“I’m going to cut him.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m going to give him some reinforcement of the negative kind.”
“I said no, Johnny. We’re not cutting on him.”
“What’re you, getting soft?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m getting soft.”
“Fuck soft,” Johnny said. “We need that thing back, right? This geezer knows where it is. It’s simple. We cut it out of him.”
“No, Johnny.”
“You just sit there and be soft, Morgan. Watch how it works.”
“This isn’t a movie, Johnny. We’re not mobsters. Leave the old man alone. I’ve had enough of this.”
Johnny stepped over to Lawton and gripped his right ear. Tugged hard on his earlobe, stretching it out. Then Lawton felt the cold burn of the blade against his flesh, and a hard sting like a hornet. It hurt, but Lawton had felt worse. That time he’d snagged his wedding ring on the railing of a boat when he jumped ashore. It almost tore his finger off. That was worse. Or passing the kidney stone. But this was bad. It hurt in the pit of his stomach and it hurt in his teeth. The room was woozy.
Johnny stepped away and held up the morsel of skin.
Blood flowed down Lawton’s shoulder, warm and gluey.
“Where’d you hide the HERF, old man? You tell us right now, or we’re going to keep cutting off little pieces till there’s nothing left but the stump of your dick.”
Lawton blinked. The hornet sting was spreading its poison juices down his throat, numb and aching at once.
“You think I could have some water?” Lawton said. “All this talking, I’ve worked up a thirst. And some ice if you’ve got it.” He looked down at his hands. They were swollen and turning purple. He flexed his jaw. It was starting to ache, too. He looked back up at them, these people he couldn’t quite place. His hosts. “A squeeze of lime would be nice, too. But don’t go to any trouble.”
Nineteen
Alex ordered a bottle of Kalik and Thorn told Julius, the bartender, to make it two. When she turned her head away, Julius gave her a quick inspection and shot Thorn an approving wink. Thorn shrugged. Yeah, she was better than he deserved, but sometimes a guy got lucky.
“Lawton showed up around sunset,” Thorn said.
She swung around and gave him her complete attention.
“He’s here? You’re sure?”
“Still wearing the same blue T-shirt and yellow shorts. I asked around, you know, very quietly, and found a couple of people who’d seen him. A maid and a yard guy. Dressed like that, he stood out around a place like this.”
“He’s on that boat. The Braswells have him.”
“Probably, but we don’t know that for sure.”
“The kid, Johnny Braswell, I followed him here from Treasure Cay. He was there to search Arnold Peretti’s boat. There’s something on it they wanted. Dad came here to confront the Braswells. That’s how they must have known where the boat was. He told them.”
“And what do they want?”
“You know what, Thorn. Arnold had the HERF at Neon Leon’s. He was about to show it to Charlie Harrison, with the Miami Weekly. He was going to expose the Braswells, but something happened. They had to make a run for it. But someone was hiding aboard Arnold’s boat with a knife. The same guy I confronted tonight. This man cut off Arnold’s finger and he stabbed Dad in the back. Dad and Arnold tried to fight him off. Dad apparently was at the wheel. Arnold got thrown overboard, the other guy, too. Dad wound up with the HERF. And the Braswells know that and they have him on board their boat.”
“Maybe,” Thorn said. “Or maybe he’s curled up in the shrubs, catching a nap.”
She slid off the stool, started away, but Thorn grabbed her shoulder and she halted.
“What’re you going to do, throw a choke hold on Maurice, storm the ship?”
She swung around, snapped her right arm up, and broke his grip with a stunning whack.
Thorn rocked backwards, almost went off his stool. His right hand numb. Several drinkers at the bar turned to watch.
“Jesus,” he said. “What the hell was that?”
“Don’t put your hands on me again.”
He showed her his palms.
“Was that karate?”
“Rudimentary,” she said. “First lesson, first night.”
“I assume you went to more than one class.”
“Thorn,” she said. “I could break every bone in your wrist. Then work my way up your arm.”
“Pleasant thought.”
“A thought you should consider before you try strong-arming me again.”
“Well, I’ll know who to call when I need a bone broken.”
“You’re not funny, Thorn. Whoever gave you that impression misinformed you.”
“Hey, look,” he said. “We want the same thing. It’s a question of strategy. You go running down the dock right now, sure, it’s how you feel, you’re going to do whatever’s necessary to get your dad back, but the impulse is wrong. Think about it. If he is onboard and those people get wind somebody’s onto them, they’ll throw off their lines, be gone in a minute. Where’ll we be then?”
“There is no we,” she said.
“Jesus, go ahead, then. Be a goddamn idiot, get it out of your system. But if you go rushing down there right now, believe me, you’re not ever going to see that old man alive again.”
The veins rose in her throat.
“You’re a prick, you know that?”
“You’re not the first to notice.”
Julius was back with the beers. He set them on the counter, polished it with his rag, gave Thorn a commiserating smile. This one was a handful.
“Take a second, Alex. Cool off, think about it.”
Another vein had surfaced in her temple.
“All right, goddamn it,” she said. “I’ll give it a second. I’ll think about it.”
She took her stool again and Julius raised his eyebrows. Just confirmed the bartender wisdom he’d volunteered earlier in the evening. You never knew what a woman was going to do. They were complicated biological creatures, driven by more mysterious forces than men. So you made allowances.
Alex had a sip of her beer, then another.
Thorn looked at her left arm, the dusting of black hair against that white flesh. He looked at her knobby wrist bone, at the web of veins crossing the back of her hand. She didn’t wear nail polish. Her fingers were long and slender. Long enough to palm a soccer ball. Remarkably large. A feature he’d always liked in women. Don’t ask him why, probably some terrible repressed disorder, a hand fixation.
Alexandra set the beer down and picked it back up immediately and had another sip. He liked that, too. That was a good way to drink beer. One sip and then another one right after. He was warming to her. Warming to her moves, to her arms and hands. Maybe if her hostility quotient dropped into the single digits, he could warm to the rest of her.
“I could call Romano, try to finagle a warrant,” Alex said. “But that could take days, all the bureaucracy.”
“I’m working on something,” Thorn said. “A plan I hatched tonight.”
She swung around, studied him a moment.
“What the hell are you anyway? Some kind of amateur vigilante?”
Thorn looked her in her eyes. They were powder blue, edged with a darker shade, and all that blueness stood out vividly against the white skin and black eyebrows. There was nothing to read into any of that. People exercised no volition in the choice of their eye color or the shade of their skin. It revealed nothing about who they were, what values they held, their tendency toward altruism or greed. The best you could say about such a combination of shade and tone was that it was pleasant to look at. In this case, exceedingly pleasant. Beyond that, Thorn was still reserving judgment.
“You drop everything and come over to the islands, hatching plans. I’m asking you a question, Thorn. What are you?”
“I’m an interested party.”
“You have one brief encounter with my dad and you drop everything and come running to his aid.”
“Yeah, I know, it seems a little reckless. But your dad is a compelling fellow. And then there’s the airplane crash. I was out there when it came down. I was the first person on the scene. I pulled some people out of the water and took them over to a little beach and then went back and got some others. If you’re asking why I’m here, it’s because of those people who died in that crash. And because of your dad. Is that enough for you?”
She moved her eyes over his face.
“That was you on the news? The man in the skiff?”
He looked back at her and said nothing.
“You know, I looked you up, Thorn. I brought you up on the computer.”
He smiled, dropped his eyes to his beer.
“I’m flattered.”
“We have pretty fair resources, the police department. But you seem to have done a good job staying off the radar.”
“I’m a retiring kind of guy.”
“Bullshit. Just because you haven’t got a driver’s license or a social security card or ever paid income tax, that doesn’t make you retiring.”
“Well, I try,” he said. “But things happen.”
“Looks like a lot of things happen to you. Last few years you and your buddy Sugarman have been front-row-center at the scene of the crime quite a few times. Like you specialize in these things.”
“We’re usually on the right side.”
“Point is, you’re not a retiring guy at all. This is a way of life for you.”
“I keep getting dragged into things. People show up, they need help.”
“Like my father.”
“Like him, yeah.”
“You don’t go looking for this stuff? Stick your nose in things. Like some kind of hobby.”
“Look, I tie my bonefish flies. I fish for my supper. I try to watch the sun set every night it’s not raining. I read library books before I fall asleep. It’s a simple life. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“I don’t know what to make of you, Thorn.”
“You’re not alone.”
She was definitely a hard-ass. But he was starting to get glimpses of another side, not soft exactly, but sensitive, aware, thoughtful. Something a little less brittle than what her voice suggested.
“You grab my arm, keep me from running off and acting impulsively, but from what I can tell, that’s just what you’ve done on several occasions. You’ve acted impulsive as hell. Gotten yourself into some ugly situations.”
“I’m trying to do better. Learn from my mistakes.”
They each had a sip of beer. He watched a couple across the bar who were wearing matching flowered shirts and were necking openly. Both were blond and both were burned a bright crimson. Newlyweds, probably. The moon was full. It was having its effect on them, just as it was stimulating the fish that lived fathoms below the surface of the sea. Making everyone a little edgy.
On the stool next to the honeymooners, Jelly Boissont’s son, Farley, was chatting with a tanned man in a baseball cap. There was a blue marlin on the breast of his shirt and under it was stitched the name of his boat. Another couple of guys were leaning over Farley’s broad shoulders to listen in. Blue marlins were embroidered on their caps. Farley must’ve felt Thorn’s gaze, because he looked up, glanced across the bar, nodded ever so slightly and got back to work. Spreading the word. Dropping little specks of meat and blood and gristle into the water. Chumming it up.
“I don’t trust you, Thorn.”
He nodded. “That’s understandable. You barely know me.”
She touched the lip of her beer bottle with a fingertip. Her long, slender fingers. Her wrists, that sprinkle of black hair.
“I’m trying to find something about you to like.”
He looked at her eyes again.
“Some people find my boyish grin appealing,” he said. “And of course, there’s my snappy repartee.”
She pressed her lips together as if stifling a smile. Then she lifted her beer, had a long pull, set it down, and pushed the empty bottle forward onto the bar. Julius was there in a second with another.
“Well, if you discover anything appealing,” Thorn said, “let me know. I could use a boost.”
A tiny smile made its way to her lips. Not much, but enough to turn the tingle he’d been feeling into a full-blown quiver.
“Let’s hear this plan,” she said. “I’m not saying I’m going along with anything, but I’m prepared to listen. That’s all.”
“You see that guy across the bar, one in the pink hibiscus shirt? Muscles everywhere? Don’t worry about staring, everybody does.”
Alex tipped to her right and peered through the crowd.
“Dreadlocks? Sad eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“So?”
But before he could tell her about Farley Boissont and their scheme, two Bahamian police officers appeared across the bar. They were scanning the faces of the drinkers, moving down the bar methodically. Behind them, by the lighted swimming pool, four more officers worked their way around the deck, asking questions, taking careful looks at each of the guests.
Alexandra slid off her stool.
Thorn glanced at her, then looked back at the cops circling the bar, coming closer. The bar patrons pulling out their wallets, showing IDs.
“Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit.”
“Is there something I should know?”
Her eyes were skimming the grounds, looking for a way out.
“Where are you staying?” she said.
“On my boat.”
“Room for me?”
“Two bunks, yeah. It’s no yacht, but it’s comfortable.”
“Don’t get any ideas, Thorn.”
He showed her his palms again.
“I like the bones in my wrist just like they are.”
“Let’s go,” she said. “But keep it casual.”
He got down off the stool and they eased through the crowd, moving nonchalantly, taking the long way back to his boat, walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the shadows and across the well-tended lawn.
Twenty
Sugarman found a parking spot on Ocean Drive just south of Fifth and walked the two blocks to the Palm Air Towers. The condo had no tower and only one scrawny palm, but there was a little air coming in off the Atlantic. The building was a pale pink three-story with blue and green neon swirls around the name and a couple of other halfhearted Art Deco flourishes. Not the kind of place Sugar would’ve pictured. A guy who spent his life as a Miami Beach bookie should’ve had a penthouse in one of the thirty-story monstrosities up near Fortieth. A place he could walk across the street to the Bal Harbor shops and buy a fifty-thousand-dollar tie pin.
Saturday night, getting close to midnight, and the South Beach cruisers were out in force, a solid line of stalled traffic from Penrod’s to the north end of the strip, a lot of woofers and tweeters shaking the air, muscle cars and rental convertibles and some hundred-thousand-dollar jobs, midlife-crisis mobiles from the Gables and the Grove, stockbrokers and realtors showing off their new hair transplants and anorexic wives.
It was a two-birds-with-one-stone trip to Miami. Sugarman had to make the trip anyway for a case he was working. His only job at the moment, if you could call it a job, was tracking down a deadbeat father whose ex-wife and four kids lived a couple of doors down from Sugarman in Key Largo. The ex-wife worked three jobs and the two oldest kids worked as well, but it wasn’t enough to pay the bills for the youngest, who had cerebral palsy and needed a full-time nurse. The father was an optometrist. For years he’d examined Sugarman’s eyes. Nice enough guy, Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, upstanding. But when he divorced his wife and moved up to Miami with his Cuban sweetheart, all communication ceased. His ex-wife knew he was up there, but didn’t know exactly where or how to force him to pay the court-ordered child support. For a f
ew weeks Sugarman tried the regular channels. But nobody in child welfare had enough time to drive out and serve the guy papers. So Sugar went up to Miami and located the eye doctor’s garden apartment on a lake near the community college. Just after suppertime, his Hispanic girlfriend answered the door in a see-through nightie with fluff around the collar. At Sugarman’s ankles a little white dog flew into a frenzy, yipping and snapping at the air. The eye doctor came out of the bedroom, stumbling, all smiles, until he got close enough to see who it was. Then his eyes went cold. He was reeking of booze and marijuana. Across the room a giant aquarium covered the wall. It was swarming with a colorful array of exotics. Sugarman stood for a moment staring at the collection. There were enough high-priced creatures in that giant tank to pay for a full-time nurse for a couple of years.
Sugar slid past the girlfriend, put a hand on the eye doctor’s chest, and backed him into a corner, knocked over a table lamp doing it, while his girlfriend pounded on Sugar’s back every step. He got into the doctor’s face and told him what he was going to do. Nothing tonight. But next time, he was bringing a baseball bat and sharp stick and one of them was going into the doctor’s eye and the other was going up his rear. Unless, of course, the doctor did the right thing and started sending the checks. The guy was all bark at first, threatening, going to call the police. Go ahead, call them, Sugar told him, getting his voice very low. Then he moved a little closer to the doctor, and lifted his hand and ran his pointing finger lightly over the eye doctor’s cheeks, then drew a line across his throat. The doctor became very compliant. Eyes getting soft and wet. The girl stopped hitting Sugarman and even the dog shut up. It was amazing what a discreet little threat could do. Sugarman had seen it in a movie somewhere. Some Mafia thing cooked up by a Hollywood nitwit. But it worked. The fingertip across the throat. Man, he’d have to keep that in the repertoire.
Sugarman probably wasn’t going to get paid for the eye doctor case, which was fine, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting paid for this one. Just doing it to help out his buddy. Thorn off on another pilgrimage. So it fell to Sugar to work the trenches, the boring stuff he was so good at. It worried him sometimes. Thorn, the action hero. Sugarman, the plodder. Not exactly the role he would’ve chosen. Though the fact was, he got into police work in the first place not to rev his heart, but to make a difference in the world. Help his fellow man. Dumb but true. Which, come to think of it, was a pretty good motto for Sugarman, an all-purpose rough-and-ready description of his character, the trajectory of his life. Dumb but true.
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