Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "Colt .45. I asked him how he knows this. He says he used to keep that exact one under the counter."

  "And you say he's famous?" said Danielle.

  "He won the Heisman," I said.

  “That would do it, most parts," said Frank. "But after he won it, Orlando, he never played another game. Developed arthritis or something. Career ended before it began. So he opens up a pit barbecue place. Ends up with a bunch of them up and down the Gulf coast."

  We absorbed that for a moment before Frank said, “So I heard about the Baker theft. How does that fit with your guy?"

  Danielle sat forward. “We’ve actually got two. A second Heisman was stolen from the Palm Beach area. This time we got a description." Danielle gave Frank the rundown on the Baker burglary and the Bellingham case.

  “The cowboy description fits what Mr. Washington told me,” said Frank.

  "Nothing else stolen by your guy?" said Danielle.

  “No. And if it is the same guy, he's now gone from knife to gun."

  "My concern is next time he'll use it," said Danielle.

  “Oh, he used it," said Frank. "He pistol whipped Mr. Washington."

  “Is he okay?”

  "He's a tough old nut.”

  "I'd like to meet him," I said.

  Frank nodded. "You should."

  We thanked the detective for his time and he walked us downstairs. Said we'd keep in touch with anything we picked up. I drove out and headed south. The traffic had eased up and a warm breeze drifted in off the Gulf. It was too late to visit an old man in a retirement village, so I headed into the throng of hotels around the south edge of Tampa International. Picked one with Suites in the name. I figured there would be more likelihood of a pullout sofa bed, and I figured there was a good chance I'd be sleeping on whatever sofa the room had. The room was new and spacious. The kitchen had dark cabinets and stainless steel appliances. It was everything my kitchen was not. It lacked any kind of character. But there was a separate bedroom and a pullout sofa bed.

  “You hungry?" I said.

  Danielle thought about it longer than necessary, then said yes. We ate pasta and salad at a Carrabba’s down the street. We chatted a little, small talk, like we were business colleagues on a road trip. We walked back to the hotel. Jumbo jets flew low over us and landed just beyond the fence. Danielle brushed her teeth and changed into some small white shorts and a t-shirt that said Kale, in the collegiate style of Yale.

  "I'll take the sofa," I said.

  She looked at me and without a facial expression said, “Don’t be silly. Come to bed."

  It wasn't a muted endorsement let alone a striptease, but I brushed my teeth quickly and got into a pair of boxers. I didn't know who had given them to me. Maybe Danielle, but maybe not. Certainly not Beccy Williams. She wasn't the boxers type. When I came out, Danielle was lying on her side facing me. I walked around the bed and got in. I lay on my back with my hands behind my head. Danielle said good night and turned out the light. She stayed on her side, back to me. I stayed on my back, hands behind my head. I stayed like that for what felt like forever.

  Chapter Thirty

  WHEN I WOKE the next morning I was alone. I got up and checked the bathroom and living room. Nothing. Danielle’s bag was where she had left it the previous night. I shaved and washed my face and wet my hair. I put on a plain blue shirt and chinos, then walked down the fire stairs to the lobby. I headed for the business center. As I went by the glass door to the hotel gym I saw Danielle inside, pounding the treadmill. She was wearing the same t-shirt and shorts, but her hair was tied back in a ponytail. I used a computer in the business center for about twenty minutes, then I headed back up the fire stairs. When I got in the room the shower was running. I sat on the sofa and watched a rerun of SportsCenter. Nothing about Orlando Washington and no sign of Beccy Williams. Danielle came out of the bedroom drying her head with a towel. She was wearing a lightweight, black dress. It was longer than a cocktail dress, but she could have pulled it off in any company.

  “Hey, you,” I said.

  “Hey, you. Where'd you get to?"

  "Business center."

  “Gym.”

  "I know."

  "Had breakfast?"

  "Waiting for you.”

  "Great," she said. "Just let me finish my hair."

  Danielle took longer than me but less time than most and came out looking and smelling like roses. We ate breakfast from the complimentary buffet. The scrambled eggs were industrial, but the sausage links were exceptional. We checked out and headed for Westchase. It was just north and west of the Airport. The complex where Orlando Washington lived looked more like a new housing subdivision than my idea of an old folks' home. The streets and sidewalks were flat and smooth, the clubhouse looked like a lodge in Aspen, and the gardens and lawns were perfect. I was ready to move in.

  We stopped at the reception/sales center. Danielle showed her badge and we got directions to Orlando Washington’s home. It was a one-story duplex with a single-car garage. The front was painted in subtle taupe and tan. There was a neat hedge under the front window. All the steps were gone, if they were ever there. A ramp led up to the front porch. I hit the doorbell. The door was answered by a thin, pale woman in a blue pinafore.

  Danielle showed her badge again. "Deputy Castle for Mr. Washington."

  The woman smiled politely and stepped aside for us to enter. "Yes, the clubhouse manager called.”

  Decent security.

  "You are?" said Danielle.

  "Moira. I am one of the home care staff here."

  "This is not quite what I thought of as assisted living," I said.

  "This is not assisted living. It’s independent living."

  "Gee, that's what I thought I had." I smiled and she smiled. She was either very tolerant or she got me.

  "The community is about keeping people in their own homes, just like any other gated community. Only difference is here there is twenty-four-hour medical and custodial care available on call. For most people in this part of the community, we are hardly ever needed. It's more about them, and their families, knowing we’re here. Just in case."

  "So you don't have Alzheimer’s, that sort of thing?"

  “We have many such people. Some here in the duplexes, for those with minimal symptoms or partners to care for them. We also have apartment living for those who need closer attention, and a managed care center for those who need round-the-clock help."

  "Three steps to heaven."

  "I like to think of it as helping people be as independent as possible for as long as possible." She smiled again. "I'll get Mr. Washington for you."

  Danielle looked at me. "Three steps to heaven?"

  I shook my head and looked as sheepish as I could. I felt like a cad.

  The house was wide and open. Lots of space to get around and lots of engineered wood and forest palette colors. It was in a craftsman reproduction style.

  Moira came out pushing a black man in a wheelchair. He looked bent over and frail, like he was slowly curling into a ball. His hands were gnarled, his head hung at an angle. Moira pushed him over. He struggled to look up at us he held his hand inches off his lap, and extended it as far as he could to Danielle.

  "Orlando Washington," he said. The voice was hoarse and deep. I could picture a time when it had been deeper.

  Danielle took his crooked hand. "Deputy Danielle Castle.” She smiled.

  The old guy’s eyes danced for joy at the touch of her hand. "It's an honor, Deputy.”

  Danielle turned to me. The old guy didn't have much grip, but he didn't let go of her hand.

  "This is Miami Jones."

  A broad grin swept across his face. He grudgingly let go of Danielle and I shook his hand. He was skin on bone. He would have struggled to bend a playing card.

  "Miami Jones," he said. “Well that's a hell of a name."

  "I was just thinking the same. It's a pleasure, sir."

  Moira pushed Orlando to a
sofa. It looked like one of those flat, uncomfortable Swedish things. But I figured the last thing a frail old man wanted was a plush sofa he could never get out of. Between Moira and Orlando they got him across from his wheelchair. I moved to help but was waved away by a shake of Moira’s head.

  "I'm going to wander down and visit with Mrs. Dautry. I'll pop back shortly," said Moira. I'd found from long experience that there were two types of women in nursing. Angels and devils. Nothing in between. Moira was one of the angels.

  "Would you like me to put coffee on before I go?"

  "I'm happy to do it," said Danielle.

  "Great. Y’all have a nice visit." She checked her watch and stepped silently out the door.

  “Would you like some coffee, sir?" said Danielle.

  "It's not sir. It's Orlando." He grinned again. “And what I'd love is a shot of bourbon. But since the delightful Moira is coming back, we best stick to coffee."

  Danielle got up to make it. There was a machine and it looked all ready to go. She just hit the button.

  "You get to my age, you start believing you seen it all." He grinned. "But here we are. Orlando and Miami here in Tampa."

  I smiled. "Wonder where Jacksonville is today."

  He chuckled. Danielle brought us coffee. Orlando had a special cup, break-proof melamine with big handles on both sides. Like a toddler’s cup.

  "You lived here long?" I asked.

  "Three years. My wife and I moved in three years ago."

  "Your wife?" said Danielle.

  "She passed on last year."

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Me too.” He sipped his coffee. "She was a hell of a woman."

  "When did you meet her?” I asked.

  “You come all the way from the Atlantic to ask about my Delilah?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well then, you lie nice.” He sipped again. “We met in college. Long time ago."

  "This her?” asked Danielle, looking at a photo on a shelf that looked like a mantel with no fireplace under it.

  Orlando nodded.

  "She's beautiful."

  "Yes, she is. She was all that and more. Funny the things that define us. From the outside. Always so different from that which defines us inside." He looked away to somewhere I couldn't see.

  "Like a Heisman?" I said.

  He chuckled. "For some, yeah. Some people, a Heisman defines them. Defines the success of their lives, or the failure. It becomes a symbol of who they are as people." He shook his head. "People see what they want to see. Heisman doesn't make you or break you."

  We sipped our coffee and watched him. His eyes were clear and bright.

  "Let's face it,” he said. “Elway didn't win a Heisman. Peyton Manning, either."

  "Tom Brady, either," I said.

  “Hell, Tom Brady was lucky to even play college ball. Lucky to get drafted. It sure as heck didn't define him."

  "Or you?"

  “No,” he said. He looked serious and when he did, he looked older. "It's a symbol of something you did. Something good, and something important to you at the time. But it's a trophy. It doesn't say you now get to be king of the world, or Super Bowl hero, or a drunk or a loser.”

  "It's a snapshot, not your life story," I said.

  Orlando smiled and nodded. "I like that."

  "It's yours to use."

  "Thanks, kid. I mean, look at Ernie Davis. Heisman was a record of one great year. Didn't help him one way or the other."

  “Who’s Ernie Davis?” asked Danielle.

  "First black man to win the Heisman. Nineteen Sixty-one,” I said. "He got drafted by Cleveland but was diagnosed with leukemia. Died never playing a pro game."

  "How awful.”

  “Awful it is,” said Orlando. "So he got a Heisman. But the poor guy never got that." He looked at the photo of his wife. "Boy could sure run, though.”

  "So could you," I said.

  "What you know about that?"

  "Over two thousand career yards, thirty touchdowns, a national championship with the Crimson Tide, Heisman winner."

  "You're like a compendium."

  "And you were a battering ram. I've seen footage." The old man smiled and I continued. "But you never played pro football."

  He shook his head defiantly. "You know why?"

  “No. But I'm guessing it has something to do with the reason you’re in that chair."

  "Rheumatoid arthritis. Got diagnosed just before the draft. Unlike Ernie Davis, I never got drafted. But I'm still around to tell the tale."

  “Has it always been like this?" said Danielle.

  “No. When I graduated college I felt like I could run through walls. But after every workout, I couldn't recover as fast. Everything hurt. My hands, knees, ankles. So the pros couldn't touch me. Too risky."

  "Detective Templeton said you got into restaurants?" she said.

  "Yep. Me and Delilah. Using our grand mama’s recipes. Opened a pit barbecue. People knew me around here from the Heisman and all, so we called it Orlando’s.”

  "Detective Templeton said it was good. Like his mother made," I said.

  "He wishes his mama made it that good. Falling off the bone, smoky goodness. We even made our own sauces. Ended up with seven locations up the coast."

  "You don't have them any longer?" Danielle said.

  “No. Got too old. Boys went their own way." He smiled. "Travis is a firefighter in St Pete. Ernie works at the Hotel Coronado in San Diego. So we sold up and used the proceeds to move into this fabulous abode." He'd finished his coffee and he put the cup down like it was bone china.

  “Another coffee, Orlando?" asked Danielle.

  "That would be lovely. And maybe just a tiny bit of bourbon this time."

  She looked at me like he was suggesting a bank heist.

  "I think we can manage that," I said.

  Orlando directed me to a small buffet cabinet. Inside, next to some unloved wine glasses, was a bottle of Jack. I took it and dropped three small shots in the coffees. Danielle carried two back to the chairs. I carried my own. I sipped and felt the hint of bourbon.

  “So what can you tell us about two nights ago?"

  Orlando had closed his eyes and was savoring the flavor and smell of the bourbon. He breathed it in, then opened his eyes and looked at me.

  "It's the pain meds. Damnedest thing. They blunt the pain, but they make it hard to sleep. I doze, but I can't sleep more than an hour at a time. My mind fires up and bang, I'm awake." He sipped coffee. "So I wakes up the other night and I hear something. That happens we supposed to call it in.” He flicked at a pendant that hung around his neck. "Panic button, I calls it. Here they call it the Concierge.” He smiled at that the word. "Got one by my bed, in the bathroom, most every room. Wear this one. You need help, you call, they come. But I figure, the more I call, the more help they think I need. They force me into one of those apartments. With all the old timers." He chuckled at himself. "So anyways, I get up, come take a look-see."

  "And what did you see?"

  "There's a man standing right there by that picture of my Delilah. He's got a hold of my Heisman trophy. I'm damned if he ain’t polishing the thing. Like he's a pool shark, hustling a game, chalking up his cue.” Orlando shook his head. "I mean damn. I don't know how long he'd been at it. It takes me half the damned day to get out of bed. Must have been fifteen, twenty minutes since I heard the noise ’til I got out here."

  "What did he look like?" said Danielle.

  "Funny looking. Kinda like the country singer. Alan Jackson? He had a cowboy hat and mustache. Big ugly old shades like he was gonna do a spot of welding."

  “So what happened?" I asked.

  "He sees I'm in my chair, he just looks at me. Tucks the Heisman under his arm, you know, like he's running the ball downfield. I rolled over towards him, just beside where I'm sitting here. He pulls out a gun, points at me." He shook his head.

  "You told Detective Templeton you recognized the gun?" said Daniell
e.

  Orlando took some effort to stop his head shaking and get it nodding. "Yes, ma'am. A Colt .45. I used to own one, back in the day. In the restaurant, before everything was credit cards. We saw a lot of cash."

  "So what did you do, when he pulled the revolver?" I said.

  "Thing is, I know that gun. You want to actually hit someone, you gotta be close, real close. Ain’t like the movies. And this guy was all shaky, like he didn't know how to use it. Or maybe he was afraid of it." He sipped his coffee and put his cup down gently. "Plus, I figure at my age, he wants to do me a favor and send me to see my sweet Delilah tonight, I'm okay.”

  "So?" I said.

  "So, I jumped him."

  "You jumped him?" said Danielle.

  “Aha. I ain’t in this chair 'cause I can’t walk at all. I’m in here ‘cause the pain in my joints is too great to stand for more than a few seconds. But I got some springs. So I jump up and I lunge at the guy.”

  "What did he do?" I asked.

  "I think he expelled himself in his pants, that's what I think." He bent over, cackling. "I tackled him around the waist. I figure I take him to the ground. See what happens."

  "And what did happen?" I said.

  "He clocked me on the back of the head with his gun.” He reached up towards his head but winced with the effort. Orlando turned his head slightly and I could see an adhesive plaster pad had been stuck to his head.

  “Were you okay?” said Danielle.

  "I was out, I think. Maybe a second or two. I heard footsteps. I looked up and see the front door is open so I think to myself, Orlando, you best push the panic button boy. So I did."

  "And then what?” I said.

  “Then the security guy came. Couldn’t have been more than two minutes. Then the on call nurse arrived. The security guy called the cops and they arrived maybe twenty minutes later. I told them what I just told you. Security checked all the doors and windows and locked up and I went back to bed."

  "And Detective Templeton?"

  "Came in the morning. After I got up."

  We finished our coffee. Orlando's eyes were flagging, but he was fighting them. The effort of having guests was wearing him out.

  “How do you think the guy knew you had a Heisman?"