Riding the Rap (10 page)

W
ednesday, Raylan brought his prisoner, the man barefoot and handcuffed in bathing trunks, through the parking structure and into Miami Beach police headquarters by way of the sally port in back. Check your weapon through a window slot and they close the outer door before opening the inner one to the holding-cell area.

Lt. Buck Torres was there waiting.

“I thought finding them in bed asleep was the way to do it,” Raylan said. “Get ‘em sunbathing's even better, no surprises under the covers. Buck, we have here Carl Edward
Colbert, escapee from the West Tennessee Reception Center, down for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon, a pitchfork.”

Torres, looking up at Colbert, said, “Man, he's a size.”

“Yeah, but sunburnt. All you have to do is touch him and he minds. If it's okay with you,” Raylan said, “I'll leave him here till I can arrange transportation, have him shipped back. Carl, how about packed in ice, would you like that? . . . Carl isn't talking; he's lost faith in his fellowman. A buddy of his, guy works at one of the hotels on the beach, turned him in to avoid getting brought up for harboring.”

Torres said, “You could've taken him over to Dade, they got more room there.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to ask you something,” Raylan said, “you being a good friend of Harry's and all. He's disappeared.”

Torres said, “Again?”

“Last Friday he was to meet a guy collected on some old bets for him—this was up in Delray Beach. The guy never showed up. Harry left the restaurant and that's the last anyone's seen of him.”

“Friday,” Torres said. “Maybe he went back to Italy, decided he liked it.”

“Harry wouldn't leave without making a big production out of it. He goes to the bathroom, he calls Joyce and tells her. She checked with Harry's travel agent; he said Harry hasn't gone anywhere that he knew of. I was thinking one of Harry's sheet writers might know who did the
collection work, but I can't find any of those guys around.”

“No—we closed Harry down, they left,” Torres said. “Let me think a minute. If Harry couldn't find a certain guy, he'd call me to check, see if he was in jail. As a last resort he'd hire a collector. I know once in a while Bob Burton helped him out. Burton's a skip tracer—you know, a bounty hunter, always working. He'd do a collection for Harry as a favor. There was another guy, a bounty hunter, went up on a manslaughter conviction. . . .”

“Harry told Joyce the guy was Puerto Rican,” Raylan said, and right away saw Torres nodding.

“Bobby Deogracias—that's the guy—they call him Bobby Deo. This one, man, I'm telling you is dirty. It used to be we find a guy shot in the head and it looks like an execution? We bring in Bobby Deo. We knew he worked sometimes for the wiseguys, Jimmy Capotorto, when he was around, but we could never close on him. He did that kind of work and he went after fugitives,” Torres said. “Same thing you're doing.”

“How about that,” Raylan said. “You think he's the one?”

“Could be. How much was Harry trying to collect?”

“Sixteen thousand five hundred.”

“That kind of money, yeah, it could be Bobby Deo, it could be anybody. He tells Harry no, the guy didn't pay him and keeps it.”

“But he called Harry and told him the guy
did
pay, and to meet him in Delray Beach.”

“So he changed his mind. All that money in his hand? What's Harry gonna do, call the police? Listen, if it was Bobby Deo—anybody hires a guy like that deserves to get ripped off. Harry realizes too late he should've known better, so now he's feeling sorry for himself. You know how he is. Underneath all that old-time hip bullshit he puts on he's a baby. Hides out so we have to look for him.”

“Wants attention,” Raylan said.

“Loves it. He'll give it a few more days. You don't find him, he'll get tired of hiding and come out. Ask him, ‘Where you been?' He'll say, ‘What do you mean, where've I been?' He doesn't show up by this weekend I'll give it to Missing Persons.”

“I think you're right,” Raylan said. “But I still wouldn't mind talking to Bobby . . . What's his name?”

“Deogracias. I remember seeing it on a Corrections release report when he got out. DOC'll have his address. But whether it's any good or not . . .”

“I appreciate it,” Raylan said. “You might run a trace on Harry's car, brand-new Cadillac. See if it might've turned up abandoned.”

Torres nodded. “I can do that.”

“And you might run a name for me,” Raylan said, “while we're covering the bases. A Dawn Navarro?”

 

Raylan walked into the cool, tiled lobby of the Santa Marta on Ocean Drive, South Beach;
salsa, mambo, some kind of Latin music coming out of the bar. Raylan crossed to the desk clerk, a good-looking young Hispanic in a dark suit, hair shining, rings on his fingers, and said, “Excuse me.”

The desk clerk was busy working a computer behind the reception counter, his hips twitching to the Latin beat. He didn't answer Raylan or look up from the screen.

Raylan said, “I was here one other time. . . .”

The desk clerk tapped some more keys and then looked at the computer screen to see how he was doing.

“You might recall I was with a group,” Raylan said. “Bunch of fellas had DEA written big on the back of their jackets?”

He had the desk clerk's attention now, the guy looking right at him.

“We had search warrants, but you didn't want to let us in any the rooms. You recall that? So we busted down some doors, found who we wanted and took you with us when we left. Remember that time? You give me any shit, partner, I'll run you in again, handcuffed and shackled. What I want is Mr. Deogracias's room number.”

The clerk hesitated.

Raylan let him.

The clerk said, “Four oh eight.”

“Is he in?”

“I don't think so.”

“I called, some guy answered the phone.”

“That would be Santo.”

Raylan said, “Much obliged.”

 

A girl wearing a green Harley-Davidson T-shirt and short white shorts opened the door, barefoot. Cute, but needing to comb her hair and maybe take a bath.

“I called a while ago,” Raylan said, “asked for Bobby Deo and some guy said he didn't speak English and hung up on me.”

The girl turned her head and yelled, “Hey, Santo!” Looking back at Raylan she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, one bare foot on top of the other, and it reminded him for some reason of high school girls back home. She said, “I like your hat,” and even sounded like those girls, this one acting coy, giving him a look.

A man's voice said, “Who is it?” and a young Hispanic guy wearing sunglasses appeared out of the bedroom where a radio was playing Latin riffs, a little guy about five-six with his pants open, sticking in his shirttails.

The girl turned her head again. “He's looking for Bobby.”

“What's he want him for?”

Raylan saw the guy as one of those tough little banty-rooster types as the girl was saying, “What am I, your fucking interpreter? Ask him yourself.” She moved away from the door in time to the music coming from the bedroom. Raylan took a step inside, glanced around to see a mess of clothes thrown on chairs, towels, newspapers, beer cans on the coffee table. He looked at Santo.

“I want to ask Bobby if he did a job the other day for Harry Arno. Is he around?”

Santo zipped up his pants, pulled his belt tight around his waist and buckled it, taking his time.

“Who is this Harry Arno?”

“How come,” Raylan said, “you can't answer a question without asking one?”

“It's the way they are,” the girl said. “They think you can't trust anybody that isn't like them. Where're you from anyway?”

“Right here,” Raylan said, getting his I.D. out and showing his star, “with the United States Marshals Service. I'm not looking to give anybody a hard time. Okay?”

Santo said, “Bullshit,” to the girl. Or it might've been some word in Spanish, Raylan wasn't sure. There wasn't any doubt about the guy's manner, though, turning his back, walking out to the balcony to stand looking off. Some pose.

“These guys work at being a pain in the ass,” the girl said. “I told you, it's the way they are. Sometimes I don't know what I'm doing here.”

Raylan said, “I was gonna ask.”

“They become sociable when it gets dark, they dance like crazy.” She began moving in a kind of mambo shuffle to the radio. “We go to clubs in Hialeah.”

Santo, on the balcony, stood hunched over the metal rail leaning on his arms. Raylan walked out there to stand next to him, thinking all he'd have to do was lift the guy up by his belt and ask again where Bobby Deo was.

Instead, his gaze settled on Ocean Drive and the strip of art deco hotels in their pastel colors that looked to Raylan like big ice-cream parlors. Hotels with cafés fronting on the street where the trendies stayed in season and girls with string bikinis stuck in their bums came cruising by on Rollerblades; young guys hotdogged on skateboards and photographers posed skinny models out on the beach, their outfits taking weird shapes in the wind. Except that right now it was between the hurricane season and the tourist season and the crowd roaming South Beach were locals and bush-league trendies. It was still a show.

He heard the girl behind him and said, “It isn't anything like back home, is it? Wherever that might be.”

She said, “It sure ain't, it's fun.”

“Santo here your boyfriend?”

The banty rooster stirred as the girl said, “God, no, I'm with Bobby, when he's here.”

“Where can I find him?”

Santo, turning his head, said, “Melinda, you don't have to tell him nothing. You hear me?”

She said, “Hey, fuck off. Okay?”

Raylan turned to her standing in the doorway. “I only want to ask him about this friend of mine, if he's seen him.”

Santo said, “Yeah? What do you show your badge for?”

Raylan said, “Why don't you stay out of it, partner?” and looked at the girl again, Melinda. “You know where he is?”

“He's working. He won't be back for, I don't know, a while.”

“I don't have to see him in person, if you have a phone number where I can reach him.”

He waited.

She said, “I might have it someplace.”

“I'd really appreciate it. This friend of mine, Harry Arno? I'm hoping Bobby knows where he is.”

“Bobby was working for him?”

“Yeah, they're friends.”

Santo, turning his head again, said, “I never heard of no Harry Arno.”

Raylan said, “How far's it down there to the pavement, forty, fifty feet? Keep looking at it.”

He turned to see Melinda going into the living room and put his hand on Santo's shoulder.

“Nice talking to you.”

She was bent over the desk now looking at notes, scraps of paper by the phone. Raylan came up next to her. “Will he give you any trouble?”

“Who, Santo? He touches me Bobby'll kill him.” She straightened saying, “Here it is. He called me once and gave me the number. You want me to write it down for you?”

Friendly because they had something in common, their accents and, maybe, because there were moments when she was homesick and he reminded her of some farm town or coal camp way off the interstate.

“I'd appreciate it.”

He watched her write the area code, 407, but couldn't make out the rest of the numbers.

“You say Bobby's working. What's he do?”

The girl looked up at him, maybe a little surprised.

“He's a gardener.”

Raylan said, “Oh.” And said, “He is, huh.”

“A master gardener. Bobby learned grounds beautification when he was up at Starke.”

Raylan took the piece of notepaper she handed him, folded it without looking at the number and thanked her.

She said, “I sure like that hat.”

At the door he touched the brim to her. He would think about this girl, remind himself to check on her in a week or so, see how she was doing. In the hall he stopped to unfold the notepaper the way a poker player might look at his hole card the first time, sneaking a peak and hoping.

And there it was. The same number Joyce had given him for Warren Ganz.

 

He used the pay phone in the lobby to call Torres.

“It's a small world,” Raylan said. “I've already spoken to Bobby Deo without knowing who he was.” And had to explain that. “Now I'll have to have another talk with him. What about Harry's car?”

“Hasn't shown up.”

“You get a chance to check on Dawn Navarro?”

“Nothing in the computer. Who is she anyway?”

“Certified medium and spiritualist, she's a psychic, hangs out at a restaurant in Delray, the
place where Harry was supposed to meet Bobby Deo.”

“She knows Harry?”

“Says she talked to him for a minute. I've got her down as the last person to see Harry before he disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“Or went down to Key West to get drunk in peace. You think she knows what happened to him?”

“She knows
some
thing she's not telling me.”

“Dawn Navarro,” Torres said, “she sounds like a stripper. She lives in Delray?”

“Nearby.”

“You're working out of the Palm Beach County Sheriffs Office, for Christ sake, talk to the people up there, ask around. If she's been up on any kind of charge somebody there will've heard of her. Check with Crimes Persons. I have to tell you how to do your job?”

“I appreciate it,” Raylan said. “Listen, you don't happen to know anything dirty about a guy named Warren Ganz, do you?”