by Robert Lane
“Pardon me?”
“Vicki. I call her Spanish. Eyes that dark don’t come around that often.”
He bobbed his head in approval. “She does have a set. No doubt about that.”
He slid off to my left to attend to a lady who had just sat down. She ordered a mimosa. She crossed her legs, brought up her phone, and disappeared into her 4.7-inch world. At the other end, the Fitzgeralds laughed in harmony. I extracted the picture taken at the Valencia from my bag and placed it on the counter.
Adam rotated back to me. I gave him the same pitch I’d given Spanish. I handed him the picture and inquired if he’d worked the teachers’ conference or remembered seeing the woman in the photograph.
“I did and I do,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the picture in his hand.
“Come again?”
“I worked the teachers’ shindig, and I remember her.” He shifted his focus to me. “Her night was the opposite of yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not much gets past me, you know?” He cocked his head as if to will me to understand. “I like pouring drinks because of the people and the stories they bring.”
“Tell me.”
“Her night was different from yours; that’s what I’m saying.” He lowered the picture onto the bar.
“You’re going to have to bring it home, Adam.” I reached over the bar, snatched a cardboard coaster, and placed my drink on it. I didn’t want the condensation leaking onto the picture. “I wasn’t there that night. Never met her.”
“No, my friend,” he said in a voice that made you believe that he had reserved all his sincerity just for you. “You were not there that night. I’d remember you. And I do remember you. You came in last night with a lady and left alone. Your brown-haired beauty there,” he tilted his head towards the picture, “she came in alone and left with that man. See what I mean? Opposite of you.”
There was no need to dwell on his observation of my solo exit, as I had no interest in rehashing last night. I was taking denial pills. Four every two hours.
I slid my glass away from the picture. “Tell me about that night.”
Before Adam could launch, another woman joined Mimosa, and Adam snapped to attention in front of her. She ordered what her friend had, and the friend ordered a second. I took a few ounces from my drink, congratulated myself on the quick recovery from last night, and leaned back into the chair. Across the street in the marina, a seventy-foot cruiser was stern in. A woman with blond hair and wearing a white robe came out of the stateroom. She was a good-looking woman on a good-looking boat. My eyes are drawn to boats. And women. In the smorgasbord of walkers, joggers, condos, trees, cars, and the constant bustle at the valet stand, my gaze naturally migrated to the classic lines of the Southern Breeze and the lady on the back deck. She flipped her hair, brushing off the night, shed the robe, and took a seat on a chaise lounge in the full sun. The black script letters SB were embossed on the head of each chaise lounge. She was nude and rubbed oil on her skin. I wanted to rub oil on her skin.
“She’s a lonely girl.” Adam had rotated back to me.
“Who?”
“Please—the woman you’re gawking at. She and her man keep to themselves; she whines that he never leaves the boat. She came up here once with a posse of girlfriends, and after a few drinks, you know, when others got high? She got low, know what I mean?” He gave a slight shrug. “Don’t really blame her. Her man, from here at least, looks like a real dweeb.”
“I was actually admiring the boat, Southern Breeze.” The lady did look a tad familiar, but I like to believe that I can say that about any nude on any boat. I gave her a parting glance as she rolled over on the recliner, her buttery breasts gleaming in the sun. Booze, boobs, bacon, and boats—all before noon; I’m telling you, it’s hard being depressed in paradise.
Adam said, “Uh-uh.”
“Tell me, Carnac the Magnificent,” I said, placing my elbows on the table, “about the night Renée Lambert walked in alone and walked out with a man.”
“Wasn’t her choice.”
“Explain.”
“The man she walked out with? He was a party buster. No way did he belong at a teachers’ convention, unless he taught gym. He had bolt-on muscles and a face that never knew a smile.
“I spotted him when he appeared. He scanned the room.” Adam tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Sadly, he passed right over me. But your beauty buddy—Renée, right? He went straight to her.”
“You’re a pretty observant guy, Adam-I-am.”
“That I am. Unfortunately, it gets a little fuzzy after that. We were swamped. I lost track of them.”
“Do you know who took the picture?”
“No, but all these functions have photographers wandering around.”
“What can you tell me about the man?”
“I thought you were interested in the girl.”
“She’s missing.”
He shrugged and placed a dry glass down. “Not much. Short hair. Buzzed. Black T-shirt. Nice, like silk, not cheap. Once he saw his mark, his eyes darted around the room—not like he was searching for anyone else, but more like a nervous habit.”
“That’s not much?”
He arched his eyebrows. “Not in my book.”
I took a green olive and stuck it in my mouth. “And their exit?”
Adam pulled away as a man settled on the far side of the mimosa twins. He ordered a beer. I gave Adam credit—no one at his watering hole needed to vie for his attention. He checked on the Fitzgeralds. Zelda said something to him and reached across the bar, touching his hand as she spoke. Adam circled back to me, checking in on the mimosa twins along the way.
“I saw them leave.” He fingered his bow tie. “He held her elbow, like in the old movies. Guided her out the door. I can’t say she went willingly, but he didn’t drag her, either.”
“Did her demeanor change after he entered the room?”
“Don’t know, boss. Didn’t really pick up on her before then.”
“Anything else? Pierced ear? Someone else he talked to? Hear his voice? Anything that—”
“He coughed.”
I leaned in on the bar. “Tell me.”
“Nothing, really. I heard him clear his throat when I was passing by with a dessert tray. I’m like, I hope this guy doesn’t sneeze on this tray, you know?”
“He smell?”
Adam crinkled up his nose. “Like…BO?”
“No,” I said, remembering what Lambert had said about his visitor coughing and smelling like cough drops. “Like he was sucking a throat lozenge.”
“Naw, I mean, who goes around sniffing people? You’re scaring me, man. I was worried about my raspberry-swirl minicheesecakes. That’s about it.” He picked up the picture of Renée. “Just look at those windows. I can’t imagine the pain behind them.”
He put the picture down and wandered off. I glanced at her eyes. Looked like eyes to me. I pulled a ten from my wallet and placed it on the counter. I’d taken the man’s time, and he’d been cooperative. He caught me doing so out of the corner of his eye and broke off from a conversation he was having with the twins.
“Keep it.” He scooped up the ten and handed it back to me. “Happy to help, if that’s what I did.”
I stuffed the bill back in my billfold and said, “I do appreciate your time.” I gave him my card. “If you recall anything else, or see either person, call me.”
He took my card. “I’ll do that.”
I was a few steps away from the bar when he said, “She cried, you know.”
His words spun me around. “Who?”
“Your woman…” He glanced at my business card. “Jake. When she walked out by herself last night? She tried to keep it together, but she was crying. Crying a river. I don’t know what you said, man, but you hurt her. Hurt her bad.”
CHAPTER 12
Alime with wheels and a windshield—whatever became of the nation that
put a man on the moon?—momentarily blocked my path before I scampered across the street. I took an outdoor seat under an umbrella at Mangroves, ordered an iced tea and a grouper Reuben sandwich, took out my iPad, and tried to forget Adam’s parting salvo.
I spoke with two women at the Teachers Association. The first handed me off to Samantha, who gushed without solicitation that she had just adopted a cocker spaniel from a rescue shelter. “Named her Mary Jane. I’m hooked on Tom Petty like the day I first heard him in Tallahassee.”
She divulged that Renée was attending the conference as a member of a group called Words Against People and that she sat on a panel. Samantha also volunteered that she’d been divorced twice, had a mastectomy, and had seen Petty thirty-seven times. She lamented that there was precious little new talent in the world, a dire situation that she blamed for her rocketing blood pressure. Some people carry their life in a glass of water and splash it on everyone they meet.
“Try Bugg,” I said. “Two Gs.”
“Excuse me?”
“To lower your blood pressure.” I swiped a napkin across my mouth after a particularly disastrous attempt at a bite. “Tell me about WAP.”
“Who?”
“Words Against People.”
“Oh, yes. I get it. Here’s the description they provided us. You ready?”
“Breathless.”
“What?”
“Go on.”
“Words Ag—WAP is an international organization that supports individuals who have been verbally abused and who claim that such abuse has led to mental and social stress. Such stress often results in emotional difficulties that are as real as physical ailments and hinder those individuals in performing normal functions within the society in which they live.”
Samantha went on to explain that the teachers’ organization formed an alliance with WAP because verbal abuse fell under bullying. Bullying, it appeared, was the hottest new topic in public education since the Scopes Monkey Trial. Bullying had also leaked beyond the schoolyard boundaries and into the workplace. WAP and the teachers’ group were striving to raise the visibility of verbal abuse and to create an acceptable method for victims to come forward without shame or hesitation. They were constructing a formal list of words and phrases that would not be tolerated.
Sounded a little wishy-washy to me. In my old hood, you bullied people with land mines, bullets, knives, drones, and anything you could lay your hands on in order to inflect physical pain and death before they returned the favor. We called it “protecting freedom.” They cheered and waved flags when we returned home. Gave us discounts on car insurance. Wrote country songs about us.
We disconnected. I tracked down WAP and placed a call. As the phone rang, I gave an affirmative nod to my waitress regarding a refill on my iced tea. A young man walking an immense, panting dog passed on the sidewalk. I felt bad for the dog. It shouldn’t be south of Canada.
“Words Against People, where every word counts, this is Bretta. May I help you?”
“Bretta, Frank Bernard here. I’m a principal who attended the recent conference you had in Saint Petersburg. I had a discussion with Renée Lambert of your organization and was impressed with her. I would like to have her speak at a local meeting. How may I contact her?”
Bretta informed me that the only information she could parcel out was what was in the program guide or on the website. She did mention that Renée had joined around two years ago and was not that active in the organization. She inquired if I’d like to leave a comment that Renée might view. I sat up straight, unaware that I’d been slouching.
“How does that work?”
“You can post comments on our members’ board. You know, success stories, things like that. You can address your comment to anyone who is listed or post a general comment. Is there something you’d like to add?”
“Is Renée active on that forum?”
“I don’t know and couldn’t say even if I did.”
I gave that a second and then said, “Tell her—”
“You can log on yourself with your password and do your own post. We pre—”
“Machine’s in the garage. Dumped a Diet Coke on the keyboard.”
“Ouch.”
“Second time in a month.”
“Might want to be more careful.”
“Copy that. Do you mind?”
“Go ahead. I can post without your password. If she does reply, it will be as a general comment.”
“Just say that, as an attendee, I was moved by her talk as well as the story she shared about the young man who joined her for the evening. The one she departed with. If she’d like to continue the story and discuss her association with the man, I’d love to hear from her.”
I gave her my number and repeated it. I told her that I’d lost my program guide, and she reminded me that I could bring the itinerary up on the website when my computer was fixed. I thanked her and disconnected.
It was a shot in the dark. I was betting that the man Renée left with wasn’t there for the event. Might have even been the visitor at her father’s place, although Adam’s observation that Renée’s escort cleared his throat wasn’t enough to hang a hat on. If she needed help, maybe she’d give me a call. You don’t catch any fish until you cast a line in the water.
A chunk of ice slid into my mouth with the final swallow of iced tea. My teeth gave it an audible crack as I considered my next move. I sprang up and hiked down Beach Drive. Kathleen’s condo was two blocks south. I took the general elevator to her unit on the ninth floor—the private one was still inoperable. I marched through the war room and knocked on her door. I had no idea what I would say. She wasn’t in. Didn’t expect her to be. I perused the titles and borrowed the untranslated Last Letters from Stalingrad. It was a 1962 first edition. How’d it end up there?
I swung by Donald Lambert’s home to make sure PC and Boyd were maintaining their vigilance. They had parked a block away and were skateboarding the neighborhood. They couldn’t do that for hours. Despite my desire to have his house under constant surveillance, it wasn’t practical. The street was too packed with seventy-five-foot lots. After I roped them in, we settled on drive-bys every fifteen minutes in alternate vehicles, coupled with walks and skateboard trips. Anything more would invite unnecessary scrutiny on them. I showed PC the pictures of Renée with Paretsky, Paretsky on the boat, and the single picture of Renée with the mystery man. I instructed him to be on the lookout for either man.
“She come around often?” PC said and stepped to within a foot of me. His social radar didn’t know north from south, and he habitually invaded other people’s space. He viewed the picture of Renée that was taken at the Valencia.
“No. Her father said she was supposed to drop by a couple weeks ago, but she was a no-show.” I had little choice but to accept what Donald Lambert told me, despite my growing skepticism.
“Shame,” he said, studying the photograph. He wore a T-shirt that had a black-and-white silhouette of Bill Murray’s face on it. Boyd, who now sported a beard that looked like an S.O.S pad glued to his chin and a moustache, was off to the side tossing SweeTarts in the air and catching them in his mouth.
“Be careful,” I urged them. “Be on the watch for anything unusual.”
“You’re a broken record, Jake-o,” PC said.
“Both men are dangerous. Don’t go poking around. Call me if you—”
“Want us to do the other,” an airborne SweeTart landed in Boyd’s mouth, “street, too?”
“What other street?”
“One behind this house.” He tossed another Tart in the air. “We already”, he paused as it found its mark, “scouted it. We can see between the homes and actually get a pretty decent view of the backyard.”
“Do that.”
PC studied the picture of Renée Lambert. “Those eyes. What is she? Sad? Afraid?” He glanced away from the picture and back at me. I recalled Adam making a similar comment. He took his phone out of his cargo shorts
pocket and snapped a picture of the picture. He put his phone back in his pocket and handed the photo back to me. “In her life, Jake-o, it’s not Christmas morning.”
I glanced at the picture. Just a good-looking woman to me. Between Adam’s and PC’s observations, I wondered if part of my radar wasn’t operational. Bet Kathleen would cast a strong vote on that.
Morgan was late for dinner. I fixed a small pitcher of margaritas. I dropped Etta James on the turntable and took a seat on the screened porch. I drained the drink, poured a refill, sliced off some chunks of Welsh cheddar, and snatched some cashews, crackers, and a cigar. Dinner. I returned to the porch. I slid the cigar out of its cellophane wrapper and sniffed the open end. I gave it a slight squeeze to gauge how moist it still was—it wasn’t—clipped the end, and torched it.
The red channel marker blinked on, signaling the night’s arrival. The charter sunset boat, Fantasea, flying the flags of a half-dozen nations, cruised in from the gulf. Hands pointed as several dolphins, on cue, fluidly broke the surface off the end of my dock.
Morgan came through the side door, latched the handle, went into the kitchen, and came back with a glass of wine. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. We rarely invent conversation. He helped himself to a chunk of cheese.
“Did you see the margaritas in there?” I said.
“I did. Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t get around to it.” I didn’t feel like telling him I’d dropped by her condo. Hadley III leapt on top of the grill. Her wide eyes surveyed her domain.
I exhaled smoke out of my mouth. It went a few feet and then wafted into the air like a fog bank. “You read that file I gave you?”
“Cardinal Giovanni Antinori.” He took a cracker and popped it in his mouth. “Quite a career.” He took a few chews. “But you know all that.” He propped his bare feet on top of the glass table. It needed cleaning. It always needed cleaning.
“I do. What do you see that I don’t?” He wouldn’t question my tenet that he and I experienced and saw things differently.
“Antinori changed. Transformed. About two years ago.”