He moved down the bar toward the man and the woman. The bartender knew I needed space. He was one hell of a good bartender.
I made my call and went back to finish my beer.
Ten minutes later, my glass empty, I paid my bill and left a good tip.
I went out the door and looked over at the DQ. The blue angel had finished his burger. He was probably back in his Buick watching the parking lot and my door. I walked back to Main Street and stood in front of the Main Street Book Store across from the Hollywood Twenty movie theaters.
Ames pulled up on his motor scooter a few minutes later. He was wearing his blue zipper jacket and a helmet. I moved to the scooter and he handed me a helmet. It was a duplicate of his, green.
I had told him on the phone where we were going. I hadn’t told him why. It was too noisy on the scooter to carry on a conversation. I waited till he had parked in the lot on Longboat Key, about fifteen minutes later. Ames locked the scooter and ran a chain through a hole at the rear of both helmets. He locked the chain to the scooter with a padlock he kept in his pocket and we began to walk as I explained.
“We go in the same way?” he asked.
“Worked before,” I said. “This time we do a better job.”
There were two long-necked white birds in the pond beyond the bushes that surrounded the Beach Tides Resort. One of them looked at us as we moved.
We didn’t go to the beach this time. We didn’t have to search for the building. We knew where it was. We watched for security guards in their golf carts, didn’t see any and moved to the rear of the building where John Pirannes had an apartment.
There was no one in sight. We could hear the voices of people at the pool and beach, but their possible view of us and ours of them was blocked by a hill, a bed of red flowers and tropical trees.
“Here,” I said. “Right?”
We were standing in a plot of tall grass. Ames looked up at the building.
“Yes,” he said.
“A lot to look through,” I said.
“Seems so,” said Ames.
We bent and started to go through the grass with our hands. In twenty minutes of looking, I managed to find a golf ball, a soggy eyeglass case and an ant hill. I got two bites on my hand. My stomach was feeling better, but far from healed. Bending was not easy.
“Nothing,” I said, looking at Ames.
“Still light,” he said, looking at the sky.
Fifteen minutes later Ames found it, about fifteen yards from the building, next to a short palm tree, in plain sight. He pointed to it and I took the plastic zippered bag from my pocket.
I lifted the gun by the barrel and carefully dropped it into the bag.
Half an hour later we were back downtown. I was constantly thanking Ames, but I did it again.
“Anytime,” he said as I got off the scooter and handed him the green helmet. “I owe you.”
“You’ve paid me back,” I said.
“I like you,” he said.
“I like you too, Ames,” I said.
He looked at me, gray eyes serious.
“We’re friends,” he said. “I haven’t had more than three real friends in my life.”
“Friends,” I said.
He drove away. A crowd of people waiting in line at the movie theater for the early-bird show looked at him as he shot into traffic.
I walked to the DQ, got a Diet Coke to go from Dawn and went to my office, moving past the blue Buick.
My window was boarded up. I went in, locked the door, turned on the light, put the bag with the gun on my desk and sat down. I was pretty sure what it could tell me. I didn’t need a lab report.
I made a call and set up an appointment.
Then I put the bag with the gun under my dresser and lay on my bed. The sound of traffic on 301 put me to sleep. I didn’t dream. At least I don’t remember dreaming.
I woke up to the sound of people arguing.
Moist and groggy, I rolled over, got on my knees and reached under the dresser to convince myself I hadn’t dreamed the day. The gun was there, inside the bag. I moved to the window near my television set, pushed the drapes aside and saw a couple in their twenties standing in the parking lot of the DQ. They were arguing.
The woman, bedraggled, probably pretty beneath defeat, was carrying a child about a year old in her arm. The child had a pacifier in its mouth. The child was looking at what I assumed was its father, who was pointing a finger at the woman as he shouted. The young man’s neck was stretched in anger, tendons taut. He was wearing a baseball uniform sans cap.
I moved away from the window and checked my watch. I had to hurry.
Five minutes later I was in my car. The gun was tucked under my seat. Angel was close behind. We didn’t have far to go. I wasn’t sure where the room I was going to might be, so I just parked on the street, locked it and went in. I left the gun behind. I knew there was a metal detector in the building.
Sally was waiting in the lobby.
“What is this, Lew?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m pretty sure. I don’t think you should know. Not yet. Maybe never.”
“Susan thinks you might be a little crazy,” she said. “My daughter likes you but—”
“Ten-year-old girls have a sense of things like that,” I said. “She may be right. Don’t trust people who say ‘Trust me,’ but, Sally, I’m asking you to trust me.”
She sighed, checked her wristwatch and said, “All right. Let’s go.”
We went through the metal detector and signed in at the desk. We had an appointment. Sally was known at the Juvenile Security Center. If I could have gotten in without her, I would have.
“You told Adele that Dwight is dead?”
“I came to see you right after you left my office,” said Sally. “She didn’t know how to react. She just stood there for a while. Then she cried for a bit while I held her. When the crying stopped, she gave a deep sigh like she was letting go of something. I think she’s relieved and isn’t ready to admit it to herself. She may never be.”
“And Flo? You told her about Flo?”
“I told her. She agreed. I don’t think she can take it all in yet.”
I followed Sally to an elevator. We went up three floors and were met by a woman in uniform who was waiting for us. She led us down the hall to a room with a sofa and some chairs. There was a single window. It was covered by metal meshing.
We stood while the woman went away and returned in about three minutes with Adele.
The girl looked smaller than I had remembered. In fact, she didn’t look like the same girl at all. Her face was pink and fresh. Her hair was combed out, hanging back and touching her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless summer dress, green with little white flowers. She looked at least a year younger than fourteen. It was her eyes that looked forty.
She looked at me and then at Sally, who stepped to her and gave her a hug.
Adele ticked a smile, a very small, cautious one.
“Remember me?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Denny’s. What you want?”
“To talk to you,” I said.
“‘Bout what?”
“Sally, can I talk to Adele alone for five minutes?”
I could feel the word “Why?” forming inside of Sally.
“Something you don’t think I would want to hear?”
I nodded.
Sally looked at Adele. Adele was looking at me warily.
“Adele,” Sally began, “if you …”
“It’s okay,” Adele said. “Nothing he can say can make things worse than they are and I might as well have it all in one day.”
“Five minutes,” said Sally. “I’ll be right outside the door.”
Sally left, closing the door behind us. I walked to the steel-meshed window and looked down. There was a drive-in spot for trash pickup. Two large green Dumpsters sat waiting. One was bulging with garbage. Fat green plastic bags looked as if they were creeping out.<
br />
“Let’s sit,” I said.
“I like standing.”
She moved to the wall, put her back against it and folded her arms. I moved about five feet from her and put my back against the same wall.
“I know who killed Tony Spiltz,” I said.
“Mr. P.,” she said.
“You,” I answered.
She shook her head and said, “You are somethin’. My mom and dad get murdered. I get thrown in here and you come … You are sick. I’ve seen ’em sick. But you are really sick.”
“I can prove it,” I said.
“You can’t, because I didn’t.”
“I’ve got the gun,” I said. “Found it below Pirannes’s balcony, near a palm tree. Took Ames and me about half an hour, but we found it.”
She shook her head no.
“Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Silver barrel.”
“I don’t know nothing about guns,” she said, looking at the ceiling.
“You didn’t have to. You just pulled the trigger. I’ve got the gun in my car. It has your fingerprints on it. When I leave here, Sally will stay so you can remain in this room. You walk to the window, look down. I’ll be parked right in front of the Dumpsters. I’ll hold up the gun.”
“I didn’t shoot him,” she said weakly.
“Your story was terrible,” I said. “You’re a smart girl. You could have done better. You could have done all kinds of things. You could have wiped your prints off the gun.”
“You think I wanted to get caught?” she said, turning to me with a look, a typical teen look, that said, Are you nuts?
“I think so. I can make up a story to fit, but it would be faster if you just told me what happened. I’m not out to get you, Adele. I’m out to help you.”
“No,” she said, back to the wall again, arms folded, eyes looking up at the ceiling.
“Okay. Pirannes wasn’t in the apartment with you. Spiltz was. Just you and Spiltz. He was there to keep an eye on you. You weren’t exactly a volunteer. Spiltz went after you. You got his gun, shot him, panicked and didn’t know what to do. You threw the gun over the balcony, managed to get Spiltz’s body into the chair and then you cleaned up the blood where you shot him.”
“No,” she said.
Tears were coming. She fought them back.
“I’ve got the gun. It has your prints. The police, if they know the story, can find the spot you killed him. There’ll be blood traces.”
“I shot him in bed,” she said, her eyes closed. “I wrapped him in the sheets and blankets and dragged him into the living room so there’d be no blood and so it’d be easier to move him. There’s a washer and dryer down four, five doors down. I washed the sheets and blankets, dried ‘em and put ’em back in the cabinet. Then I put new sheets and a new blanket on.”
“He had to have a holster,” I said. “Ames and I didn’t find one.”
“I figured a holster would be too easy to find. Reason I took it off him was I … I thought if he was wearing one when he was found dead, the cops might wonder where the gun was that went in it. I figured if he didn’t have a gun or holster, the cops would figure whoever shot him came and went with his own gun. I rolled the holster up neat and put it in one of Mr. Pirannes’s drawers.”
“That was smart,” I said. “No gun. No connection. Police would think the holster was Pirannes’s. Holsters aren’t registered and they’re not illegal. It might even suggest that a gun might have been in it and it might have been the gun Pirannes used on Spiltz. You really think it out that far?”
“No,” she said, eyes still closed. “I just …”
“It’s full of little holes, but it’s pretty good.”
“I was gonna go back when it was safe, find the gun, bury it fast, but I’m here and you got there first. What’s gonna happen to me?”
“I’m working that out,” I said.
“He was gonna rape me,” she said so softly I could hardly hear. “No one ever did it to me without saying I was willing. Nobody, not my dad, not Tilly, not any man. You won’t understand the difference. A man wouldn’t. Most women wouldn’t.”
“Maybe I’m the exception,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Our five minutes are just about up,” I went on as I checked my watch. “The gun disappears. You stick to your story. The only one who knows it’s not true is Pirannes. The police won’t believe him if they catch him. The problem is that Pirannes has probably figured out that you killed Spiltz.”
“He’ll come for me,” she said. “He’ll kill me.”
“No. I’ll get Sally to keep you in here a couple of more days. I’ll find Pirannes and convince him you didn’t kill Spiltz.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“You’re not the only one who can tell stories,” I said.
“And me?” she asked, turning to me again and pointing to herself. The question came out in a thin, plaintive whine like the air escaping from a balloon.
“You? You get out, go live with Flo Zink and live happily ever after,” I said.
“I’ll give it a try,” she said. “I’ll try. I really will.”
“You’ll make it,” I said with a certainty I didn’t feel.
“You don’t have to show me the gun,” she said. “I believe you.”
The door opened and Sally came in. She looked at Adele, who was looking down at the floor, her arms folded. Then she looked at me.
“You all right, Adele?” Sally asked.
“I’ll be fine. Sally, can I stay here a few days, just a few days? I’ve got some thinking to do, things to work out about my dad, stuff. I gotta get used to going to live with that lady.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Sally said.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
Sally looked at me with questions in her eyes, questions I might never answer. Then she turned and moved to comfort Adele.
15
THE AFTERNOON WAS GONE. I headed down Fruitville, driving into the setting sun. I flipped down my visor till I hit Tamiami Trail and turned right. The sun was big, low and bright over my left shoulder.
I thought about what I was going to do with Tony Spiltz’s gun. I thought about how many laws I was breaking, started counting them and gave up at six. I’d worry about that, if I had to, when and if there was peace for me here in Paradise.
People in business usually arrive early to prepare for the day or the night. They make sure the furniture or stock is in place, the cash register is still working, the pictures on the wall and the merchandise are straight. Lots of things.
Pimps are no different. Tilly was no different. I pulled into the parking lot of the Linger Longer Motel, parked, locked the doors and moved quickly to Tilly’s home away from home.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. No answer.
I went to the office. The kid with the big glasses who spoke a dozen languages looked at me.
“Tilly?” I asked.
“If he’s not in his room, I don’t know,” he said. “I just got here.”
I needed Tilly.
“Take a guess.”
“He usually eats at the Mel-o-dee before he begins his night. Always goes alone. He says he needs some alone time to think before things start. Girls usually start when it’s dark.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The kid didn’t answer.
The Mel-o-dee was a little farther north and on the west side of the Trail. I’d eaten there a few times. Down-home food, small but good salad bar. The place was full. It was dinnertime. People in the neighborhood, low-budget tourists, men and women just getting off of work who lived alone or didn’t want to go home yet ate at the Mel-o-dee.
A quartet of elderly people, three women and one man, was waiting to be seated. I nudged past them, looking for Tilly. He was in a booth on the left next to the window. His back was turned to me but he was easy to spot. He was the only black customer in the room. There was another room in back, but I knew I h
ad found him.
I walked past singles, doubles, trios and quartets of people eating and talking. A pair of families, both with babies in high chairs, one with two kids in high school, were seated at booths to the right of Tilly.
I sat across from him in the booth. He had a bite-sized piece of meat loaf on his fork and a newspaper next to his plate. He was wearing glasses. He was dressed in a white turtleneck shirt with a black jacket. He looked like a car salesman or a clerk at Circuit City.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked with exasperation, taking off his glasses and putting them in his pocket.
“You know Handford’s dead?” I asked, watching his eyes.
“No,” he said. “But as my grandmother would say, ‘Hallelu and Praise the Lord.’”
“Convince me you didn’t kill him,” I said.
He put down his fork and looked at me with even greater exasperation.
“Go away, man. I didn’t kill Handford. I wouldn’t go near him. I don’t kill people. Where’d the profit be in killing Handford? I’m a businessman.”
“Peace of mind,” I said. “With Handford gone you’d have a little peace of mind.”
“If I killed every motherfucker whose death would give me peace of mind, I’d rack up a better record than John Wayne Gacy. Now go away.”
“You convinced me,” I said.
“That makes me very happy,” he said. “Now, I want to finish my dinner and read my paper. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Adele is at the Juvenile lockup,” I said.
“She’s none of my business anymore.”
“If she ever tries to come back to you, I want you to call me.”
“You scare the shit out of me,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t take her back. Pirannes would have me disappear in a minute if he found out. Are you finished now? Can I eat now? My food is getting room temperature.”
“Where’s Pirannes?”
“Okay. I tell you, you go.”
“I’ll go.”
“Word is he’s on his big boat hiding out somewhere, probably Texas, maybe Mexico, waiting for his lawyer to clean up some stuff he’s into. I don’t know what.”
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