I recognized someone back there,” she said.

Tansi didn’t look up.