by John Lutz
“Is he sure he wasn’t seen?”
“Says he is, and I think we can trust him.”
“You can trust him,” Carver said. “I never even met him.”
“Well, Bobby’s a straight-ahead reliable dude.”
“How old is he?”
“Fourteen and a half. Same as me.” She stood up taller. “Plenty old enough, no matter what you think.”
Carver looked at Beth. Said, “Jesus!” Beth smiled.
Carver said, “Did Bobby mention which way the van turned on Highway One when it pulled outa the station?”
“Sure he did. The van went north. Came in from the south, then gassed up and went on north.”
“You’re right,” Carver said, “Bobby’s a reliable dude.” The fact that the crate was empty meant Davy wasn’t hauling contraband north, at least on that trip. Carver had envisioned drug shipments from Mexico to Florida, then north to the major markets in the greater United States. Of course, there might be other reasons for Davy’s trip north, this time not involving a drug shipment. Carver knew what he’d have to do to satisfy his curiosity.
“Guess I better get busy,” Effie said, making a circular motion with a commode brush.
“Tell your friend Bobby I said thanks,” Carver told her, “but also tell him not to do anything from now on other than observe, and from a distance.” To impress her with his seriousness, he added, “It looks as if Henry Tiller was murdered. Keep that at the top of your mind.”
But she didn’t seem impressed. His somber advice glanced off the armor of her youth; he could almost imagine it dropping useless to the floor. Well, what had he expected?
She said, “I knew the day I heard he was run down it was somebody tried to kill him.”
She scooped more cleaning supplies from the table and sashayed into the bathroom. Carver heard the toilet flush and whine, water pipes knocking.
“Young, huh?” Beth said, knowing what he was thinking.
“Only fourteen.”
“I didn’t mean in years,” Beth said, the woman who’d matured by twelve in a Chicago ghetto. “It’s her naivete’s gonna get her into trouble. Not like you, Fred. It’s your bullheadedness gonna do you in someday.”
“Why don’t you try thinking of me as simply resolute?” Carver asked, irritated.
“Resolute ain’t psychotic, baby.”
He was even more irritated by the way she’d fallen into the slip-and-slide lilt and slang of her youth; she did that sometimes for effect. He said, “I love it when you call me insane.”
“Yeah? Well, that can be a turn-on for some.”
The scent of Pine Sol was drifting in from the bathroom. “If you think I’m an obsessive nutcase, how come you stay with me?
“Huh? It’s why I love you. Even though it’s what makes you do things that’re downright dumb and dangerous. It’s like living with a sky diver.”
He shook his head, then limped toward the phone.
“What you doing now, Fred?”
“I’m gonna make a call to Miami.”
“Have to do with our friend Davy?”
“Sure does.”
She smiled wickedly. “Geronimo!”
29
Carver instructed Beth not to stake out the Rainer estate that night. He’d rented a Ford Taurus from Hertz, dark blue and inconspicuous and powerful, and that evening sat parked where he could see anyone entering or leaving the Rainer driveway.
His hopes had been high, but after the gray Lincoln pulled into the drive, Hector at the wheel and Walter Rainer almost reclining in the backseat, no other vehicle came or went.
Carver returned to the cottage, but parked the Ford on the far side of the structure where it wouldn’t be noticed.
After waking around nine-thirty, he ate a hurried breakfast of toast and jelly, not minding that he’d burned the toast. Leaving Beth still asleep, he took his coffee and the day binoculars out to a shady spot, settled into an aluminum lounger and watched the Rainer estate. The sun had climbed high and brightened the sea and was lancing warm beams through the palm fronds. Shade or not, Carver didn’t want to stay where he was for very long.
After about half an hour he saw Davy amble down to the Miss Behavin’, hop on board, and fifteen minutes later return to the house. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Even from this distance the tattoos on his muscular arms were plainly visible. Carver never could figure why anyone would have themselves tattooed; the permanency of it would bother him. Maybe permanency bothered him, period.
He sipped coffee and from time to time raised the binoculars to his eyes, though he’d fixed on the spot where the van would have to pass if it left the garage, and he could surely spot it with the naked eye.
A few minutes past noon, when the heat had almost driven him inside, the van did back from the garage. Carver watched it slowly maneuver in the driveway like a huge black roach among lush foliage, then start forward. When it was out of sight, he tossed away the rest of his coffee in a sun-illumined amber arc and watched it splatter on the sandy soil. Then he limped to the Ford and drove down to Shoreline, parked and waited. If Davy was driving north, he’d have to pass Carver, and soon.
Carver tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Switched the air conditioner to a higher setting. Double-checked the fuel gauge to make sure the Ford had plenty of gas in its tank. Waiting again. He spent so much time waiting.
Davy’s black van didn’t pass. He was probably driving south into Fishback, maybe on an errand for Rainer. Or maybe to knock back a few beers at the Key Lime Pie bar, get lucky and find somebody who wanted a fight. But even Davy couldn’t do battle every day and odd hour. Guys like that were like generals and TV weathermen; it was hard to imagine what they did with their leisure time.
When he was sure Davy would have passed him heading north, Carver drove back to the cottage. He hated this kind of thing, the intermittent watching that might lead to nothing. He’d done too much of it in his life, spent too much time trying to get inside other people’s minds, only to be thrown by the complexity of the human condition. It could be he was wrong about Davy, and the black van might never again travel farther north than Marathon Key.
Beth wandered out to where he was sitting in the lounge chair, waiting for Davy’s return to the Rainer estate. She laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and he realized his back muscles were tight. He made a conscious effort to relax them, leaning forward in the chair and working his shoulders back and forth.
“Getting hot enough to bake beans out here,” Beth said.
“Been hot.”
“You’re sweating. I can feel the dampness through your shirt. You wanna give me the binoculars and go inside for a while in the air-conditioning, I’ll sit in for you.”
“I’m okay. If I went in there and cooled off, I’d really feel it when I came back out.”
She clucked her tongue. “You’re one hardheaded individual, lover. Might be you’ll sit here forever and nothing’ll happen over at the Rainer place.”
“Then it’ll take forever,” Carver said.
“You’re starting to tighten up again.” She kneaded his back with her long fingers, knowing how. Knowing him. Had she done this for Roberto Gomez? Carver hunched his shoulders, then let them sag. “Go on in and get some sleep, Fred. My eyesight’s good as yours. Won’t hurt a thing if I keep watch out here for a while.”
He knew she was right and he was playing hardcore.
“You don’t trust me?” she asked.
“I trust you.” He stood up, stretched, grinned at her, then limped through harsh sunlight into the cottage.
He took a shower and lay down for a while. Even slept. Davy would probably spend quite some time in Fishback, and there’d be nothing to see on the Rainer grounds. Carver figured it was time-out in whatever dangerous game they were playing. When it got dark, he’d use the Hertz and move in closer.
At ten-thirty that night, while Carver was parked in the shelter of a cluster of palm tre
es off Shoreline, the chain-link gates across Rainer’s driveway eased open and the black van nosed out onto the road.
It was only after the gates had closed and the van was a hundred yards down the highway that Davy-if Davy was the driver-switched on its lights. Carver smiled, started the Ford, and eased onto Shoreline at a safe distance behind the van, traveling north.
When they crossed the bridge to Duck Key, his heart began hammering. This was what he’d been waiting for, Davy embarking on one of his many runs north for whatever mysterious reason. Carver figured the destination was Miami. He hoped so, anyway. He had set things up for Miami. The only problem was, he needed Davy to light somewhere in Miami for a while, give him a little time. As late as it was, maybe Davy would stop at a motel in or close to the city and conduct his business tomorrow. He must sleep like other people, or maybe with his eyes open, like a fish. If he didn’t stop at a motel, maybe Davy would pull in somewhere in Miami for a snack or a cup of coffee to keep him alert, and he could get to a phone.
The van stopped at the Texaco station on Marathon Key, and Carver parked well up the road and watched Davy pump gas. Then, as Effie’s friend Bobby had described, he drove to the far end of the lot, walked inside the brightly lighted station/ convenience store and settled with the cashier for the gas.
Davy popped a piece of candy or gum into his mouth as he walked back to the van, dropping the wrapper on the ground. When he drove from the station and pulled the van back onto Route 1, Carver followed.
The highway was almost deserted, and the van made good time. Carver rode well behind it in the Ford, able to keep its taillights in view easily on the straight ribbon of road. Now and then he’d drive with his headlights off, so if Davy was checking the rearview mirror he’d assume the car behind him had turned off the highway. A new set of headlights five minutes later wouldn’t alarm him.
Just after one o’clock the van’s taillights flared bright red as it slowed and made a left into the lot of what a large red and green neon sign proclaimed to be Guzman’s Drop Inn Motel.
Carver parked the Ford on the gravel shoulder and left the motor idling. He watched while Davy checked in at the motel office, then drove the van to an end room and parked it. After carefully locking the van, Davy went into the room carrying a small duffel bag.
This was all fine with Carver. He drove back to a phone booth he’d noticed and called Van Meter.
Lloyd Van Meter was one of the more prosperous private investigators in Florida, with offices in Orlando, Tampa, and Miami. He was almost as fat as Walter Rainer, and he dressed expensively but in the depths of fashion. He’d been expecting Carver’s call, and when Carver arrived at the shopping mall lot where Van Meter said he’d be waiting, Van Meter was standing outside his white Cadillac, wearing a yellow suit that looked luminous in the moonlight. Carver hadn’t seen him for a while. He still had his full white beard, which lent him an oddly biblical look even in his bizarre clothes, an overweight Moses with an Elton John wardrobe.
Theirs were the only cars on the lot. Carver got out from behind the steering wheel, slammed the Ford’s door behind him, and limped over to Van Meter. He saw that up close the suit had a checked pattern.
Van Meter grinned as if about to change water to wine. Or maybe he could cure Carver simply with the laying on of pudgy hands. He said, “You step in some shit, Fred?”
“Just working a case, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Not like an independent soul such as you to ask for help.”
“I knew you were in Miami,” Carver said, “and you’re the most progressive investigator I could think of. A leader in our field.”
“Meaning I’d have whatever kinda electronic gizmo you needed.”
Carver smiled, stood facing him and waiting.
Van Meter turned around and with great effort reached in through the Cadillac’s lowered window and straightened up with a shoe box in his beefy hand. The box was lettered genuine cherokee moccasins. Carver glanced at Van Meter’s feet and saw huge two-tone leather moccasins with oversized silver-tipped tassels. Surely no Cherokee had ever stalked game in such footwear. “What you asked for’s in here,” Van Meter said, and lifted the box’s lid as if it were hinged.
Carver saw among wadded white tissue paper the square black receiver with coiled black cord wrapped around it.
“This ain’t like the one I loaned you once before,” Van Meter said. “You do what I told you and rent a car with a cigarette lighter?”
“Car’s got every toy made,” Carver said.
“Except one of these.”
“True.”
Having made his point, Van Meter said, “You just plug this gizmo into the lighter socket. It’s your receiver and’ll sound a kinda high-pitched beeping, gets louder and closer together as you get nearer to this gadget.” He held up a metal disk the size of a quarter only slightly thicker. “That’s your transmitter. Magnetic, or it’s got stickum on the back if you peel away the paper. I put a spare in the box for you, just in case, though the damned things never go wrong. Pretty simple, really, this little watch-battery-powered disk is your signal sender, like a miniature radio, and the box is your receiver. Basic as a kid’s toy. Activate the disk like so, stick it on whatever it is you wanna follow, plug the receiver into your cigarette lighter, and you’re off and away on your big adventure.”
Carver said, “You make it sound like fun.”
Not smiling, Van Meter said, “Don’t shit me, Fred. You know it can be fun, once you get the transmitter in place. But planting it on the subject’s car can be the nasty part. You need any help with that? A diversion? That kinda thing?”
“I don’t think so. My guy’s sacked out in a motel over on Route One.”
“You hope.”
“Well, that’s life, hoping, running the risk. I think I’d be better off just walking up and sticking the transmitter to the bumper of his parked van than having you set fire to the motel for a diversion.”
“Maybe you got a point. I get accused sometimes of doing things too flamboyantly.”
“It’s true, Lloyd, but then that’s you.”
Van Meter frowned as if he might cast fingertip lightning Carver’s way. He really would look at home on a stained-glass window. “Meaning?”
“Well, there’s not much about you that screams accountant.”
“That a compliment?”
“Sure, unless you’re an accountant.”
Van Meter stroked his long white beard. “I ain’t some accountant, and I can cover your back if you need it. I’m serious about the offer, Fred. Don’t be too proud to accept, wind up hurt bad or dead. Hell, I might call on you sometime. Buddies, fellow pros, that kinda stuff, hey?”
“You are helping me, Lloyd. Lending me the latest in secret agent paraphernalia.” Carver held up the shoe box. “For which I’m grateful.”
“That’s old, old technology, Fred, like the microphone in the martini olive. You worry me, the way you don’t keep up with things. World’s gonna pass you by on microchip skates.”
“I like being old-fashioned.”
“Yeah, like the town marshal without deputies.” Van Meter shook his massive, shaggy head and opened the Caddy’s driver-side door. Bathed in the glow of the courtesy light, his gigantic pseudo-Indian moccasins took on a yellow hue that matched his suit. Had he found color consciousness? “I’m driving home and going to bed, Fred,” he said somberly, “maybe read about you in tomorrow’s papers.”
“I’ll get this receiver back to you soon as I can,” Carver told him. “Thanks, Lloyd.”
Van Meter waved a pudgy hand. “Sure, stuff it in a padded envelope and put it in the mail, if you can’t come by the office in the next few days. And if it gets shot or somebody breaks it over your skull, don’t worry about it; it’s already depreciated out for tax purposes.” The big Cadillac’s engine turned over and it glided away, white and ghostly in the deserted parking lot.
Carver used his cane to wave goodbye to Van M
eter, then lowered himself into the Ford and drove back to the motel.
Boldness would be the right tactic here, he decided, after parking the Ford on the street near Guzman’s Drop Inn. He could see Davy’s van still squatting on its oversized tires at the far end of the row of rooms. Light from a sign in the next block shone on its smooth black surface. The glow from the motel’s neon sign illuminated the near side of the van so there were no concealing shadows.
The lights were out in Davy’s room. Carver sat in the Ford sweating and waiting until another hour had passed. When he figured Davy would surely be asleep, dreaming whatever dreams a man like that dreamed, he climbed out of the car and limped along the edge of the motel lot, where he wouldn’t be visible from the office. The slight breeze that played over him was warm, and he began perspiring more heavily. He was hotter than he’d been today in the lounge chair; his shirt was molded like shrink-wrap to his body.
Still in deep shadow at the edge of the lot, he stood for a few seconds listening to the hum of distant traffic, the chirping and droning of night insects. Then he drew one of the quarter-sized transmitter disks from his pocket, twisted its rim as instructed to activate it, and limped quickly, but not too quickly, directly to Davy’s van.
He felt totally exposed and vulnerable on the wide lot, unable to maneuver with the cane. If the motel desk man or a guest saw him and suspected something was going on, there was no way to flee. If Davy saw him, it would be stand and fight time. Tonight, right now, Carver didn’t feel like fighting.
He reached the van and casually as possible attached the beeper to the inside of the back bumper, first peeling the paper from the back so the disk would be affixed with adhesive as well as magnetism. He tapped it with his forefinger. It seemed firmly mounted.
As he straightened up, one of the motel doors opened and a man in shorts and a sleeveless white undershirt stepped out. He saw Carver, looked surprised, then nodded.
After nodding back, Carver moved around, kicked the van’s left rear tire as if he owned the vehicle and was checking on it, and watched the man walk to a lighted break in the motel’s line of rooms. There was a soda machine there, and a couple of vending machines that dispensed junk food.