Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

"I’m serious, Jones!" he yelled. I'd never seen him yell before. The guy would golf clap at a professional wrestling match.

  "Eric, I’m told by sources that you're an okay guy. All evidence is to the contrary, but I'll cut you a break. So listen carefully. Get lost. Get out of my office before you upset me and I decide not to vote for you next time."

  He seemed to choke on that last part. "Jones, you are messing in things of which you have no understanding."

  "I do that. Here’s something else I do. I go where I want, when I want. And if a merchant of a store, say a pawn shop, who has never been found guilty of anything let alone arrested, has an item that I wish to purchase, then I will visit said merchant to do so. And I could care less what you think about it." I could feel my pulse rising now. I took a slow, quiet breath.

  "If you told Sal Mondavi about this investigation you are in all sorts of hurt, Jones. You know that."

  “What investigation, Eric? I would think if the Florida State Attorney for the 15th judicial circuit gave information about a confidential investigation to a known associate of the subject of said investigation, that would be a whole world of hurt."

  Edwards stood erect, which made him really tall, especially from my seated position. His jaw was clenching. "You went to see Sal Mondavi directly after I spoke to you," he said, quietly. "Even between us, there is a level of trust and professionalism.”

  "I went to Sally’s pawn shop to pick up an instrument."

  He frowned. "What kind of instrument?"

  "A saxophone."

  "A saxophone?" He frowned more. He looked like a small child who needed the bathroom. "May I see this saxophone?"

  "It's sitting against the wall there."

  He turned and looked at the case. It was exactly where I had dumped it when I’d gotten back from Sally’s. I made a note to take it home and call Buzz Weeks at the Funky Biscuit. Eric stepped over to the case and looked at it like it was kryptonite.

  "May I look in the case?"

  “You got a warrant?"

  He didn't take his eyes off the case. He breathed and his whole body moved. It was like watching air blow through a drinking straw. I figured I'd had my fun.

  "Go ahead, look in it."

  He bent down and unlatched the case, opened it and looked inside. He took all the instrument pieces out and lay them on the floor. He removed the reeds and a cleaning cloth. He ran his hand around the sides and lifted out the felt lined base. Looked in the empty cavity. Then he carefully replaced everything back in reverse order. He closed the latches and put the case against the wall.

  Then he stood and looked at me. “It’s a saxophone."

  I nodded.

  I guess he had nothing left to say because he stepped to the door. Halfway through, he turned to me. "You hurt her, I'll hurt you."

  Then he left. I looked at Ron, and he at me.

  “You always get the most interesting visitors," he said.

  I slapped my palm into my forehead. "Damn,” I said. "I forgot to invite him round for darts."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I WAS SITTING at my desk signing checks when the phone rang. Lizzy had left me alone in the office to run some unspecified errands, dropping the completed checks on my desk as she went. Bookkeeping was not my strong point. I truly failed to understand people for whom it was a strong point. I heard the phone ring from the front office and I saw the light on my console flash by line one. I hit the button that brought the call onto speakerphone.

  “LCI,” I said.

  "Miami Jones, please." It was a deep voice. Texan maybe.

  "This is he."

  "Mr. Jones, this is John Carter from the Heisman Trust."

  I sat up and grabbed the handset from the console. His voice was the complete opposite of the last guy I'd spoken to at the Trust. This was a football voice. It spoke not only of an understanding of football, but a lifelong love. Of Friday nights in East Texas, sitting in the bleachers watching high school boys running around on the gridiron.

  "Mr. Carter, thank you. I've been waiting on your call."

  "I apologize for the delay. I’ve been on campus in the Midwest."

  And they don't have phones in Ohio, I thought. I didn't say anything. It was easy enough for him to drop the phone down and never speak to me again.

  "Did your colleague explain my situation?"

  "He did." I could practically hear the cowboy hat on his head. “But I'm not sure there's much I can offer you. It is our strict policy to never share details of our alumni mailing list without an official warrant. You can appreciate that the addresses of our Heisman champions are highly sought after. And therefore dearly protected.”

  "I appreciate your position. But since I spoke to your colleague, another Heisman has been stolen."

  “Oh, boy.”

  "Exactly."

  "Unfortunately, that doesn't change the situation. If a burglary has taken place, perhaps the police can get a warrant."

  “I’m sure they can. I just hope they can do it before someone gets killed."

  "Killed? Why would someone get killed?”

  "The last victim, Orlando Washington, had a gun pulled on him. Fortunately this time it didn't get fired."

  There was silence on the line for a moment. "How is Mr. Washington?"

  "He's a feisty old dog.”

  Carter chuckled. "Yes he is."

  “You’ve met him?"

  "I had the pleasure shortly before his wife's passing."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Mr. Jones, I can't help but think you are asking the wrong question."

  "How do you figure?"

  “It would seem to me that although you are asking about the location of Heisman alumni, what you really want to know is the location of Heisman trophies."

  "By and large, wouldn't they be the same?"

  "Yes and no. Lots of alumni have passed awards onto family. Others live or spend significant amounts of time in other locations from where they keep their trophies."

  "So we can't really know how many Heismans are in Florida."

  "Not really. There have been plenty of winners from Florida schools, but no telling how many are there now."

  “That’s sort of my point, Mr. Carter. I know there are Heisman winners from my alma mater. Finding them is another matter."

  “Where did you go to school, Mr. Jones?"

  "Miami, Florida."

  "And you are now in West Palm Beach?"

  "That's right."

  "You have a fellow Hurricane Heisman winner in your backyard then."

  I thought for a second. It was a short second. "Gino Torretta?”

  “If you say so."

  “Now that you say it, I’ve heard him on the radio. In Miami I think. I didn't know he lived in West Palm.”

  "I'm not saying anything privileged to tell you he splits his time between West Palm Beach and New York City. But I ask myself, if I stole a Heisman in Palm Beach and I wanted another, why go to Tampa when a Heisman winner is in West Palm Beach?”

  "Because the thief didn't know where Torretta’s trophy would be." I mulled on it some. I wondered if I could hire the Texan on the other end of the line. “No,” I said. “Not the trophy. He didn't know about Torretta, period. He doesn't have a list of winners. It’s opportunistic. He saw BJ Baker in the paper. Newt Bellingham tried to sell his father-in-law’s online. And anyone who'd spent time in Tampa would've known about Orlando Washington."

  "Sounds logical."

  "So I don't need to find all the Heismans. I need to find the next high profile one."

  "I think they’re all high profile.”

  "Of course you do. But they’re not all in the paper or on television down here every day." I thought on it. Heisman. High profile. And Rivers would have to know where it is.

  “Tebow,” I said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Tim Tebow. He played at Florida and comes from Jacksonville."

  "But right now he's in the NFL.
Maybe his award is with him."

  I had nothing to say to that. When you really think you're on to something, there's nothing like a pragmatic Texan to bust your balloon.

  “Can I make a left field suggestion?" said Carter.

  “Please do."

  “There may be another player that your perp knows about or maybe not. But if I wanted a guaranteed location I knew had a Heisman, I'd look at a college."

  “Sure, but how many winners will have given their trophy to their school?"

  “Steve Spurrier ’66, gave his trophy to University of Florida so it could be shared with the entire student body. Ever since that date, the Heisman Trust has presented a replica to the college of the winner.”

  “So UM, Florida and Florida State all have Heismans?"

  "Correct."

  “So our guy could be headed for Miami, Gainesville or Tallahassee."

  “Possible. Could be wrong."

  “Could be. But one from three is odds I can play with."

  “Glad I could help."

  "Mr. Carter, you make me feel like an amateur, but thanks."

  “Don’t feel sore, son. I spent twenty years as an MP in the United States Army. I didn't always glad hand college presidents."

  “That being the case, let me ask you one more thing. If you had your choice, which of those schools would you hit up for a Heisman heist?”

  He was silent for a moment. "If your guy is just taking his opportunities? I'd go for the one where the Heismans were accessible. I know for fact that three are on display permanently at the Heavener Football Complex. University of Florida."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MY CONVERSATION WITH John Carter from the Heisman Trust hadn't given me what I wanted, but it had given me what I needed. If you try sometimes, as the wise men said. I now had a path forward. Unfortunately it was a path of thorns.

  First I narrowed the field. I called the athletic directors of both Miami and Florida State. Both thanked me for the information. Florida State assured me that their Heisman trophies were not currently on display, but they would add extra security to their storage locations. The Miami athletic director told me they would remove theirs from the Tom Kearns Hall of Fame temporarily, then offered to host me in the department's recruitment box at Sun Life stadium for their next home game. That left University of Florida, as I knew it would. The Fates have a funny way of conspiring to ensure such things.

  My phone buzzed a third time and Lizzy said "U Florida" and clicked off and I heard the ringing and then someone answered. I asked for the athletic department, and then the athletic director. I was told he was out at Jacksonville with the team, preparing for Saturday's big game. I was asked if I wanted the assistant director.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Why not?”

  “Rollie Spenser."

  "Spenser," I said. "Miami Jones."

  I heard a snort. "Still using that stupid moniker, Jones?"

  "When you're well-gilded the gold sticks."

  "Remind me how many starts you had in college?"

  "You still got that winning personality, Roll.”

  "What do you want Jones? I'm very busy. We’ve got Georgia this week."

  “I know. All eyes on Jacksonville. That's why I called."

  "I can't get you any tickets."

  "Yeah, that's what I want. Tickets to a Gator game."

  “What then?"

  I explained to him in broad strokes the Heisman thefts and the likelihood the perp could visit Gainesville next.

  “What about Miami or Tallahassee?"

  "I called both UM and Florida State. They're taking precautions. Besides, they don't have theirs out in the open like you do."

  "I hardly call the Heavener Football Complex out in the open. It’s the most state-of-the-art training facility in college sports."

  "But not a bank vault."

  "Don't worry about us, Jones. We Gators protect our own."

  "Gators? What happened to Hurricanes forever?"

  "Life moves on, Jones. You should try it."

  I could assure him I had moved on, but I didn't feel like saying it. "I see Brady threw for three hundred yards again on Sunday,” I said.

  “Get lost, Jones. I didn't need you as a backup in college and I don't need you as a backup now."

  Nothing clever came to mind so I didn't say anything. It didn't matter. Rollie had hung up. It was a childish thing to say. But some people brought that out in me. And Rollie Spenser, the guy I played two years as backup quarterback to at University of Miami, was one of those guys.

  I dropped the phone in the cradle. I had done my civic duty and warned him. Not that it mattered. I could care less if someone stole a trophy out of the University of Florida's gleaming collection. But not caring didn't get me closer to solving my case. I figured Rollie Spenser was going to enter my life again soon, whether he or I liked it or not.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  RON AND I had the top down on the Mustang. The air was clear and the breeze offshore, keeping things mild. Ron grinned like he'd won the Lotto. There wasn't much Ron didn't like about South Florida. He never even complained about the heat and humidity in mid-July. But a perfect fall day with the sky clear and blue, and the wind blowing through his thick gray mane, he was in heaven. I half expected him to lean his head out the window and stick out his tongue.

  I drove us down Southern Boulevard and into Palm Beach Gardens. We got to the address Lizzy had given us and pulled in. The big wooden sign said Marv's Quality Autos, and looking around the lot I was reminded that quality was not so much a fact as a value judgment. Compared to a busted wagon and a nobbled old horse there was indeed some fine quality on the lot. Not junkers exactly, not in the old way where duct tape and twine could give a rust bucket another five years. The laws had made most of those go the way of the dodo. The cars were relatively new, not much over fifteen years and nothing younger than five. But they’d all been driven long and fast and hard. The Florida sun had bleached the paintwork and cracked the vinyl interiors, and the long freeways ensured all the odometers had reached well over a hundred thousand miles. It was the kind of place where five C notes could have you driving off the lot paid in full. Almost everything was domestic.

  We got out, looked around briefly, then walked towards a small shed that acted as the sales office. A fat man in gray trousers and a peach colored shirt came out to meet us. The shirt was opened to the midpoint of the bulge of his gut. Sweat glistened in his chest hair. He wasn't smiling. He was almost squinting, except the sun was behind him. Perhaps he didn't like bright light. Perhaps he knew that someone who pulled into his lot in a current model Mustang wasn't in the market for one of his cars. I had to figure a smile would sell more vehicles, but I've never worked in sales so I could have been wrong.

  "You Marv?" I said.

  "Nup," said the fat man.

  "Marv around?"

  "There is no Marv."

  I looked at the wooden sign. It was mounted on a ten-foot wooden pole, like something you'd make a patio deck out of. Only this one had been painted white. When I was a boy. The sign itself looked like it had been erected by a post-World War Two Boy Scout troop.

  "Why you called Marv's Quality Autos?”

  He shrugged. "Think there was a Marv once. Before my time."

  "How long you worked here?"

  “Twenty-seven years."

  Ron and I looked around the yard. The pavement had been cracked by decades of heating, cooling and heating again. Little weeds had come through the cracks and turned into fully-fledged plants. I wondered how you got yourself out of bed each morning for twenty-seven years to come here. I could tell by Ron’s face he was thinking the same thing.

  "The owner about?"

  "I am the owner." He frowned, which made him look like a sixty-year-old Cabbage Patch doll.

  I handed him a card. "Miami Jones. I’m working on a missing persons case. An e
mployee of yours, Sandy Ferguson."

  He shrugged and said nothing. He didn't look at the card.

  “You know him?"

  He shrugged again and blinked slowly, like a massive reptile. He still said nothing. Ron turned from me and walked over to an old car. Then he looked back.

  “How much for this Caddie?”

  The fat man lost the frown but kept squinting. "You interested in that one?"

  "Who isn't interested in a Caddy?” said Ron.

  The fat man waddled over to him. He pocketed my card. "That's a beautiful automobile that is. One of Detroit’s finest."

  I looked at the Caddy. It had been white, I suspected, when it rolled off the line in Motown. It was the size of an ocean liner, all pure steel and chrome. The hood had been baked so long it looked like a salt flat. The vinyl roof was peeling. It was a testimony to the guys who’d put it together that it was still in one piece.

  “Original,” said the fat man. "Only one owner."

  I could picture the owner buying the thing to impress his neighbors in Queens, driving it for twenty years, then cruising it down to West Palm where he drove it another ten years in retirement, before he was laid to rest in Shady Palms and the Caddy was laid to rest at Marv's Quality Autos.

  "You sell many of these?" said Ron.

  “Oh, you don't see too many of these," said the fat man.

  "Sandy Ferguson sell many of these?" I said. I looked in the driver's window at the odometer. It seemed the car had spent some time traveling to the moon.

  "He didn't sell much of anything."

  "You mind if we sit inside?" said Ron.

  "Be my guest."

  We both got in. The interior smelled like the beach and was stained nicotine yellow.

  "He work here long," I said.

  "Who?"

  "Ferguson."

  “About eight years."

  "Good salesman?"

  “Nope.”

  "If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself,” I said.

  “Damned straight."

  "So why keep him so long if he couldn't sell?"

  "Staff are hard to come by."

  I glanced at the lot again. I could imagine attracting good people would be a challenge.