by Carl Hiaasen
“It’ll have to, Laurie, I’m through with the Rock. But maybe before I go, I can come up with a little present for you and Bobby.”
“What, Breeze?”
They talked across the car for fifteen minutes; Laurie got out a notebook and scribbled seriously. Albury, the knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows, hunkered down in the car seat, explaining everything slowly and twice.
“Can he marshall the troops today?” Albury asked finally.
“For something like this? You bet.”
“Good. Now, I gotta go before somebody recognizes me in this car.”
“Breeze, why can’t you tell me what’s happened?”
“Not yet, Laurie.”
“I saw Christine Manning.”
“Me, too,” he said quickly. “Ran into her at the hospital when I was up with Ricky.”
“Oh.” Laurie smiled fondly and touched his cheek. “You’ve been out on the boat, haven’t you? I can always tell, Breeze. Your face is shining, burnished.”
“It’s the summer sun off the water.”
“More than that,” she said, tidying herself for the walk to the Cowrie and fighting back words. “It’s more than just the goddamn sun, Captain Albury.”
IT WAS FIVE MINUTES to two in the afternoon when Drake Boone, Jr., sauntered into his office, a tall young woman on his arm. His timing could not have been worse.
“Long lunch?” asked Christine Manning, rising from a pillowy chair in the lobby.
“Did you have an appointment?” Boone demanded.
Suzanne, his secretary, wore a vaguely helpless expression. “I thought your afternoon was clear, Mr. Boone,” she said, thumbing with mock concentration through the day’s mail.
“Drake, you’d better ask your friend to leave us alone,” said Christine, as if it were merely a suggestion. Boone followed her anxiously into his office. This was not good, not good at all. He closed the door hurriedly.
“You’re finished,” Christine announced crisply. From her briefcase she produced a thick manila file.
Boone laughed sharply. “Sugar, you been tryin’ to nail my ass since you first got to town. I told you then and I’ll repeat it now: it can’t be done. Not by you, anyway. Want a drink?”
“No.” She laid three legal documents side by side on his desk. One of them was fifty-seven pages; the other two were much shorter. The oral interviews had been completed by ten-thirty. Finding somebody to transcribe them so quickly had proved an ordeal.
“I think you ought to read Irma Clayton’s first,” Christine said, pointing to the thickest affidavit.
Boone shook his head. “Don’t need to, sugar. The woman’s obviously distraught. Her little girl is dead and she’s ready to blame it on somebody, so why not me? The only problem,” Boone continued, “is proof. She says that on the afternoon of August whatever-it-was, I stuffed her little girl with Quaaludes, right? Well, it so happens that a young fella from Key West High by the name of John Henry Russell was with Miss Julie that very afternoon, and it also happens that he saw her gulp down a dozen pills she had bought from some longhair during lunch hour. And in there”— Boone aimed a manicured finger toward a file cabinet—“I have a sworn deposition from young Mr. Russell himself.”
It was Christine’s turn to smile. “I’m disappointed in you, Drake. An old Conch fixer like yourself, and the best you can do is buy off some jock from the local high school.”
Boone poured himself a scotch. “You are wasting my time, Miz Manning,” he said icily. “You’re not gonna pin that girl’s death on me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sorry it happened—I did know the girl; she liked me, I guess. She’d come around to the office now and then, looking for a little action. I told her to go home, play with somebody her own age. I was nice about it.”
Christine waited placidly across the desk, listening with an expression of unbearable politeness. Boone sensed that he was talking too much.
“I’ll wait while you read the other affidavits,” Christine offered.
Boone set aside Irma Clayton’s and studied one of the short ones. “Kerry McEvoy?”
“One of Julie’s friends.”
Boone shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Her nickname is Daisy,” Christine said. “She was also in your office on the afternoon of August fifteenth. Tall girl, nice figure.”
Boone’s mouth turned to powder.
“Looks a lot older than fifteen,” Christine said pleasantly. “Her statement there is only about twelve pages, but she gets right to the heart of the matter. You’ll see that she even uses the proper terminology—fellatio instead of blow job. Right there on page three, Drake. And Kerry is also conversant about certain sadomasochistic practices for which you—by her account—recruited Julie Clayton.”
Boone smiled again, only this time his tile-square teeth did not show. “Christine, who is going to believe this? What jury in Key West is going to believe some junior-high whore?”
“Good point, Drake, and precisely the reason that I bothered with a third affidavit.”
Boone looked at the name and groped for the phone. “Suzanne, no calls.” He tried to pour himself a refill but splattered the desk blotter instead.
“Where the fuck did you get this?”
“The Governor made a phone call,” Christine replied. “Judge Snow was at your little party, was he not?”
“I will fight this the whole way,” Boone snarled. “The jury will never hear a word of this. Not a motherfucking whisper of it. Judge Snow is a known drunk.”
“Is that any way to talk about your old friend?”
Boone wrung his hands under his desk. Every shred of common sense told him to clam up and get a lawyer, but he was a persistently curious man. And his adversary, for God’s sake, was a lady prosecutor. His blow-dried ego would not permit retreat.
“It’s all hearsay, Christine, but still, I am interested in knowing how you—how Judge Snow came to offer this affidavit.”
“Simple. He was there; he saw everything and was understandably appalled. When Julie died, he chose to tell us what he knew.”
“And I don’t suppose,” Boone snorted, “that the Governor threatened to yank his drunken ass off the bench if he didn’t cooperate in nailing ole Drake Boone, right?”
Christine returned the file to her briefcase. “Drake, trying to put you in jail with a big trial would be a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. There are easier ways to ruin you. You can scream and shake your fist and strut indignantly in your sappy little corduroy suits; you can do all that till you’re blue in the face. Go ahead and fight, put on a show. But I am telling you that this package is as good as in the mail to the Florida Bar, and that the Governor is prepared to pick up the phone and cash a few political chips with some buddies on the grievance committee. Tom Cruz and the rest of the sewer rats you represent better start hunting for a new lawyer, Drake, because your name is poison from now on.”
They were both standing now. Boone, the shorter of the two, was so red that his head trembled and bobbled, as if his neck itself were a spring.
Christine thought that he might punch her, but she delivered the clincher. “The money you gave Irma Clayton is now the property of the state of Florida,” she said. “Twenty-five thousand dollars in two envelopes. Mrs. Clayton saved them. Don’t bother to deny it, your fingerprints were all over them. Sloppy. Very sloppy. You’ll be hearing soon from the IRS about your charitable contribution.”
“All right!” Boone charged around the desk. He spoke in a dark whisper. “What do you want? How much? I got forty thousand in a wall safe. I can get more.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Boone.”
“Wait, please wait.” He held her arm. “It’s not money, is it? You want somebody. Who, Cruz? I’ll give you Cruz. If you keep my name out of it, I will deliver Winnebago Tom.”
Christine removed his hand from her elbow and eyed him. “Not enough,” she said. “But maybe we can work something out.”
“Tel
l me.”
“I want everybody. Everybody you know. Starting with Cruz and working up.”
Boone stepped back. “I can’t. That’s impossible, it’s suicide,” he blubbered. “They’ll kill me, damnit!”
“See you in Tallahassee,” Christine Manning said.
Drake Boone locked the office door behind her. Slumped at his chair, he pawed listlessly through the desk until he found a bottle of white pills. It was empty. He gulped another glass of scotch and closed his eyes.
Boone’s heart pounded louder but slowly, so slowly that he found himself inserting completely formed ideas between each beat. One of the ideas was suicide. Another was murder. Yet another was to pick up the telephone.
No, Miss Manning had not yet returned to her office.
Drake Boone left his name and number
He shambled to a wall, lifted a Monet print, and fumbled with the office safe. He piled the contents in his arms and returned to his desk.
My, my, my. He was wrong about the money. There was only thirty-four thousand here. Suzanne? “Suzanne!” No one answered.
Boone pushed the cash to one side and leafed through some photographs. They were Polaroids. He frowned at the quality. The focus was oily—or was it his vision? There was pretty Julie on the charcoal sofa, her wrists taped together over her head, her legs spread apart, held apart. From her body you could never have guessed her age. Boone could not discern from the photograph whether Julie was smiling or shouting something. He was in the picture, too, on top of her. Sort of. That Daisy took lousy fucking pictures.
Julie had been such a lovely girl. In one of the snapshots, she was stretched out on her tummy on the same sofa. Boone noticed something around her neck, and he squinted at the picture to see. It was one of his own belts, beige beneath an indigo stripe. Julie didn’t mind that part, as long as he didn’t make it too tight. Boone smiled narcotically. The goddamn Polaroids had given him an erection.
The phone rang. Christine Manning. Miss Bigtime Prosecutor.
“What is it, Drake?”
“I know who attacked the Albury kid. Gimme a break and I’ll tell you.”
“I already know,” Christine said. “It was Winnebago Tom.”
“Yeah, but wait, sugar. Wait a minute,” Boone slurred. “You don’t know who ordered it. I know who ordered it. I know who runs the goddamn Machine. I really do, lady lawyer. I know who.”
That’s my boy, Christine thought triumphantly. “Meet me later at the Pier House,” she said. “About ten.”
IT WAS THREE-FIFTEEN and Huge Barnett’s stomach, a considerable force in his life, growled. Barnett fired the big Chrysler through a red light at Duval and Petronia, made a right on Whitehead Street, and coasted to a stop in front of the Cowrie Restaurant.
“Whose fucking El Dorado is this?”
A microwave salesman from Michigan, sitting with his plump wife at a corner table, dropped half his egg-salad sandwich at the sight of a lantern-jawed blimp with a badge on his chest, filling the doorway.
“It’s my car, officer,” the salesman replied. “I thought I put plenty of money in the meter.”
“That’s a police emergency zone you’re parked in, pal. Better move it.”
“Can I at least finish my lunch?”
Barnett’s fist came down on the counter and the salesman’s ass came out of his chair. The police chief got his parking space.
Barnett took a table for four, by the window. He would have preferred a place at the counter, where it was easier to flirt with the waitresses, but a single stool could not contain his tonnage.
“Darling!” Barnett called to Laurie Ravenel. “Could you bring me a pitcher of Budweiser, please?”
Barnett studied Laurie salaciously as she crossed the floor of the restaurant: tight jeans, a feathery tank top, her dark red hair tied back with a ribbon.
She set the beer next to a chilled glass mug on Barnett’s table. “What would you like to eat, chief?”
Barnett winked.
“That’s not on the menu.”
The chief chuckled. “Well, then,” he said in a wheezy voice, “how ‘bout some black beans and rice, and chicken? Bring me a couple breasts. White meat only.”
“Comin’ up,” Laurie said gaily.
“You sure look fine today, Miss Ravenel.”
“Thank you, chief,” said Laurie, offering a shy smile that lasted two seconds longer than Barnett had counted on.
Laurie placed the order with the kitchen, then popped her head into Bobby Freed’s private office. “Our fat friend is here,” she said. “Better keep your voices down.”
Freed nodded soberly and turned back to the men gathered at his desk: a truck driver from Sugarloaf Key, a bridge tender from Marathon, a gas station man from an Exxon up on Big Pine. They had been part of the crowd at Freed’s civic rally the night before; this afternoon there would be no cheers or applause, only grave talk.
“What about Mark Haller?” continued the trucker.
“Taken care of,” Freed answered.
“I can’t miss the car, can I?” said the gas station man.
“There’s only one like it in the whole world,” Freed said. “There’ll be an elephant driving.”
The men laughed together.
“DON’T YOU EVER WONDER how come I eat lunch here every day?” Huge Barnett was draining a second pitcher of beer.
“Because the food’s so good,” Laurie said.
“No, darlin’, because you’ve got the most delicious-looking pair of tits in Key West, that’s why.” Barnett chomped into a piece of hot chicken with such porcine vigor that the breastbone cracked in his mouth.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that around the customers.”
“Then let’s go somewhere by ourselves so I can talk the way I want.” Barnett lowered his voice. “Ever been for a ride in a police car?”
“Oh, please.” Laurie drifted to another table and started clearing plates. “You know, chief,” she scolded in a whisper, “you wouldn’t be half-bad if you weren’t always so … so crude.”
“Darlin’, I can be a gentleman.” He put down the remains of his chicken and looked up at her, panda-eyed. “You think I can’t be a gentleman if I want?”
Laurie carted the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and puttered around for a minute or two. Through the window in the swinging door she watched Barnett shifting at his table, craning with great effort to look for her. Slowly, she made her way back to the table.
“How about some Key Lime pie?” he said.
“All right. The usual two slices?”
“Right,” Barnett said. “How come you never go out with me?”
“Not so loud.”
“Is it Albury? Is it because of him?”
“Nope.”
“Why, then?”
“Shhh.” Laurie took her time cutting the pie.
“Why, then?” Barnett repeated when she returned.
’“Cause you don’t ask like a gentleman. You want a slice of lime on this?”
Barnett buffed his lips with a napkin. “Miss Ravenel, ma’am, could I have the pleasure of your company for a cocktail tonight over at the Casa Marina?”
“Ohh … all right,” she said. Then, bending over the table: “But not at the Casa, OK? I don’t want any of Breeze’s friends to see us. Can we go up the Keys? Marathon, maybe?”
“Abtholootely,” Barnett said enthusiastically through a mouthful of meringue.
“And not tonight,” Laurie added. “Tomorrow, ‘kay? I get off around five.”
Barnett’s crotch tingled as he wolfed down the Key Lime pie. She would want to get on top, of course. Most women did, except that fat hooker who worked the topless joint on Roosevelt. Yes, this would be the high spot of the weekend. Laurie was a lush-looking woman … experienced, he was sure … patient, artful even. Not like the stringy, hair-triggered hitchhikers he was always picking up. Sluts. Clumsy, too.
Barnett pushed the table away from his bell
y and rose, as if in slow motion. Laurie was crossing the restaurant with the check in one hand.
“Just put it on my tab, darlin’,” he called. “And this old gentleman would be grateful if you wore those jeans tomorrow night. Whaddya say?”
Chapter 21
TOMAS CRUZ wheeled the big Winnebago into a handicapped-only zone and exchanged a cheery wave with the flaccid foot patrolman whose job it was to see that the tourists behaved themselves in the heart of Key West’s Old Town. Winnebago Tom often came to Mallory Docks to watch the tourists watch the sun slip into the sea. With the Winnebago as his traveling office, the docks at sunset were a good place to transact business, pick up snippets of information, and troll for fresh meat to be savored later on the pull-out double bed beneath the ceiling mirror. Tom gnawed at a boiled shrimp. He had two hours to kill before sunset; plenty of time to mellow out. From the cutlery drawer he extracted three pills from a shipment that had come from Colombia the month before. He washed them down with a long swig of champagne from the bottle. Then he slipped off his loafers and sprawled on the sofa in front of his Sony….
“… two weeks in Aspen or the prize behind the green door. The choice is yours. Which will it be?”
Tom knew that scam. The green door was horseshit, nine times out of ten.
“Take the vacation,” he screamed.
The contestant chose the green panel and won a year’s supply of dog food.
“Air-headed bitch,” Tom scoffed.
When the door of the Winnebago sprang open, Tomas Cruz sat up sharply, upsetting the champagne onto the pile carpet.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Tom recovered the bottle, rubbed the lip on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and proffered it to Drake Boone.
The lawyer ignored it. He dropped a green attaché case onto the floor and stripped off his matching tie.
“Where’s Manolo? I need to talk to him right away.”
“Booney, baby, relax. Relax. Have a drink. Have a pill.”
“Christ, what are you on? Your pupils look like Frisbees.”
“What do you want Manolo for?”
“It’s important. I’ll tell him myself.”