West Palm: The Complete Novel (8 page)

W
ith his breakfast Fiorello was enjoying an article in the
Funeral Service Insider
about alkaline hydrolysis, or dissolving bodies in lye. The residue was flushed down the drain, which didn't necessarily sound too dignified, but the bones themselves could be cherished in the same receptacles available for cremains.

As the
Insider
put it with rare excitement, “It's not often that a truly game-changing technology comes along.”

Fiorello was surprised to learn that right here in this state, at the University of Florida College of Medicine in Gainesville, they'd been disposing of medical school cadavers in lye for over a decade.

Taking a thoughtful sip of coffee, he looked up from the
Insider
to see his former night watchman staring at him from the TV screen, a sublime expression on his usually somber face.

Fiorello grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.

“. . . have any information about this man, please call Palm Beach County Crime Stoppers at eight-hundred four-five-eight -TIPS . . .”

Fiorello leapt for a pen and copied the number on his napkin.

What had the crazy bastard done?

Fiorello knew.

Zach was the one who attacked that girl on Christmas Eve.

He hurried toward the phone.

Then he stopped and asked himself aloud, in his soft undertaker's voice, “Do you want to be associated in any way with your former night watchman?” Because when they look in Zach's computer, which they certainly will if they find out where he lives, they're going to find photographs of refrigerator drawers pulled out with naked cadavers lying in them, decorated with Easter bunnies, witches' hats and broomsticks, flags and firecrackers, not to mention God knows what sticking out of vaginas. And if I'm the one to turn Zach in, the world will know the shots were taken in Fiorello's Funeral Home.

I better call anonymously from a phone booth.

Again in his funereal voice he asked himself, “Is there any way they can tell the pictures are from Fiorello's Funeral Home if an anonymous person calls?”

Of course there is. The corpses will have recognizable faces and will be traced, though how I'm not sure. Maybe the faces will be shown on TV, or published in the
Palm Beach Post
. Anyway the families will find out, and they'll definitely remember where they entrusted their loved ones. They'll definitely remember how soothing Mr. Fiorello was. How dignified. How expensive. And they will definitely sue Mr. Fiorello puce.

It was inevitable.

Whether I call or not, it's inevitable.

So I can be a good citizen and call, or I can pray that Zach and his computer are never discovered.

Fiorello closed his eyes and prayed.

R
ed too recognized Zach's face on the special Crime Stoppers segment of the morning news. His TV was suspended high on the wall across from his counter in his narrow trailer office. He had it on mute for the sake of politeness, being that he was listening to Mrs. Klinesmith complain.

“The guy next door to me's moved in a rooster, wakes me up every morning. You gonna tell me you haven't heard a rooster crowing in the morning?”

“That Hermosa's unit?” asked Red, stuffing this month's eviction notices in their envelopes.

“I got no beef with Hermosa. She's a hardworking woman, like me. But that deadbeat she's got living with her? You know she gave up a job with a house attached to live with this bum?”

“What kind of house?” inquired Red with professional interest.

“A parish house. She was the priest's housekeeper. She's a woman of strong faith, and she can have house and job back anytime. The priest keeps calling her.”

“Don't encourage her. I need the rent.” And I've been winning on the rooster, he thought.

“I know this rooster wasn't her idea,” declared Mrs. Klinesmith. “She's got enough feeding the Brothers Sanchez without a rooster too.”

“I'll have a word with him.”

“Who? The rooster?”

“Right, the rooster.”

That was the moment when Red saw his tenant's face appear on the TV screen, accompanied by the Crime Stoppers number to call if you had any knowledge, etc. Though Red couldn't hear the announcer, they never had this kind of warning on the local news unless the person posed a physical threat to the community.

“I haven't had a good night's sleep in twenty-five years, and now I have a rooster waking me up?” continued Mrs. Klinesmith while the Crime Stoppers phone number streamed above her head. She had a wanted felon living in her trailer park and she was complaining about a rooster. People always complain about the wrong things, reflected Red.

“I'll take care of it, Mrs. Klinesmith, don't you worry.”

“I gotta get my sleep if I'm gonna be on my feet all day. You try greeting people in the Walmart when you've had your sleep interrupted by a rooster. I'm lucky to have any job in this economy, so I put on a happy face and tell people where they can find iPods, suppositories, whatever.”

She'd occasionally greeted Red in the Walmart, directing him to supplies he needed for the trailer park.

Mrs. Klinesmith limped out, and Red turned up the sound on the TV, but the Crime Stoppers segment was already over.

Having enjoyed none of his own sojourns in prison, Red had a natural aversion to squealing on a fellow human being. On the other hand, a wanted felon living in the trailer park was an open invitation to the cops and, depending on their mood, they might extend their investigations to him. Which meant Zach had to go.

Occasionally when Red banged on a trailer door requesting that a tenant leave, usually for nonpayment of rent, the tenant in question pulled a weapon. Bearing this in mind, as well as the Crime Stoppers alert, Red opened his desk drawer, and looped his holster through his belt; the weight of the gun it held gave him the confidence to face a hunted man.

He hung the
BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES
sign on his office door and headed across the trailer park, a nice homey place seething with crime at the best of times. As long as Red got his rent each month, anything else was not his business. Unless they set fire to a trailer cooking meth, then that was a problem. Or if a couple of Haitians shot each other over a game of dominoes, like happened a few weeks ago, that was a problem. The way he saw it, an all-points bulletin about a dangerous criminal was a problem.

On his way to Zach's, he stopped off at Hermosa's trailer, which stood out from its neighbors because of an advertising sign pointing toward the door,
TARJETAS TELEFÓNICAS
, and a mouthwatering smell.

He knocked, then pushed his way in. What he saw was a fat lady perspiring as she steamed tamales on the stove and three guys sitting at the kitchen table doing nothing. One held a rooster in his lap.

“Your bird is waking up Mrs. Klinesmith.”

“This bird is a champion,” replied Osvaldo, stroking the bird in question.

“Fine. He's a champion, but you gotta muffle him at sunrise.”

“I don't wanna break his spirit.”

“I'm not talking about breaking his spirit. Like they do with a parrot, put a cover over his cage so he won't see the sun come up.”

“He thinks he brings it up. I can't go into the ring with a bird who doesn't think he brings the sun up. Pride is everything with a bird like this.”

“How about he wakes the sun up at eight?”

“We'll give it a try, but I'm not promising.”

The bird glared at Red with a look that said,
You think you can stop me from bringing the sun up when I want to?
One of the two silent Sanchez brothers began filing down the razors that attached to the rooster's claws.

“Wait a second,” said Red. “Better idea. I got a trailer opening up at the opposite end of the park from Mrs. Klinesmith. We'll move you in tonight.”

“Rodriguez likes it here,” said Osvaldo. “He's used to it.”

“Listen to me, Osvaldo, I got a problem. Mrs. Klinesmith's been living in this trailer park longer than I have. She's my oldest surviving tenant. I can't let Rodriguez drive her out. You either move to the trailer that's coming vacant, or you leave. I'm giving you an opportunity here.”

Osvaldo held up the scowling bird. “You yourself have won money on Rodriguez.”

“I'm not criticizing Rodriguez. He'll be happier in this other unit. It's closer to the sunrise. A perfect shot through the trees to the horizon.”

“Maybe we give it a try,” said Osvaldo.

The fat lady removed the steamer from its pot and set it in the sink. With a pair of tongs she detached a cornhusk-wrapped tamale, wrapped it in tinfoil, and handed it to Red.

“Thanks, Hermosa.”

Hermosa answered with a nod that said she'd make sure they moved tonight. Though she never uttered a word in front of her three men—Red wasn't sure which was the boyfriend and which were the hangers-on—she was the one who paid the rent, with her tamale business, cleaning business, sewing business, and phone card business. All the Brothers Sanchez did was sit around with a rooster in their lap, but Red knew better than to address Hermosa directly. These three loafers had as much pride as Rodriguez. Like him, they thought they brought the sun up.

Noise pollution problem solved, Red backed out of the trailer with his hot tamale. Then recalling the warning on his TV screen, he moved his holster farther forward to make it more visible.

As he'd told Osvaldo, Zach's unit was at the far end of the park, and knowing that Zach worked nights, Red could only hope he was still in bed and too foggy to reach for his weapon.

He hammered on the trailer door . . . heard a shuffling.

His tenant opened the door with a look that, put into proper perspective, Red realized belonged to a maniac.

“Time to shove off, pal.”

“What do you mean? I paid my rent.”

“I mean I just saw your face on TV. The cops are looking for you, and it's not a traffic violation.”

Zach stared through him.

“I guess you don't watch TV in the morning,” Red concluded. “I'm no snitch, and whatever you did I don't care. It's just that I can't afford trouble here. I used to be in illegal activity myself, and I have reasons for not wanting the cops crawling up my ass. I'm sorry it's come to this. You were a good tenant.” Like Fiorello, Red had learned to keep these confrontations on a soothing level. When kicking somebody out, you try to make them think you're doing them a favor. Actually, he
was
doing this one a favor.

Without saying a word, Zach started packing his few possessions in his saddlebags.

Red watched, admiring his neatness.

“I'm paid up for the month,” said Zach.

“Right.” Red dipped into his pocket and counted out a partial refund. “By the way, on TV you were wearing the same T-shirt you've got on now.”

Robotically Zach took off his jeans and T-shirt, and changed into his black funeral suit. Without expression he looked at himself in the little mirror above the kitchen sink.

“The bald head,” said Red.

Zach put on a baseball cap.

“Not good,” said Red. “The contrast is too sharp. Wait here, I'll be right back.”

In his office trailer, he searched among his collection of garments left in the night when their owners fled. He found what he was looking for . . .

By the time he returned with the big black Hasidic hat, Zach had packed his saddlebags and was waiting.

Red handed him the hat. “Now you're kosher.”

Zach put it on, gazed at himself again in the small mirror.

“You want to grow a beard, if you can,” said Red.

Zach ran a hand over his chin and nodded.

“You got shades? If not I'll give you a pair.”

Zach reached into his pocket and put on his shades.

“I don't think you're going to be recognized in this getup,” said Red.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don't mention it. And if you beat the rap, you're always welcome back.”

They stepped outside. Zach unchained his bicycle and strapped on his sleeping bag, followed by the saddlebags.

“A Hasid on a bike. It works,” said Red. “But not on Saturday.”

His former tenant stoically wheeled his bike away, while Red reflected on the many departures from the trailer park he'd watched, and those he hadn't been given the opportunity to watch because of the hour of exit. This one had been quiet and courteous. It was a shame.

He went back into the vacated trailer, and looked around. Spotless. Hermosa wouldn't even have to clean it.

He made his way to the trailer's bedroom and peered through the window at the adjacent vacant lot and the horizon from which Rodriguez would be bringing up the sun tomorrow.

F
lowers were looking brighter, the sky was a clearer blue, traffic seemed to move more quickly, and for no apparent reason Smoker found his Jetta steering itself toward Flamingo Park where the amazon was hiding out with her friend.

A male friend. Just a friend, she said.

Was that possible? Immediate investigation required.

He parked behind the silver Honda, and walked up the flowery path to the pink-and-turquoise house.

At his knock the door swung open to reveal a breathless old broad. “Do you like rutabaga?”

“Sure. You got some?”

From the back of the house he caught sight of the amazon coming forward with a compact pistol.

“I'm one of the good guys,” called out Smoker. “You can put away your gun.”

When she saw who it was her face broke into the kind of smile you wish would welcome your appearance everywhere. “Sorry,” she said, “I'm a little cautious.”

“Better cautious than . . . not cautious.”

She turned to the old broad. “Faith, this is Tim Smoker.”

“Is he my husband?”

“Your husband passed away, Faith.”

“Good. I never liked the son of a bitch.”

Tara set Faith in motion with a gentle nudge, and the merry widow glided off, smoothing down her hair.

“Come on in,” said Tara, leading him into the living room where a life-size Santa stood in a sleigh.

“This the man of the house?”

“Matthew goes in for Christmas in a big way.”

“He's got the elves, he's got it all,” said Smoker approvingly.

“Want a drink? We have three bars. Take your pick. They're all for sale.”

He selected the bamboo motif, and sat down on a stool. “Looks like something out of a Hemingway story. Hemingway's big in Florida. Have you been to his house?”

“Not yet.”

“You should go. Cats all over the place. All descended from Hemingway.”

“First thing I'll do. As soon as I no longer have to lay low.”

He watched her slide the Colt beneath the counter.

“Has something come up?” she asked.

“The TV spot got some calls. Mainly cranks.” In other words, nothing had come up, so what was he doing here, talking about Hemingway's cats?

She was wearing a particularly alluring T-shirt and particularly alluring baggy sweatpants. Can baggy sweatpants be alluring? What am I seeing here? He realized if she were wearing aluminum siding, he would find it alluring.

“I've had some Hemingway cases myself,” he went on. “Woman aiming at a pit bull drills her husband by mistake. You ever read that story? ‘The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber'?”

“How about a long happy life?”

“We're working on that one.”

She met his eyes and smiled again. It wasn't an intimate smile, but it wasn't just a social smile either. It was something in between, requiring further investigation.

“What'll you have to drink?” she asked.

“In keeping with the bamboo theme, rum and Coke.”

She reached behind the bar. The slight twist of her body, though not self-conscious or provocative, provoked his further interest in baggy sweatpants.

“I like this gin joint,” he said, and then, because he had no legitimate reason to be dropping by, to ease the atmosphere he added, “You look good behind a bar. You could get a job. Couple weeks at bartending school . . .”

It was the dumbest suggestion in the world for someone who couldn't risk being out there dealing with the public, and she ignored it. He said, “I'm really just dropping in to see how you're getting along.” And to study baggy sweatpants.

“I appreciate it.”

He sipped his rum and Coke, and found himself staring at a red two-headed snake bracelet around her wrist. A matching snake was on her other wrist. He frowned, feeling something rattling around in his mind, then filed it away for future reference.

At the sound of the front door, Faith streaked on by them and gave what was apparently her standard welcome. “Do you like rutabaga?”

“Only the way you make it.”

“Is Donny coming back?”

“No, Mother.”

“I never liked the son of a bitch.”

Matthew strolled into the living room. “Let me guess. It's Sam Spade. I'll have what he's having.”

“Rum and Coke,” said Tara.

Smoker saw an impeccably dressed young man, handsome in the style of men's magazines, and concluded, after this brief investigation, that the young man and Tara were just friends and would never be more than friends.

“Nice bar you've got here,” Smoker said.

“Which one?”

“This one.”

“The Casablanca.”

“See.” Smoker turned to Tara. “Didn't I say it reminded me of Hemingway?”

“Wrong Bogart movie,” said Matthew. “The Hemingway one is
To Have and Have Not
.” He ran his hand across the counter. “Solid oak. It's rare to find a forties bamboo bar as pristine as this because they were frequently kept outside—”

“Matthew,” interrupted Tara, “please don't try to sell your furniture to the private investigator.”

“The foot rail's in perfect condition,” Matthew continued, “as are the three shelves in back.” He accepted his rum and Coke and raised it in a toast. “I guess you haven't cracked the case, or we'd be drinking champagne.”

“Keep a bottle on ice.”

“You're close?”

“I'm always close.”

“How reassuring.” Matthew put down his glass, picked up a flowered rag, and wiped a drop of liquid off the counter. Smoker stared at the flowered pattern. It was the scarf he'd bought for Tara. She wore a different one today, and though he couldn't tell why, he knew it was better than the scarf currently being used as a bar rag. Forcing himself to make nice even though they were using his gift as a rag, he said, “I'm glad Tara's found a safe place to stay.”

“Mother's always on guard.” Matthew waved the bar rag toward the Christmas display. “And Santa Claus, of course.”

“As neighborhoods around here go,” said Smoker, “Flamingo Park is pretty safe.”

“Somebody stole my DVD player the other week.”

“Just the DVD player? They must've been in a hurry for their next fix. They could've backed a truck up to your door and started their own museum.” Smoker downed the rest of his drink, which should've been his cue to leave, but he didn't want to, so he said to Tara, “You got your color back.”

“I take complete credit,” said Matthew.

“You gave her a blood transfusion?”

“I've been giving Tara transfusions since high school.” He sauntered over to a bookshelf and drew out a school magazine and yearbook.

“You kept that crap?” she asked.

He made a sweeping gesture at the antiques all around them. “The past is where I live, darling.”

Spreading the magazine open on the bar in front of Smoker, he pointed to a photo of the girls' basketball team.

“How could you be so sadistic?” demanded Tara.

“I'm not handcuffing you to the bed. That's tomorrow night.”

Smoker studied the picture. It was so unflattering he found it touching. A lanky teen not yet comfortable with her femininity, she scowled at the camera as if she wanted to slam-dunk it.

“The basic ingredients were there,” Matthew said. “But the hair was wrong, the attitude was wrong—”

“I was playing center, for chrissake.”

“That's no excuse for looking like Godzilla.” Matthew opened up the yearbook. “Then she met me, and I gave her a transfusion.” He paged through the portraits. “Read what it says underneath.”

Smoker read aloud, “Cinderella goes to the ball.”

It was a remarkable transformation, but Smoker knew that what had backed down Tara's attacker on the boat was the ferocious basketball player, not beautiful Cinderella.

“Very impressive,” he told Matthew. “Can you do anything for
me
?”

“You're perfect just as you are.”

Smoker found himself warming to Matthew, probably because he was gay and therefore not a candidate for the pillow next to Tara's. Which led to the next question: Am I?

“Is your office from the Sam Spade era?” asked Matthew. “If not, we can make a perfect replica.”

“Matthew,” said Tara, “you're doing it again.”

“I have a vintage door with a pebbled glass panel just waiting for your name in bold black lettering.”

Deciding there was only one way to shut Matthew up, Tara took out her cell phone, brought up the Seafarers surveillance photo sent to her by Smoker, and placed it on the bar. “This is the guy who slit my throat.”

“Why didn't you show me this before?” demanded Matthew.

“I was waiting for the perfect moment.”

He gazed down at the image in the phone. “Just what every mother wants, a good-looking guy with an insane expression on his face.” He turned from the photograph to Smoker. “How
are
you going to catch him?”

“We know he's still around.”

“Looking for me,” said Tara.

“He's active,” continued Smoker, “and when they're active they come up on the radar.”

“Our radar couldn't always detect the smugglers in their go-fast boats,” said Tara. “Now smugglers are using submarines. And that's what
he
feels like. Some underwater monster.”

Matthew picked up the phone and studied the picture more closely. “I hate to say it, but this is an intelligent face.”