Bern blinked and shook himself, then pushed the photo away. But the image lingered: his wife, Shirley, with her pudgy white cheeks, her mouth always moving, hair smelling of the beauty parlor where all her friends went—their church group, and her book club—always lots to gossip.
Which is why it had been heaven for him, moving to Florida and away from her—for the first few months, anyway. Whole different world than what he was used to.
His grandfather had entrusted him with a completely different sort of job.
Bern was suspicious then. Still was.
B ern had spent eleven years at Gimpel Cadillac, Madison, selling new and pre-owned vehicles, enjoying the long micro-brewery lunches, and shaking hands with adoring Packers fan buyers, saying things like, “No finer man ever lived than Mr. Vince Lombardi.” Or: “The quarterback position, which is probably the toughest job in all sports, I can sum up the definition in two words: Bart and Brett.” Or, if it was a guy buyer, his wife not around: “When they blocked that little Polack’s kick and I saw him pick up the ball? I thought, geez, he won’t even know which way to run. I was tempted to stick the guy under my arm and run her in myself!”
It was a fun job. Easy; something he was used to. But he didn’t enjoy going home to Shirley, with her perfume and sprayed hair, and a mouth that never stopped moving. His only escape was the occasional sales meeting in Green Bay, or Chicago, or Milwaukee, which was his favorite city because of the nice nudie bars where the girls were so normal acting, especially the one in the strip mall with the store that pretended to be a museum but actually sold retail. He’d bought the German Luger there, which worked like a real one but was made in Taiwan.
Bern had considered using the Luger last night to shoot the Cuban. Instead, Moe didn’t bat an eye when he’d asked, “Hey, Moe, do I remember you saying something about carrying a gun in your truck? If I keep my knee on this guy’s neck much longer, he’s not gonna be able to try and run again.”
Moe answered, “You betcha I got a gun. I know how to use it, too.” Then returned with a chrome .357 revolver in a fancy holster, which the Hoosier didn’t strap on but wanted to, Bern could tell by the way he kept straightening his cowboy hat.
The Cuban’s eyes got very wide when Moe pulled the revolver out to show what an expert he was with the thing. Cocking it and releasing the hammer, popping the cylinder to count the six pinky-sized hollow-point bullets inside. Acting like a gunfighter until the damn gun went off accidentally, the bullet passing so close to Bern’s ear that his legs buckled, certain he’d been shot through the head because of the ringing pain.
Fucking Moe. Who kept apologizing over and over, repeating the exact same thing because he was too stupid to realize that Bern was deaf, temporarily, and why he was squinting at the cowboy’s ugly, moving mouth, asking, “What?…What?…What?”
What a night.
Nightmare, more like it…
Wisconsin wasn’t so bad, all things considered. The boats up home were mostly aluminum, and the weather could be bad eight or nine months of the year. But he still got out. He’d had some fun on the road. Sometimes the girls wanted to, sometimes they didn’t—quite a few had done a little kicking and scratching, but nothing that had caused him to get carried away.
Not like Florida. Jesus. He regretted ever coming here.
Why had he?
It still didn’t make any sense what his grandfather did. Not to anyone. Grandy had shocked the whole family when he telephoned Bern out of the blue and offered him the CEO job, Indian Harbor, and two similar developments, one near Bradenton, the other near Marco. They hadn’t exchanged a word in years, even at the family reunion in Appleton. Everyone knew that Grandy and Bern hated each other. They still whispered about the unfortunate incident when Bern, age thirteen, got so angry at Grandy that he snuck up behind the old man and brained him with a hammer. Those two had been back and forth at each other’s throats ever since.
“It’s ’cause they’re two peas in a pod,” relatives would say.
Maybe so, but it still didn’t explain why the old man offered him the job at a salary three times what he was making at Gimpel’s, and a contractual guarantee that Bern would inherit fifty-one percent of all the Florida landholding company’s property and assets.
There were only two stipulations: Bern had to sign over all his personal assets to the company so that he had a vested interest.
“You’re going to inherit it all back, anyway,” his wife had told him after reading the contract. “That’s not a gamble, it’s a guarantee.”
The other stipulation was that he had to fulfill the obligations of his current position for at least two years after the old man’s death.
“That means showing up on time,” his wife said, her tone asking: How easy can it get? “Your developments don’t even have to make a profit. As long as the company remains solvent, we own half. It’s too good to pass up!
Exactly. Which was maybe what Grandy had in mind: luring Bern down here to a job that had come to seem more like the old bastard’s way of getting even.
No, it was worse than that. Coming to Florida was more like a curse.
30
Moe’s Dodge Ram pickup, with the big tires and the gun rack, came skidding into the marina parking lot as Bern sat at the office computer having some quiet time on the Internet. It was late Saturday afternoon, around 6 P.M. Augie still hadn’t returned with the Viking, but Bern’s anxiety had calmed on this calm day with the salvage crew off, no employees around to upset him, and no recently discovered bodies to deal with that he knew of.
That was about to change.
When Bern saw the Hoosier’s vehicle, he felt a sickening tension in his stomach. His hearing was back to normal, but not his nerves.
Redneck Indiana trailer toad.
His day was coming. Augie’s, too. Bern’s list was growing, and why not, if he had to disappear? Go out with a bang. Like the old man used to say: Forgiveness is for people who don’t have the balls for revenge.
Bern would have his balls with him if he had to run away to a foreign country. Might as well even some scores.
From the Internet, he’d printed information on remote islands off Mexico and Central America that were more or less connected to Florida by shoreline—if a boater was willing to follow the contour of the Gulf of Mexico, stay close to the beach along Louisiana and Texas. Which he was.
He’d also read and printed out an article titled “How to Change Your Identity and Disappear Forever.”
Interesting. Nearly twenty thousand Americans disappeared each year by choice, the story said, and many of them went on to live happy, anonymous lives. Fake passports, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards—all that stuff could be bought if you had the right connections. A better way to do it, though, was to steal the identity of a person who’d died recently. It was best if they were poor, or had only a small number of living relatives—fewer people to blow your cover, that way.
Of course, the article didn’t give the actual details—you had to buy the guy’s book to get the real scoop—but it had lifted Bern’s spirits to read that it was possible to vanish and leave your old life behind.
That day might be coming for him very soon. All because of the hick from French Lick.
When Moe’s .357 went off accidentally, exploding so close to Bern’s ear that it caused his legs to buckle, a lot of things happened at once: Bern collapsed, screaming that he’d been shot. Moe backpedaled toward his truck, fearing that it was true, but also fearing that his boss might not die. And the Cuban, who actually had been shot, managed to get to his feet and stumble into the mangrove swamp.
They found a grapefruit-sized splash of blood where the man had been standing, then a blood trail. Bern and Moe had searched until 3 A.M., looking for the wounded Cuban. They didn’t know where he’d been shot, or how seriously he’d been wounded, but he had enough life left to evade them.
As a preemptive measure, Bern telephoned the police a
nd gave them an edited version of what had happened: They’d surprised Javier Castillo, who was attempting to steal a boat from marina property. Moe was carrying a gun because of the incident two days before. The lighting was poor, but Moe was certain the man was armed and he’d fired a warning shot. That’s all. A warning shot and the Cuban had fled.
The cops kept them up until 5 A.M., taking their statements, the blood trail erased by bulldozer tracks before they arrived.
For all Bern knew, Javier Castillo was at the sheriff’s office right now, a bandage around his arm, telling them about the dead girl in the fifty-gallon drum, available for viewing at Indian Harbor Marina.
Another preemptive measure: Bern told the deputies several times that the Cuban had acted crazy, hoping to sabotage his credibility. Coming to the marina with a gun—wasn’t that evidence enough? Also, the Cuban had started the marina’s bulldozer for some reason. Why?
Down the road, Bern might help the cops guess that the Cuban was using the dozer to bury a dead girl’s body.
God Almighty, he’d give anything to be back selling Eldorados.
Sitting at the computer, Bern watched Moe swing down out of his truck. As he waited for the door to open, he reached into his grandfather’s briefcase, removed the Luger, and placed it at his right, on the desk.
There was no telling what terrible dark cloud the redneck was dragging behind him this time.
M oe had a newspaper under his arm when he came into the office, saying, “Bern. Bern. You’re not gonna believe what’s happened.” The man sounded winded, he was so nervous. “The cops are outside right now. In police boats—”
That’s all he got out. Bern had stood as the man came into the room. Was waiting for him. As he said, “The cops are outside…,” Bern took a giant step, locked his hand under Moe’s neck and chin, lifted him off the floor, and slammed him against the office wall. Held him there at eye level, feeling sick inside. Trapped.
Bern’s voice was shaking as he said, “If the cops are here to arrest me, motherfucker, I’ll cross you off my list before they get the cuffs out.” He had the Luger. He touched it to the Hoosier’s ear.
Moe couldn’t respond because he couldn’t breathe, his face turning purple around his bulging eyes. List? What list was he talking about?
Moe was newly aware that when his boss used profanity, it signaled that he was in a crazed and dangerous mood. Which had been happening a lot lately. If Heller had it in him to murder a girl and bury her in a barrel of oil, he could kill a man—a terrifying scenario to contemplate, being stuffed into a fifty-gallon drum. Moe knew he had to do something fast before he blacked out.
He managed to get the newspaper in Bern’s face, and made a heronlike noise—Awk! Awk!—hoping the man would understand that Moe had information to share. It was good news, not bad.
Bern said, “Beg. Go ahead and beg. You think that bothers me?” Wanting to choke the life out of him.
A moment later, though, he said, “Cops? Why are they here?” as he lowered Moe to the floor, his eyes glassy, his voice a monotone, sounding like when you called a bank and got its automated phone system.
Oh yeah, this man was capable of stuffing him into a barrel of oil and burying him alive.
Moe gasped. “Everything’s okay. I’ve got great news!” Getting that out before he took a full breath, hoping to buy himself some time.
Bern waited.
“This was in the paper yesterday, but I missed it. Maybe you did, too. You’re not gonna believe how lucky we are.” He held the newspaper out.
Bern was thinking: In French Lick, you’d consider last night lucky? The town should be napalmed.
“Read this, boss. Talk about perfect timing.” Moe risked squatting to retrieve his straw hat. “And I’m saving the really good news for last.”
Bern used reading glasses. He placed the Luger on the desk and put on his glasses. As he did, Moe moved around the desk to the computer, creating some distance between them. Trying to act nonchalant, as if he didn’t care that the Luger was now within his reach.
If what the newspaper story said was true, Moe could shoot Bern and not spend a minute in jail. All he’d have to do is show cops the bruises on his neck from Bern’s fingers.
FLORIDA ENACTS TOUGH SELF-DEFENSE LAW
(Tallahassee) Yesterday, the Florida Legislature, in special session, enacted a tough and controversial self-defense law that allows citizens to use deadly force, on public or private property, as long as they believe they are in imminent mortal danger.
The new “Stand Your Ground Law” vastly broadens the criteria under which a potential victim may shoot and kill a perceived attacker. The victim need not be in his or her own home, and the attacker need not be armed.
Under the old law, a person who killed someone in their home must prove that they were in fear for their safety. The new law, however, is based on the presumption that anyone who illegally enters private property is intent on threatening the lives of the people within, and deadly force is justified.
Under the old law, if assaulted in a public place, a person must first attempt to “flee to safety,” and could use deadly force only if pursued by their attacker. The new law, however, accepts the legal premise that citizens have a right to “stand their ground” against a perceived attacker, no matter when or where, and deadly force is justified if the citizen feels in imminent danger.
Moe kept track of what his boss was doing. Used his peripheral vision to watch Bern standing there, the newspaper hiding his face—no telling how the man might react—while he sat at the computer, looking at the screen, seeing that Bern’s personal folder was open, a list of documents he’d saved there.
Some interesting ones:
How to Change Your Identity and Disappear Forever.
Costa Rica: The New Promised Land
Live Like a King in Old Mexico
Hmm. Looked like Bern was thinking about getting out of Dodge, the trauma of last night clearly affecting the man. Which would leave an executive position open in the family corporation—something Moe would discuss with his good friend Augie when Augie returned with the Viking.
Moe could empathize with Bern. On the way home, he’d pulled over to the ditch and vomited, thinking about the Cuban’s blood trail. He liked Javier. They’d drunk coffee together. Moe didn’t mean to shoot him; it had been accidental.
Moe had been a mess, but it had gotten worse when a drinking buddy of his called an hour ago and told him what the Marine Patrol had found floating only a hundred yards or so south of the marina docks. Moe had been reading the newspaper when he got the call. He’d just finished the story on the new Stand Your Ground Law, which had to be fate, because the timing was perfect, and it made him feel so much better.
Bern didn’t get the connection, though. He rattled the newspaper and folded it. “Why should I care about this? I thought you said you had good news.”
There was a document open on the computer. Looked like Bern had been copying and pasting fragments from sports articles, after having typed: “Dear Sir, Your All Time Greatest Team is missing a name.”
Moe said, “It is good news, but I want to show you,” as he skimmed what Bern had posted next:
Lyle Alzado, L.A. Raiders badass. Sid Gillman. Sid Luck-man. Benny Friedman. Ron Mix, called “the greatest tackle who ever lived.” Mike Rosenthal, star lineman at 6´7? 315 lbs. Hayden Epstein, Lennie Friedman, Sage Rosenfels, defensive end…
Bern said, “Show me what?” glancing at his watch: 6:15 P.M. Where the hell’s Augie with my boat? Then asked, “Why do you have that idiotic smirk on your face?”
Moe said, “This list of football players? I’ve never heard of any of them—”
“They’re great athletes, that’s who they are, you racist asshole! You couldn’t carry their jocks—as if it’s any of your fucking business. What do you want to show me?”
Moe stood, went around the desk, moving faster as he passed his boss, then opened the door. “You d
on’t have to worry about Javier no more, that’s the good news. Me neither, ’cause what I did is okay. He could’ve had a gun. We didn’t search him. Come on out, you can see it from the docks.”
A fisherman had found Javier Castillo’s body floating in the bay about three hundred yards south of the marina, Moe said.
From the docks, Bern and Moe watched EMTs and an investigator from the medical examiner’s office bag the body. It was an hour before sunset—pretty, beyond the raft of law enforcement boats, where the sky was yellow streaked above mangrove islands. In the shallows, long-legged birds waded, some of them flamingo pink, on this falling tide.
Sounding nervous again, Moe said, “The cops are probably looking for me right now. They’ll want to question me again. Jesus Christ, Bern. I killed a man. But I was afraid he was gonna shoot us, right?”
Bern was smiling for the first time in days. “Yeah.”
31
When we got back to Sanibel, Mack had to call the police to escort Augie off marina property. The sight of Jeth and Tomlinson sitting on the Viking’s flybridge, trying to back the monster into a Dinkin’s Bay slip was too much for him.
“That’s my boat. Indian Harbor’s property. You can’t just take what’s mine!”
We’d gotten a rope on the Viking while she was adrift. First Jeth, then Tomlinson, used the line to pull themselves aboard, then fired the twin Detroit diesels. They swung the vessel off its collision course with Estero Island, toward deeper water, then contacted John MacNeal through the marine operator. From the trawler’s pilothouse radio, we listened to them share the good news.
The boat was their custodial responsibility pending negotiations of a salvage fee, a date to be set sometime after the holidays. Until then, no Indian Harbor personnel were to be allowed aboard.
Augie had his uncle’s mean streak, but he didn’t have his self-control. As we turned into the marina basin, half an hour behind the much faster Viking, Augie was still pacing and fuming. “My personal belongings are on that fucking boat. Trippe’s, too. Our clothes, our wallets. My uncle has a ton of shit on the Viking, man, he loves that boat—which is worth a half million, easy!
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