"No, I'm a policeman," Joe told him.
The boy looked skeptical. "Where's your uniform?" he asked, "and your gun?"
"They don't let us carry guns on airplanes most of the time," Joe explained, "and I'm a detective, so I don't wear a uniform. That way, the bad guys can't see me coming."
"Let's see your badge, then," the little guy requested, clearly doubting Joe's veracity.
Joe could see the boy's mind working. No gun, no uniform, no handcuffs, not even Mickey Mouse ears. Some cop. Joe showed him the badge and explained at greater length about being a detective and working in plain clothes.
"Man, that's really not fair," the boy complained. "How will the bad guys know they're supposed to shoot you if you look just like everybody else? You could sneak right up on them and they wouldn't even know to run or anything. That's gotta be cheating. There must be rules about that."
Joe ordered a fresh soda for the young man. He could spot a criminal defense attorney a mile away, even a fledgling one. He figured he might as well start building some rapport, in case he met this fellow in court one day. When the family got off in Orlando, Joe shook hands with his new friend and said, "Tell Mickey that Sergeant Denardo said hello."
Dopey had indeed gotten Tony’s message when he went back to his room for his afternoon nap. Tony was getting in at about 8:30 p.m. This would cramp Dopey’s style. He wasn’t sure how to act around Tony. He wondered why Tony was coming instead of Ski Cat. Tony was like Ski Cat’s boss or something, and besides, he was white.
Dopey wasn’t comfortable around white people. He couldn’t understand a lot of what they said. They talked funny and used different words, and a lot of them looked at you like you were dirt through those little pig eyes they had. They smelled like soap and deodorant, and you couldn’t trust them to tell you up from down without lying about it. He was going to give Ski Cat a piece of his mind about this.
Tony wasn’t even here yet, and he was worrying Dopey so much that he couldn’t get to sleep. Tony would probably mess up his plans for the evening, too. Dopey was supposed to go out with his Jamaican friend and a couple of visitors from Colombia. The Jamaican said they were important and he and Dopey were going to take them out to look at tits and maybe get massages, with Dopey’s credit card.
Dopey’s Jamaican friend always had a lot of important people he and Dopey needed to show a good time. He was working on lining up some deals for himself and Dopey. Dopey wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew deals were something big. Ski Cat lined up deals. He was going to be impressed when he found out Dopey could line up deals, too. Maybe then Ski Cat wouldn’t slap him upside of the head and call him a fool, when he saw Dopey could line up deals.
Dopey was lucky he had found the Jamaican. That dude knew some shit. Dopey could tell. He could get into all the after-hours clubs in South Beach. He could even get Dopey in, if Dopey used his credit card. The Jamaican said that after a while, the doormen would know Dopey without the card and let him in by himself, like they did the Jamaican. He told Dopey that Dopey had to use the card because he was on probation.
Dopey couldn’t figure out how he got on probation. He thought you had to go to court, and maybe even to jail, before you could get on probation. He knew he hadn’t done the right stuff to get on probation, but he kept his mouth shut. Ski Cat had taught him that. If the Jamaican wanted to believe that Dopey was on probation, fine. Let him think that. Dopey didn’t want the Jamaican to find out he wasn’t on probation. He might think less of Dopey if he found out Dopey had never even been arrested.
Dopey couldn’t figure out whether he wanted to be like Ski Cat or like the Jamaican. Ski Cat was a big time drug dealer, with his own Lincoln Navigator and a bunch of people working for him. Besides, he was Dopey’s big brother, and he had taught Dopey nearly everything Dopey knew. But the Jamaican, that guy was cool. He was big time. He took Dopey to all kinds of great places, and he never seemed to have to work. He mostly just partied, and he knew all kinds of hot mamas.
Dopey could really get used to that kind of living. Dopey never had as much fun hanging out with Ski Cat as he did with the Jamaican. Ski Cat was always working and running errands for Fat Tony. Damn. He had almost forgotten about Fat Tony. He started worrying about Fat Tony again. What could he want with Dopey? Where was Ski Cat?
Dopey had an idea. He pictured himself taking Fat Tony out to some of the clubs with the Jamaican. He could show Fat Tony he was somebody -- not just Ski Cat’s little brother. He and the Jamaican and the important Colombians could line up deals while Fat Tony looked at tits. Maybe he’d get Fat Tony a massage, or a friction dance. Show him Ski Cat’s little brother was big time.
Dopey called the Jamaican’s pager and keyed in his number at the hotel. A few minutes later, his phone rang. Dopey explained to the Jamaican that he had an unexpected visitor from out of town. He needed the Jamaican to help him impress the fat white man. The Jamaican was on board instantly.
"You the man, Dopey," he said. "We fleece that fat white sheep."
Dopey finally dropped off to sleep.
Tony shuffled off the plane a little worse for his trip. He looked around for Dopey, not really expecting him at the gate, but just in case, he didn’t want to miss him. He had to tell Dopey the bad news about Ski Cat tonight. He didn’t spot Dopey, so he started making his way to baggage claim. That’s where he had told Dopey to meet him. As he scanned the crowd, he noticed that there weren’t very many white people here.
He guessed the spics and niggers owned this town now. Damned feds. It was all their fault. At least he didn’t have to work with that crazy Ski Cat any more. Maybe he could find a white guy to take his place. Hah, there wasn’t much chance of that and Tony knew it. Besides, even if he could find a white guy that could do the job, Sam probably wouldn’t let Tony hire him. He couldn’t figure out Sam’s attitude. Being white didn’t seem to matter to him. It was like he bought off on all that equal opportunity stuff. Next thing Tony knew, Sam would probably make him hire a faggot or an old woman.
Tony found himself at the conveyor belt in the baggage claim area. His reverie ended as he simultaneously spotted Dopey and his suitcase. He motioned Dopey over with an abrupt gesture, and, snatching his suitcase off the conveyor, handed it to Dopey in one fluid motion.
Dopey reverted to old survival skills, and took the suitcase, offering an humble, "Welcome to Miami, Mr. Tony," as he led the way out to the car he and Ski Cat had rented a few days before.
Tony saw the guy in the back seat, smoking, as Dopey put his suitcase in the trunk.
"Who’s that, Dopey?" he demanded.
"That’s my friend. He name Carlisle. From Jamaica. He important. We line up some deals. You see in a little bit. We show you some tits while me and Carlisle do some deals with some friends a ours from Colombia. You see."
Tony didn’t like this. Dopey's attitude needed some attention. He was all set to tear into Dopey for being such a smart ass, but here was some unknown thug right in the middle of everything. Besides, he needed some privacy to tell Dopey about Ski Cat. He’d just have to bide his time. He bit his tongue and got in the right front seat. Dopey got in and started the engine.
Turning to look over his shoulder, Dopey said, "Carlisle, this Fat Tony. He a friend of my brother, Ski Cat, I told you about. Tony do deals with Ski Cat…"
Tony had all he could stand, at that point. Dopey knew to call him Mr. Tony, and he knew not to talk business in front of strangers. Under Tony’s 325 pounds, there was still a 220-pound all-state tackle. He dealt Dopey a solid backhand that cracked his head against the driver’s window and set his eyes to wobbling. Then he felt the cold steel of a pistol barrel jammed against the base of his skull.
"Look like your fat friend need to show some respect, Dopey," Carlisle intoned.
"I’ll teach you respect," Tony was saying as the Jamaican pulled the trigger.
"Drive, Dopey," said the Jamaican. "We dump this fat piece of shit out in the ‘glades
, feed the ‘gators. We hurry, we still catch up with the Colombians."
Jimmy was having a tough time working out the details of Leatherby’s demise. He and Sam thought it would be best if Leatherby did not die at the clinic. They already had enough problems there without attracting more attention. They figured a suicide note expressing remorse for the hit and run death would be plausible, but they needed to have Leatherby home alone in order to execute the plan. Jimmy surreptitiously checked Leatherby’s calendar while Frances was in the ladies’ room and discovered that Sarah was visiting her parents on the West Coast. Leatherby’s fate was sealed.
Jimmy spent the latter part of the afternoon trying to work out how to generate a suicide note. Rick was such a jerk that it was difficult to make any expressions of remorse ring true. Jimmy believed you had to be nuts to pull the plug on yourself, so maybe if Leatherby’s note was a little out of character, it would render it more credible.
Jimmy and Sam both thought it would be fitting for Rick to die in an automobile crash, but that was too complicated to arrange on short notice. Drugs could work, but they worried that drugs could lead the cops to look too closely at the clinic. Sam favored a .38 special in the mouth, but Jimmy could find no indication of the doctor ever owning a gun of any sort, let alone a pistol. Introducing a pistol into the equation when they didn’t know where Leatherby stood on the handgun issue could be risky. Suppose the jerk was an avowed gun control freak.
They finally decided Leatherby should hang himself in his garage. Jimmy had scouted the garage with an eye to its suitability and decided it was perfect. There was even a short stepladder for Leatherby to stand on as Jimmy put the noose around his neck.
Jimmy was waiting when Leatherby’s Porsche pulled into the garage that evening. Although Rick was surprised to see him, Jimmy's presence didn't alarm him.
"Why are you here?" Rick asked, voice brimming with arrogance.
"Sam sent me, Doc," Jimmy responded, quietly, his voice and manner projecting deference. "Sam needs your help with a plan to get Connie under control. He's got a way to get this whole thing put back together. We're gonna make her a full participant in the business, but we need to get you back on her good side, see."
"She's pretty pissed," Rick said. "How are we gonna do that?"
"Well, first thing, we need you to write her a letter telling her how broken up you are about everything, starting with the accident, and how much you miss her, Doc."
"That might be a pretty good plan, but I don't know where she is right now, Jimmy. How the hell am I gonna send her a letter?" Rick saw some merit in the plan Jimmy sketched out, but he was dubious about the chance of reconciliation. Connie had sounded far removed from forgiveness the last time they had spoken, and he reflected his doubt in his demeanor and tone of voice. "What about the money she's after?"
"Look, Doc, an apology is pretty low risk. The lady’s crazy about you. Anybody can see that. How could she refuse? Just write her about how bad you feel about everything that’s happened. Don’t say nothin’ about her comin’ back, or the money either. Just cry the blues. No broad in love can resist that. She’ll be back in a heartbeat. Then we'll figure out how to deal with her. Money, piece of the action, whatever."
Jimmy’s reasoning resonated with Rick, finally. They were right. Connie was crazy about him. She always had been. What could it hurt to tell her he was down in the dumps? Maybe she would give him another chance. That was all he needed. Once he had her back under his spell, he could charm her again, like always.
"But where will I send the note, Jimmy? I don’t know where she is."
Jimmy saw that Leatherby had taken the bait. He played his fish skillfully, explaining that Sam had a way to get the note to Connie. He, Jimmy, didn’t know how, but Sam was confident he could put the note in Connie’s hands. Rick bought this readily enough. He had suspected that Connie had started dealing directly with Sam and this just confirmed his suspicions. Two could play this devious game. He’d show the deceitful bitch.
"Jimmy, you’re on to something," Rick smiled, turning on the charm. "Come on into my study and let’s work on the note."
Jimmy followed him into the house, marveling at how readily this turkey could deceive himself. What a moron. He would have to watch Sam when it came time to recruit another accomplice. Sure, they needed somebody who was easily led, but not as easily as this guy.
They settled into Rick’s study, Rick behind the big, antique partners’ desk and Jimmy in a side chair. Rick offered brandy from a Waterford decanter, but Jimmy declined politely. Rick poured himself a generous portion, and then opened his desk drawer and took out a piece of heavy, cream colored notepaper. He uncapped the biggest gold fountain pen Jimmy had ever seen and started to write.
Jimmy had forgotten about fountain pens. The sight of the pen took him back to his grade school days, when the nuns had insisted that everybody learn to write with cheap fountain pens that were filled from glass bottles of ink. He fondly recalled all the mischief that had been possible as a result of those ink bottles. Kids now couldn’t dip any little girl’s pigtails in ink bottles.
They must do something to warrant a smack on the knuckles with a ruler, though. Hell, Jimmy thought, these days, they probably pierced their tongues with paper clips in the lavatories, or something. He was glad he wasn’t trying to raise kids in today’s crazy society.
"Okay," said Rick. "See what you think of this." He passed Jimmy a single sheet of paper.
"Dearest Connie," Jimmy read aloud, "I’ve never felt so disgusted with myself as I have since the accident. I should never have let all this get so far out of hand. Without your support, I can’t go on. All of my guilt is just too big a burden to bear. I only hope that someday you’ll find a way to forgive me for all I’ve put you through. Please know that you have always been the one who made going on worthwhile. Without you, life has no purpose. Begging your forgiveness, Rick."
"Doc, it’s a masterpiece," Jimmy said sincerely. He almost thought it would bring the broad to heel. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. Jimmy had to get this chump back into the garage now.
"Doc, I got one of the boys to slip me in here by boat, so nobody would notice. I didn’t want your neighbors wondering about the hired help coming to visit. What’s the chance of you drivin’ me off the island so nobody’ll see me leave, either?"
"Jimmy, you’re a genius," Rick said in his most patronizing tone. "You think of everything. No wonder you’re Sam’s right hand man. Let’s go."
Jimmy folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, careful not to wrinkle it, and followed Rick out to the garage. As they walked down the hall, he took a small coil of sash cord out of his other pocket. As Rick was opening the door of the Porsche, Jimmy slipped a loop of cord over Rick’s head and drew it tight around his neck.
This took Rick completely by surprise, and the sash cord cut deeply into his flesh as Jimmy drew up the slipknot he had so carefully worked into the end of it. Rick began to claw frantically at the cord, but it was buried so deeply in his neck that he could not grip it. As his vision narrowed and he realized he was about to black out, he was dimly aware of Jimmy tossing the cord over a rafter in the garage ceiling. Jimmy kept pressure on the cord until Rick lost consciousness and ceased to struggle. Then he propped Rick against the car, allowing the cord to go slack for a moment. He heard a rasping intake of breath as Rick's body reflexively fought to stay alive.
Jimmy quickly set the ladder up under the rafter. As he climbed the ladder while supporting Rick with his right arm, he took up the slack in the cord with his left hand. When he had Rick high enough so that he could have stood on the top step of the ladder, he dropped him, putting his own weight on the other end of the sash cord. He kicked the ladder out from under them. Jimmy finished up by tying the end of the cord to the steering wheel of the Porsche through the still-open door. He took the note out of his pocket and put it in the driver’s seat. He took a quick look around, checking to see that nothing looked
wrong. He wished he had been able to wear latex gloves, but Leatherby would have noticed. He had been careful not to touch any smooth surfaces that he imagined would retain a fingerprint. Jimmy slipped quietly back to the kayak on the edge of the marsh and paddled silently into the night.
Day 14, Morning
Donald’s truck rattled to a stop outside the Leatherbys’ place at The Marshe Landes. He felt sort of funny going there like nothing had happened after he had told Joe about the car. He wondered if the Leatherby people knew he had told the police, or if they even knew that the police knew.
He wished he had thought to ask Joe about all that, but there was no way for him to do it now. Lizzie had told him that Joe had gone to Miami Beach on some kind of police business. Kathy had told her about it. Donald thought that was lucky for Joe to get to take a trip like that as part of his job.
Donald felt lucky just to have this truck to drive while he worked to pay off his hospital bill, but Joe had really hit the jackpot. Miami Beach! Donald had seen Miami Beach on television. It looked interesting. He wondered if Luther’s brochure trick would work down there. He didn’t even know if they had subways in Miami Beach.
Donald reminded himself that he had raccoons to catch, and vans to wash, and kitchens to paint. Then he still had to figure out the Black Caesar disguise. He didn’t have time to be daydreaming about Miami Beach. He turned off the truck and got out, closing the door softly so he wouldn’t wake up the folks who lived in all these big houses. He walked around the side of the truck and got his bucket of bait out of the back, in case there was no raccoon in the trap. Billy had taught him to put fresh bait in the traps every day because otherwise the customers would complain about the smell, and besides, the raccoons didn’t like spoiled bait. Donald let himself into the Leatherbys’ garage by the service door, the way he usually did. The first thing he noticed was that the big, black car was gone, and then the stench hit him.
Deception in Savannah: A Humorous Novel of Murder, Mystery, Sex, and Drugs Page 22