by Tom Turner
She flashed a lopsided grin. “I aim to please.”
“I just got here, so I think I’ll wait a while,” Crawford said with a nervous smile.
She leaned close to him and whispered. “Okay. You just let me know when you’re ready.”
“I sure will.”
She started to walk away, then turned. “My name’s Daffy, as in Daffodil. What’s yours?”
“Ah … Mort. As in Mortimer.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks.”
Daffy walked away.
The girl up on the bar was now upside down on a silver pole. He had heard about poles in joints like this before. It dawned on him, duh, hence the name pole dancers. Her boobs were dangling low, almost touching the floor. It was not a sight likely to get anyone aroused.
Suddenly, the pole dancer caught his eye and winked at him. He gave her a quick nod and flagged down the other bartender. She came over. “Get ya ’nother?”
He had only taken two sips of his seven and seven. “No, thanks, just wondered if Johnnie or Frank were here.”
She up-and-downed him. “Who wants to know?”
Christ, not again.
“Name’s Mort.”
“Okay, Mort, and what do you want with Johnnie and Frank?”
“Just wanted to say hi.”
She rolled her eyes like she had expected him to do better than that. “Okay, then, I’ll tell ’em Mort says hi when I see ’em. How’s that?”
Crawford smiled gamely. “I’d like to say it in person.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Mort, they’re really busy.”
It was time to give up. For the moment, anyway. This was not going anywhere. “Okay, no problem.”
Like Daffy, she started to walk away, then turned back. “But if you’re looking for someone to say ‘hi’ to, I can send over Jasmine or Daisy.”
So that was it: the girls’ aliases were flowers. “How ’bout Petunia?” Crawford asked.
The bartender frowned. “Petunia? We don’t have anyone by that name here.”
Crawford put up a hand. “I’m good,” he said, raising his seven and seven.
Turned out, though, Daisy came over anyway. She also was a bottle blonde, but unlike the other women, appeared tattoo-less. Like Daffy, she invited him to go to the back room.
“What exactly goes on back there?” he asked.
“Private dances,” Daisy said, doing her best to turn her voice into a purr. “Just you and me, Mort.”
Crawford shook his head slowly. “Sorry, but I’m on a pretty tight budget.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away. Men on tight budgets were apparently as welcome as men who drank 7-Up.
Crawford realized he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he turned to the man next to him. “’Scuse me.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you been here before?”
The man, wearing a hipster fedora, nodded. “Yeah, more than I should. Why?”
“Just wondered if you know who the owners are?”
“Yeah, there’s one,” the man said, flicking his head at the other side of the bar. “Dude in the baseball cap. Johnnie’s his name.”
Johnnie was talking to the bartender. The one who’d said the brothers were busy.
“Thanks,” Crawford said, getting up from his stool and walking over to Johnnie. He plopped onto an empty stool next to him.
Johnnie, a scarecrow of a man with acne scars, turned to him. “Can I help you with something? My bartender said you wanted to … say hi?”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “My name’s Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. I’m investigating the death of a woman named Grace Spooner that happened three nights ago. Name ring a bell at all?”
“No, can’t say it does. But I read about the murder.”
“How about a place called Cedar Knolls? A place for emotionally troubled teenagers?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell either.”
“’Cause someone who I think is pretty reliable told me that back in your pimping days, that’s where you got a lot of girls from. One being Grace Spooner.”
Johnnie shook his head and glared at Crawford. “You come into my place and insult me with some bullshit allegation?”
The pole dancer, no more than ten feet away, was perpendicular to the pole now, her boobs twisted unnaturally.
“Tell you what, Johnnie, I want you and your brother to come over to the Palm Beach police station tomorrow. Have a little conversation with my partner and me.”
“I got a very busy day tomorrow.”
“We’re all busy, Johnnie. Be there by five or we’ll come after you with handcuffs. That can be a little embarrassing. Though … maybe not for you.”
Johnnie took a pull on his drink. “I’ll see what my brother says.”
“Is he the boss?”
“Hey, look, bro. We’re done here.”
He got up and walked toward a door in the back, opened it, and disappeared.
The bartender with the nicotine-stained teeth and nose stud was giving Crawford the evil eye.
Crawford gave her a wave, then looked at his watch. It was 8:40. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ott’s.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Hey, where are you?”
“At the station. Had a late interview with one of Asher Bard’s buddies, then came back here to catch up on a few things.”
“I’ll be there in ten. Got a lot to catch you up on.”
“I’ll be here,” Ott said. “Hey, what’s that music in the background?”
“It ain’t music, it’s hip-hop,” Crawford said. “I’m at a place called Puss in Boots. Ever heard of it?”
“I’d be lying if I said no.”
Crawford laughed. “All right, see ya shortly.”
Crawford knocked back the last of his drink, which seemed to be nine-tenths 7-Up and one-tenth Seagram’s, dropped a fiver on the bar, and headed for the door.
The muscle-bound man in black nodded as Crawford walked past him.
Crawford was halfway across the parking lot when he heard a footfall behind him then felt a heavy blow to the back of his head … then … lights out.
He came to and saw two young guys in black looming over him. He put a hand up to defend himself.
“Hey, we’re just trying to help,” one said. “You all right, man?”
“Want a hand?” said the other one, bending over and grabbing Crawford’s right arm.
“I’m okay,” Crawford said, as one grabbed his left hand and together they pulled him up to his feet.
“What happened?” one asked.
“Damned if I know,” Crawford said, glancing at his watch. It said 9:10. He figured he must have been unconscious for a good fifteen minutes.
He was damned lucky he didn’t get run over in the parking lot.
The other guy was still holding his arm. Crawford felt shaky at best.
“Did you pass out or something?”
Crawford laughed, which caused a pounding pain in his head. “No, someone whacked me over the head.”
“Take your wallet?”
Crawford knew it wasn’t a smash ’n’ grab and didn’t even need to check to see if his wallet was there. “Nah, they weren’t after my money.”
All of a sudden, a car came wheeling into the parking lot. Crawford recognized it as a PBPD Crown Vic and realized who was at the wheel.
The Vic screeched to a stop ten feet away from Crawford and the two young men. Ott came flying out of the driver’s side. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Someone clocked me on the head coming out of this place.”
Ott yanked his Glock out of his shoulder holster and stink-eyed the two young guys. “Who the hell are you?”
Crawford quickly added, “No, not them.”
Ott moved closer. “Someone really hit you?”
“Yeah … feels like a building fell on me.”
“We just found your friend on
the ground,” one of the young men said.
“Let’s go inside,” Ott said to Crawford. “Get the fucker who did it.”
Crawford held up a hand. “It’s a waste of time. We’re never gonna find him.”
Ott pointed up at a CCTV surveillance camera. “Yeah, but maybe we got him on that.”
Crawford nodded. “All right.” He eyed Ott’s Glock. “Bad idea to walk in with our pieces out, though.” He gave the two young men a nod. “Hey, guys, thanks for your help. Appreciate it.”
They nodded back.
Ott was already taking long strides toward the front door of Puss in Boots.
Crawford followed.
Ott got to the bouncer at the door first.
“Ten bucks,” the muscle-bound man in black said.
“We’re cops,” Ott said, flashing ID, “here on business. You see someone take a two-by-four to my friend here?” He cocked his head, already guessing the answer. “No, ’course you didn’t.”
The bouncer shrugged. “Didn’t see nothin’,” he said to Ott’s back.
Crawford caught up to Ott. “One of the guys I talked to went through that door.” He pointed, walked toward it, and rapped on it. “Open up!”
A few moments later, a man opened the door. “Who are you?”
“Crawford and Ott. Detectives, Palm Beach Police. Who are you?”
“Frank. You the dude my brother talked to?”
Crawford gave the door a push. “Yeah, and we’re gonna have another conversation.”
“Sure, Detective,” Frank said, opening the door to reveal a room with a huge flat screen tuned to a baseball game.
Johnnie was tilted back in a BarcaLounger, a sparsely clad woman in his lap, a Bud in the chair’s cup holder. “Hey, Detective,” he said. Then seeing Ott, “Who’s your buddy?”
“Ott’s my name.” He pointed at the flat screen. “Shut that thing off. We need to talk.”
Johnnie picked up the remote and clicked off the ball game.
“We’re gonna need a little privacy here,” Crawford said to the girl in Johnnie’s lap.
Another woman walked into the room. It was Daffy.
“Oh, hey, Mort,” she said to Crawford.
Ott scrunched up his eyes and looked confused. Daffy glanced at him. “And who are you?”
“His partner, Mort Ott. You gotta leave.”
“Wait, you’re both named Mort?”
“You heard the man, Daff,” Johnnie said. “Get out of here.”
“Okay, okay,” Daffy said, holding up her hands and heading toward the door.
“So, what do you boys want?” Johnnie asked, tilting forward in the BarcaLounger.
“I got hit over the head with a bat or something in your parking lot.”
“Ouch,” said Johnnie, grimacing. “Sorry to hear that. Not the safest neighborhood around.”
“So, you don’t know anything about it?” Ott asked.
“No, ’course we don’t,” Frank said, like his feelings were hurt. “You think we make a habit of taking bats to our customers?”
“So you were just in here minding your own business?” Crawford asked.
“Yeah, watchin’ the ball game,” Frank said. “Having a drink with the girls.”
“You got a security cam that looks out at the parking lot,” Ott said. “We want to take a look at it.”
Frank laughed. “Sorry, man, sucker’s been busted for over a year.”
Ott eyed him.
“Hey, go check it out if you don’t believe me,” Frank said.
Ott glanced over at Crawford. “And what about lunkhead at the door?”
Johnnie laughed. “Wouldn’t call him that to his face.”
“Guy could have followed my partner—”
“Hey, Clem’s harmless. Just looks kinda nasty,” Frank said.
“So, you saying someone from the neighborhood walked into your parking lot and, just for the hell of it, whacked my partner over the head?”
Frank started to say something but Crawford cut him off. “’Cause they weren’t after my wallet, so what would be the point?”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t know, some people are just … angry individuals.”
“You a philosopher, Frank?” Ott said.
“All right,” Crawford said. “Forget about the parking lot. We’re gonna talk about Grace Spooner now.”
Johnnie shrugged. “Told you, first time I ever saw the name was in the article in the paper.”
“What paper?”
“Palm Beach Post.”
“When?”
“Day after it happened, I guess.”
“That’s interesting,” Crawford said, “because her name hasn’t been disclosed yet.”
Johnnie shrugged. “Well, I heard it somewhere.”
“Your story’s starting to leak, Johnnie,” Ott said.
“What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?”
“It’s got holes in it,” Ott said.
Crawford took a step toward Johnnie. “What do the words ‘lewd and lascivious battery’ mean to you, Johnnie?” Then he shot a glance at Frank. “Either one of you can answer.”
“Lascivious?” Johnnie said. “Don’t even know what that means. Don’t sound good, though.”
“It’s what you got charged with ten years back,” Crawford said. “But I guess you had a good lawyer and got off.”
“Hardly remember yesterday. Do you?” Johnnie asked his brother.
“Nope. Ain’t got no recollection what you’re talkin’ about.”
“You got any recollection of ever meeting, or doing business with, Asher Bard?”
Frank looked at Johnnie and shrugged. “Nope,” said Johnnie. “Can’t help ya there neither. Sorry.”
“So, Tuesday night from ten to twelve, where were you?” Crawford asked.
“Right here,” Johnnie said with a smile. “In my favorite seat with my favorite gal”—then dropping his voice—“one of ’em, anyway.”
Ott shook his head. “You’re a real prince.”
Crawford took a step back from Johnnie. “All right,” he said. “I can guarantee you boys, you haven’t seen the last of us.” Then to Ott, “Let’s go.”
“Hope your head feels better,” Johnnie said, in a tone drenched with sarcasm.
“On your way out,” Frank said, “you mind telling our lady friends to come back in?”
“Yeah,” Johnnie said. “So we can pick up where we left off.”
“Told you it’d be a waste of time,” Crawford said, sliding into the passenger side of the Vic.
He was feeling woozy and his eyesight was a little hazy so he had decided to leave his car there and pick it up the next day.
“But we couldn’t just drive away like nothing happened,” Ott said, turning the car key. “Those are two guys who never met a crime they didn’t like.”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “I’m gonna check ’em out tomorrow, see if they got a sheet.”
“How you feeling, anyway?”
“Damn head’s killing me,” Crawford said, feeling the back of it gingerly. “Got a big old goose egg, too.”
“Sorry, man. You want to drive around the neighborhood, see if we can find someone who might know something?” Ott asked, approaching a dilapidated gas station.
“Nah, whoever did it was carrying out an order from Johnnie and Frank.”
“I agree,” Ott said, pulling into the gas station.
“What are we doin’ here?” Crawford asked.
Ott pointed at a sign that said “Ice.”
“Get you a bag … to put on your head.”
17
In Crawford’s haste to get up to Tampa to interview Grace Spooner’s Advance Team boss and friend, he hadn’t gotten around to meeting with the three other men who had left the CPB restaurant with the strippers and gone into The Colony.
He had spoken to two of them and was scheduled to meet with them the morning after he got cracked on the head in the Puss in Boots p
arking lot. At nine he met with Jerry Reposo, who sheepishly came into the station. He had wanted no part of Crawford coming to his house, and Crawford assumed that was because he was married and didn’t want to have a conversation conducted in whispers about what he had seen while in the company of a woman named Ronnie. Or was it Betty?
Crawford quickly ruled him out. He was very convincing in his denial of not knowing who Grace Spooner was, having just moved to Palm Beach three years before. He struck Crawford as a man who probably was an okay husband and father but had the occasional one-night dalliance when it was easy and he’d had too much to drink. In any case, he seemed consumed with guilt. Or was it just that he had gotten caught? It didn’t much matter because Jerry Reposo was no cold-blooded killer.
At eleven that morning, Crawford drove up to Wells Road to the house of the third man from The Colony surveillance footage. His name was Tom Schiller. Crawford walked up the six steps to his porch and rang the bell.
A woman in her fifties with flaming red hair opened the door and smiled ear to ear.
“Hello, hello,” the woman said. “You must be Horst?”
He had been called a lot of things, but never Horst …
“No, I’m Detective Crawford, here to see Mr. Schiller. Your husband, I presume.”
“Yes, he is,” the woman said without much enthusiasm. Then the smile came storming back. “I’m just sorry you’re not Horst.”
Crawford shrugged. “Don’t know who that is.”
“My new masseur. My friend Janie recommended him.”
“I see. Well, is Mr. Schiller here? We have an appointment.”
“He’s out by the pool.” She didn’t move.
He smiled. “If you would, please, let your husband know I’m here.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go get him.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said, still on the stoop.
While waiting, he heard footsteps on the walk behind him and turned. A short man with a Yosemite Sam drooping mustache and a receding hairline walked up the steps, one arm around a folded masseuse table.
“A wild guess. Horst?” Crawford said.
“That’s me,” Horst said, stepping up to the stoop. “Who are you?”
“Crawford, Palm Beach Police.”
“Somebody do something wrong?”
“Not that I know of.”