Red Tide

by Jeff Lindsay

  But Nicky was another story.

  “It’s my money,” Nicky said.

  “It’s my life. And I’m not tossing it away for your ego.”

  “Go piss down your leg. Ego is going into this solo with no back-up. You need me there, mate.”

  “Anything I can’t handle is going to be way too much for you.”

  “Piss down your leg,” he repeated. “What is there to handle? Go to a bar and talk to a drunk. Think I can’t do that a damn sight better’n you? Eh?”

  “There’s more to it than that. I have to be ready for something to go wrong.”

  “Exactly my point, mate. And you need me there if it does.”

  “Nicky—”

  “I can handle this. I’m in touch with my warrior-self. Look at my aura.”

  I looked at Nicky, a full five feet of Australian New Age deadliness. I couldn’t actually see his aura but maybe he was surrounded by a bright glowing war-like haze that would terrify and intimidate anybody who tried to hurt him. Anything was possible.

  But if I couldn’t see his warrior-self aura it seemed like a safe bet that there were other people who couldn’t see it either. And if one of them decided to stick a knife down Nicky’s throat, just for the hell of it, that would be a big distraction for me.

  “You asked me to do this because I know how to do it,” I said. “This is part of what I know.”

  “Eyewash,” he said stubbornly.

  I reached for the bedside pen and notepad, “I need you here. You’re my last back-up. If something goes bad, if I don’t come back or call you by 2 A.M., that means I’m in trouble and I need help.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “I mean it. If it goes wrong I’ll need a hole card. You’re it.”

  “Seriously?” He was beginning to doubt a little.

  “Seriously. I need you here, out of reach of whatever might happen. Just in case.”

  “I’ll come for you, Billy,” he said in a voice I was sure he’d picked up from Australian late night television.

  “No, you won’t,” I said, writing out a telephone number and tearing off the page. “What you’ll do is call this number.” I handed him the slip of paper with the number written on it. Nicky raised an eyebrow. “It’s a man named Deacon,” I said. “He’s a very good cop.”

  Nicky looked doubtful. “Are you having me on, mate? Make a phone call? That’s it? Besides, ‘the last back-up’ sounds like a Bruce Willis movie.”

  “Anything that can take me out can take you out, too.”

  “Don’t be so fuckin’ certain.”

  “This way, if I’m still alive, I’ve got a chance. The Deacon will know what to do.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “This is shits,” Anna said. She had been watching us like we were a tennis match. Now she stood up and put a hand on Nicky’s shoulder. “We are doing this as Billy says. Please.”

  The look on her face would have melted marble. Nicky still wasn’t completely convinced, but he accepted it. He smoothed the paper a few times and then folded it and stuck it in his pocket. “All right, then,” he said. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “That’s it,” I said. I took a deep breath and let it out through my teeth. For some reason I was feeling a lot tenser about this than I should have. Because it really was pretty simple. Like Nicky had said: go to a bar and talk to a drunk. Nothing to it.

  Except that when Anna had shivered and looked at me, all the hair had stood up on the back of my neck. And now all my instincts were saying that it would get ugly, had already gotten ugly, and I was walking into a snake pit. I was stepping off into darkness with no idea what might be under my feet. I didn’t like the feeling.

  I shook it off. “Listen,” I said, wanting to believe what I was saying. “We’re making too much out of this. It’s not a big deal, I just want to play it safe.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Nicky said, slightly bitter. “With a last backup. That ought to do.”

  “Nicky, I’m just going to ask a few questions and come back. I’ll be gone a couple of hours, no big deal.”

  “Fine, Billy. I’m sure I couldn’t possibly ask the bastard any questions.”

  “Nicky—”

  “Go on, Billy. Get out. You’re a right proper bastard when you want.”

  I shook it off and turned to Anna. I put an arm around her and pulled her close. “You’re safe here,” I said. “And I’ll be back soon.”

  She tilted her face up and looked into my eyes. I thought she was going to say something, but instead she pulled my face down onto hers and gave me a long, searching kiss. “Be careful,” she said.

  It was about twenty minutes of driving to get back to The O. The Miami traffic didn’t do much to shake off my uneasy feelings, but at least it gave me some real danger to concentrate on.

  Every city has a style. You see it in the way people look at strangers on the street, you can hear it on the local talk radio shows, you can read it in the local papers. Cities have their own flavors, and I had just gotten a taste of Miami’s.

  When I first came to Miami it had been like the kind of woman who is beautiful without any awareness of it, without consciously using that beauty on you. There was a freshness in the city, the hint that anything might be possible but whatever came would be good.

  Now the city’s beauty was coarser. There was too much makeup, too much soiled arrogance in the good looks. The lovely woman had picked up the hostility of the relentlessly small-time, trying to prove herself major league. Miami had become a part-time hooker, the kind who calls her tricks “dates” and thinks of the money as loans from her many boyfriends. Under the mask of beauty and freshness, the smell of decay had already taken over. Every year the people are a little more sour; they drive like they’re trying to get revenge for something they don’t remember. Everybody on the streets is a target for the kind of petty meanness that makes you want to stand on the hood of your car and shoot out the street lights.

  Still, South Beach is very nice, isn’t it? That is, if you can find a place to park, keep to well-lighted areas, and stay lucky.

  I got to The O about fifteen minutes before the time I had agreed to meet Bud and his pal Oto. The inside of the bar looked like it had been sprayed in plastic to preserve it from last night. Nothing had changed. The same bartender stood behind the slanted, pitted bar. The same tough crowd slouched in the same positions at the same tables.

  There was only one small difference tonight. Down at the far end of the bar, Bud’s stool was empty.

  No big deal; there was time yet. I settled at the bar with a glass of beer, facing the rest of the room, keeping one eye on the door and one eye on everything else.

  I finished the beer. It wasn’t the kind of place where you get up and dance to the jukebox, so I ordered another one. Bud was late. I looked around the room. Nobody looked back. I nursed my beer, taking tiny sips with a few minutes in between.

  I finished my second beer and ordered another one. A few more and it wouldn’t matter if Bud came or not. I was living the high life.

  There were a lot of reasons why Bud might not show up. It was possible that his drunk buddy was too drunk to navigate. Maybe his car wouldn’t start. He could have a 24-hour flu. And maybe PBS was showing Downton Abbey and he didn’t want to miss it.

  Whatever the reason, after I’d had three beers I was pretty sure Bud was not coming tonight. I could play it safe and drink another beer, but then I might have to call Nicky to come down in a cab and drive me home.

  I pushed away from the bar and headed out into the night. We hadn’t said anything about it, but I was willing to bet that Bud would show up tomorrow night. He might not have Oto with him, but he’d be back. This was his place.

  When I got back to the hotel room, Anna and Nicky were sitting on opposite sides of the room, Anna on the bed and Nicky in the straight-backed chair at the little desk. They were just sitting, doing nothing. A stack of empty beer bottles was ranged around Nic
ky. As I opened the door their heads swiveled in unison to look at me.

  And the nicest thing I had seen in a long time was the way Anna’s face lit up when she saw me. She jumped up and came to me, getting her arms around me before Nicky had the chance to do more than bellow, “Billy!”

  I walked Anna back across the room and we sat down on the bed. “Well, mate,” Nicky said. “Was there any change?”

  Maybe it was the three beers I’d had, but I didn’t get what he meant. “Change in what?”

  He shook his head. “Change from the hundred dollars. Was there any left, or did he take the whole lot?”

  I hadn’t even thought about Nicky’s money until now. I pried it out of my pocket and flipped it across the room to him. “It’s all there,” I said.

  “Outstanding,” Nicky said. “Did he talk?”

  “He didn’t talk. He didn’t show up.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not even partly,” I said. “I drank a few beers and heard Achy Breaky Heart seven times. That’s it.”

  Nicky frowned. Anna frowned. It looked better on her.

  “And so?” Anna finally said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I go back there tomorrow night and try again.”

  “It’s a classic bargaining technique,” Nicky said. “Straight out of Sun Tzu. Keep ’em off-balance. Hold fast. Don’t go over a hundred dollars, no matter what.”

  I looked at Nicky. He was serious. “You’re getting awfully attached to that money.”

  “Aw, come on, it’s a hundred dollars.”

  “The money is nothing,” Anna said. “Important is why does this Bud not come tonight?”

  “I’m telling you why,” Nicky said. “He’s pumping up the price.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “My reading of Bud might be wrong, but I don’t think he’d work that way.”

  “Just wait, mate. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe so. We’ll know tomorrow night. Until then—” I shrugged.

  “So we are only waiting now, and nothing more as this?” Anna asked.

  “That’s it,” I told her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next day was long. The day before we had been waiting, tense, expecting something to happen and thinking that one way or another we would have an answer that night. That hadn’t happened and there was no way to know if anything at all would happen tonight. We didn’t know whether to be nervous or disappointed so we were a little of both.

  So there was waiting, and politeness all around to hide the frazzled nerves, and the routine of meals. And soon it was night again and I was repeating my good-byes to Anna.

  She held me for a minute, and then looked up at me, and then put her head on my chest.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “Is most of nothing,” she said. “Only—”

  “Only what?”

  She looked up again. “Last night I am having this bad feeling and nothing is happening. So tonight I am having it even more so, and so perhaps even more nothing will happens. Only I am afraid of something to happens when I am not yet being so much a woman for you.”

  I kissed her on the forehead. “You are being plenty a woman for me,” I said. “And nothing will happens. I’ll be back in a few hours.” And I left her there in the hotel room, before she could say anything more.

  Nothing had changed in the Miami traffic, and nothing was different in The O, either. I took my stool at the bar and worked my way through a glass of beer. I had just started on my second when the door opened and two cops pushed their way in.

  When I had come in the other night with Nicky and Anna the place had gotten quiet. The cops got the opposite reaction. Everybody talked just a little louder, putting a lot of work into being innocent.

  The cops stopped inside the door and looked around for a few seconds. The O wouldn’t be on anybody’s regular beat. They wouldn’t come into a place like this unless they were making a collar. I wondered who it was.

  I didn’t wonder long. The taller cop, a thin black guy with a mustache, nudged his partner, an older Hispanic man, and they both moved towards the bar.

  Towards me.

  “Could you please stand up and place both hands on the bar, sir?” the taller one said. According to his nametag, he was DENNIS. His partner, LOPEZ, stayed a few steps to the side to cover me in case I pulled a LAWS rocket from my beer glass.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked him.

  “Put both your hands on the bar,” Dennis repeated.

  “Sure,” I said. I put both my hands on the bar. They both looked serious about this and there was plenty of time to clear up whatever the misunderstanding was.

  Dennis patted me down. He took my pocketknife, a large stainless steel Buck knife Betty Fleming had given me for Christmas. I turned my head. Lopez was talking to the bartender, who was nodding at me.

  “I don’t know shit,” I heard the bartender say. “Whyntcha ask him. He knows sumtin, tell ya that.”

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I asked Dennis.

  “We’d just like to ask you a few questions,” he said, putting my knife carefully into a plastic bag. That didn’t look too good. Bagging the knife meant he thought it might be evidence of something. That meant the questions they wanted to ask me might be a little bit sharp.

  “Am I charged with something?” I asked him.

  “We’re just going to ask a few questions,” he repeated. He twisted my arms behind me and snapped on the handcuffs. I let him. Arguing with two highly trained, heavily armed guys is a bad idea.

  I kept telling myself that after they stuck me in the back seat of their car. Riding with your hands behind you isn’t a lot of fun. Especially in an enclosed space with the windows rolled up where somebody had been very sick not too long ago. It smelled like their diet of muscatel and road kill hadn’t agreed with them and the cheap disinfectant hadn’t done more than add to the stink. Police work is so romantic. All the TV cop shows say so.

  Luckily the ride wasn’t too long. But the wait on the other end was. They stuck me in a small holding cell that smelled familiar. Whoever had been riding in the back seat of the cops’ car before me had come here with some friends. They’d had a contest; who can cover the most floor space with a single vomit. From the smell, I’d say it had been a three-way tie.

  I sat in the holding cell for a couple of hours before they came to get me. I guess they had to think out the questions. Judging by the two detectives who were waiting for me, they should have taken a little more time.

  The uniforms took me to a small room filled with a table and a few chairs. An ashtray smoldered in the middle of the table. Down at the far end a guy smoldered in a chair. He had a rumpled silk suit with a thin tie, black, Pat Riley hair and a thin mustache. His feet, in tasseled loafers, were on the table. He glared at me when they ushered me into the room.

  His partner was a fat guy with a really bad haircut and a broken nose that looked more like an animal’s snout than a human’s nose. With his jowls and baggy suit he looked like Porky Pig’s mean cousin having a bad hair day. He nodded at the chair directly opposite him. “Have a seat, William,” he said. His partner cleared his throat with a sound like a dog growling. Great. I was being grilled by Porky and the Wolf.

  I sat.

  “They treat you okay?”

  “Sure. Except they forgot to tell me what this is about,” I said.

  Porky nodded. He just watched me with a half-pleasant smile. His partner continued to glare at me. A couple of minutes went by like this. I knew the technique. I was supposed to get uncomfortable with the two of them staring at me. It would break down my defenses and make me want to please them by admitting I had done it.

  It’s surprising how often that routine works. That’s why cops use it. The only problem was that I didn’t know what I had done. I could give them a kind of general confession and let them slap it on where they wanted it, but I had the feeling they mig
ht try to make it stick. I decided to play it straight.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ll be glad to cooperate with whatever you got going here, but first you have to let me know why I’m here. As far as I know I didn’t see anything or do anything interesting in the last few days.”

  “Sure,” snarled the Wolf. “Nothing at all. Innocent as a baby. It’s fucking amazing how everybody we talk to is innocent as a fucking baby.”

  “Lorenzo,” Porky said to him.

  Lorenzo slapped the table. “He pisses me off. Look at him! He thinks we’re just stupid spic cops, ha? Is that what you think, pendejo?”

  “All right, Lorenzo,” Porky said, giving me a weary smile that said, See what I put up with?

  I felt honored. I was actually getting the Mr. Hard and Mr. Soft Routine. Cops have used that routine since Cain killed Abel. I was surprised to see it in a place as sophisticated as Miami. Maybe they’d seen Miami Vice too many times.

  “We have a problem, William,” Porky said.

  “Yeah, you do. You’re grilling the wrong guy.”

  He ignored me. “Our problem is this. We think maybe you know a few things we want you to talk about. If we could just clear this up quick, Lorenzo could go home.” He leaned his head towards his partner with a small smile. “He gets cranky when he’s up this late.”

  “This guy thinks he’s tough.” Lorenzo slammed his chair back and stood up. “Is that what you think? You’re too tough for a couple of puercos gusanos?”

  “Sit down, Lorenzo,” Porky said.

  “He’s pissing me off!” Lorenzo said, but he sat down.

  “What about it, William?” Porky said, giving his head a sympathetic shake. “Can you help me out here?”

  “I’ll be glad to,” I said. “First, tell me what you think I did, then read me rights, then ask me a couple of real questions. That way we can settle this and Lorenzo can go home. Does that help at all?”

  Lorenzo slammed his hand down again and said something in rapid Spanish with no consonants. Porky raised a hand to calm him down and said something back. Then he smiled at me.