by Tom Corcoran
Beyond the fact that a dead man hung from a boat davit and flies had come to play, nothing here resembled the two prior deaths. Nothing but the sadness of another early exit.
Bixby disguised his indecision as concentration. He paced off distance, then cowered when a forensic tech barked at him for encroaching on the circle of evidence. He bracketed exposures, twisted dials to change shutter speed and aperture. Duped by his camera’s meter, he shot into the bright horizon without fill, then toward the street with a flash. His pictures would flop.
I didn’t think it mattered.
“What do you see, Alex?” said Lewis. “Another air dance iguana?”
I hadn’t heard her approach. “More like a strangled manatee.”
“I just chatted with Liska. He was surprised to hear that you’d showed up.”
“I am here by mistake and coincidence,” I said. “Isn’t that how some people die?”
“Not the ones I investigate. Planning and malice lead to all of them, even the suicides.”
“Was the victim married?” I said.
“His name was Lucky Haskins, his first name given, not a nickname. The wife is Tinky, short for Tinkerbell. Shaped like her old man. A family friend got her out of here, took her to a home on Sugarloaf Boulevard.”
I pointed to the woman in dark slacks, a buttoned blue top, and aviator sunglasses who stood under the house writing in a spiral notebook. “Is she related to the victim?”
“She’s the new detective with the city police,” said Bobbi. “Her name’s Beth Watkins. She came from California two weeks ago and by coincidence rented the house next to me on Aquamarine.”
“She works for the city and she’s out here on Bay Point?” I said.
“She wanted to observe county crime-scene procedures in case she needed to coordinate in the future.”
The Watkins woman glanced up and saw us looking. Her hair was short, straw-blond. She looked thirty, give or take, comfortable with herself, with a pleasant calm about her. Lewis waved her over.
Beth Watkins recognized my name when Lewis introduced us. She reached to shake hands. “Your name came up at the city this week,” she said. “You’re the photographer who saved a detective’s life.”
“And you were hired to fill that detective’s slot?” I said.
“Yes and no,” she said. “A man recovering from a gunshot wound, no police department would tell him to pack it in. I believe, officially, he’s on indefinite medical leave and I’m covering his workload. Whatever he does in the future, my job sticks. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to taking notes.”
“Nice meeting you,” I said.
She flickered a smile. “I saw you arrive on that Bonneville. It’s an 800, right?”
“It’s a 650,” I said.
“What, like a ’70 model?”
“Exactly. It’s a T-120R.”
“Sharp.” Watkins turned and walked toward the under-house shade.
Bobbi started back to the street. I had seen all I wanted to see, so I followed. “What’s Liska’s opinion of this spree?” I said.
“He thinks we’ll lose the whole cluster to the state cops.”
The Florida Department of Law Enforcement had a reputation for claim-jumping high-profile cases. They also had a rep for clearing tough ones. “Maybe they’re headline-needy this year,” I said. “Speaking of which, this morning’s headline could be the reason for this.”
“I agree,” she said. “Plain and simple suicide.”
“The rope is similar to the other two, but if he killed himself with that knot, he lived up to his name. My guess is a family dispute with a copycat factor. Whatever it is, you ought to get ready for an insurance nightmare. The FDLE might do you a favor.”
“I’d rather keep the investigations,” she said. “I think the first two are linked, but this one’s self-induced.”
I couldn’t imagine someone taking himself out the slowest way possible. “I’ll bet you a naked boat ride.”
“Are you betting that it’s linked to the other two?”
“No, just that it’s a murder,” I said.
Bobbi reached inside her car and popped the trunk release. “You don’t want to know?”
“Why you won’t take my bet?”
She shook her head. “Why that schmuck is working for me.”
“Orders are orders, right?”
“I guess so.”
I started the Triumph and felt the wet tap of summer, a raindrop on my wrist. I didn’t want to ride through weather with my camera gear, but it was better than hanging out where I was a lump on a log. I rolled to the Overseas Highway. The useless traffic jam was worse than before. Bohner and the deputy at East Circle continued to block all access to Bay Point. Confused residents were U-turning, pulling to the shoulder, jamming the Baby’s Coffee parking lot. A group of college-aged kids tossed a Frisbee on the north shoulder.
I checked the sky. Blue sky and blue water on the bay side. The squall was just south of me, moving westward.
Bixby would conclude his photo debut in a downpour. Welcome to the tropics.
Al Manning’s across-the-street neighbor got to me before I could get inside. He was hanging a wet suit under his stilt home when I turned onto Keelhaul Lane. I parked my Triumph and began to loosen bungee cords. His ambush was perfect. I had no escape.
He strolled over, full of cheer, stuck out his hand. “Wendell Glavin,” he said. “Native Floridian.”
I told him my name, then said, “Calusa, Tequesta, or Seminole?”
His smile faded. “None of them tribes, but that was funny. I was born in Green Cove Springs. You watching the place for Al?”
“For the next two months,” I said.
Wendell was in his mid-fifties, pear-shaped, with a graying beard, the chatter of an old salt. He was a perfect blend of retired blue-collar worker and Hemingway look-alike. “I hate to say this, Rutledge,” he said, “because we don’t lock up much around here. We had us a murder over to Ramrod yesterday.”
“I read about it, Wendell.”
“Devilish way to go. You best keep your gun near your bed, my friend. You ever been married?”
“No, sir, I dodged it a few times.”
“You’re better off. I’m a two-time loser, but the second one stuck around till just last year. She got to be a monster to live with, but she paid for the divorce. The neighbors is all right. Couple old hippies like me at the south end. ’Bout the worst you can say of any folks up and down this street is they got carpenter ants or termites, and that’s like saying they got noses. The woman at the end on your side, she’s never out of her muumuu and bedroom slippers.”
“Al didn’t tell me that detail,” I said.
“He probably burned your ears talking bait and tackle. All these years, he paints and fishes, then fishes and paints. Me, I’m into diving. I just plain live for Looe Key.”
“You knew him before he moved up from Key West?”
“No, but I sure am happy to have him for a neighbor. Al’s the kind of friend you don’t often find. He’s helped me every time I needed it.”
I had brought nine boxes and two duffel bags to Manning’s. I needed to unpack, find my essentials, place them within easy grasp. Al had left typed notes for me in every room. The first was in his kitchen.
Don’t kayak during mini-lobster season. Too easy to get your butt T-boned by touristas. If you ride the bicycle after dark, leave a last will and testament on the kitchen table. If you hear a mosquito spray truck, roll up car windows and close up the house. If cooking, pull your fish off grill, finish it in the microwave. Paper goes in trash can. Food trash goes into the freezer until Monday and Thursday pick-up. Your recycle stuff goes out Wednesdays.
I opened a beer and carried my duffels to the bedroom.
Turn on this white noise HEPA air filter before you sleep. With a north wind, you don’t hear US 1 traffic. With an east wind, you won’t hear early-morning sportsmen in high-powered sleds on South P
ine Channel. A west wind, you muffle my neighbor across the street who coughs all morning. A south wind, you mask the cooing rats with wings some people call doves. Dust, who cares?
Manning wanted me to live his life.
His home was monk-simple, with sisal floor coverings and pine furniture. He explained his décor the first time I visited. Hurricane Georges, in 1998, had blown in two sliding glass doors and ruined furniture that had belonged to his grandparents. “Insurance didn’t cover my broken heart,” he said. “If the storm had been worse, I might not have seen the wreckage. I replaced the heirlooms with this stuff, a step above motel, a step below time-share. My curtains, cushions, and end tables from Target. My CD player, TV, DVD, microwave, speakers, and amps totaled eight hundred bucks at Best Buy. The juice and wine glasses all came from Publix. Place settings, Kmart. My one stab at style was the blue-and-white restaurant dishes. Goodwill, seventy-five cents each. The extra insurance-settlement cash goes toward my high life.”
I asked him to define his high life.
“New fish and old wine.”
I unscrewed the frame of an air-conditioning vent and stashed all but four hundred of the cash I’d received from Johnny Griffin. Then I wandered room to room, read Al’s other notes, and stacked my books and CDs where I could read their spines and grab at will. I organized the bathroom counter, set out my pit wax, shaving soap, and hair-brush, then took The Sibley Guide to Birds to the porch hammock. I tried to identify a few that swooped through the yard and over the canal. Five hundred pages and no binoculars. I read about prairie warblers, then gave up.
My next try was the cell phone, its multilingual booklet. I pledged myself to a half-hour tutorial. I would get the hang of it or fall asleep trying. Within six minutes lightning over the straits stole my attention. Then rain from the east blew through the screens. I took my stuff inside and confronted my dilemma: a half hour into my vacation, my long-awaited escape from the mundane, from hurry and stress, and I was wit’s-end bored.
Then the little bastard buzzed at me. For the second time in two days, Bobbi Lewis’s phone number glowed on the inch-square screen.
“Can you come back to Bay Point with your cameras?”
“Safety in redundancy?” I walked to the fridge.
“The kid’s a klutz. He was standing on the seawall, framing his last shot. He fell in, bag and all. He blamed moss on the seawall.”
“Moss has a bitch of a time on east-facing surfaces in the tropics.”
“His cameras were ruined, but his exposed film was sealed in plastic canisters. I still want a few backup shots, just to be sure. How soon can you be here?”
“Did Watkins leave with him?” I said.
“She came with me.”
“So she offered the services of the city’s new boy?” I said.
“Ten days ago.”
“Did Liska overrule you, and make you hire me for the Kansas Jack job?”
Her silence answered my question.
“What’s he going to say when you disobey his orders and hire me back right now?”
“I can deal with that.”
“Is the body still there?” I said.
“The medical examiner wants it down immediately.”
“It’s pouring here and the squall is blowing your way. There’s no way I can get there before the downpour.”
“Shit,” she said.
I knew the answer before I asked: “Do you have a camera in your cruiser?”
“Don’t do this to me, Alex. Please at least try to beat the weather.”
A huge thunderclap provided my answer.
“Shit,” she said again.
“Listen to me,” I said. “Are you listening?”
“I’m right here.”
“Take pictures of the rope, the noose, and the davit’s on-off switch. Then have someone stand next to Mr. Haskins so you can judge the height of his feet above the ground.”
“The camera’s automatic everything, but I’ll screw it up.”
“Autofocus is fine, but don’t use auto exposure. Make sure it’s 100-ISO print film, not slides, and set it to f-11 at 1/125 of a second while the sun’s out. If clouds cover the sun, drop to f-8 at one-sixtieth.”
“I’ll screw it up,” she said.
“I know you won’t, but if you do, I’ll owe you that boat trip we discussed.”
“If I do, you can take your own naked ass for a ride.”
8
I was scrubbing salt film and bird crap off Al’s skiff Saturday morning, dripping sweat onto my sunglasses, thinking about my failure to mention brother Tim to Bobbi or to Liska. I could blame hectic events, but the longer I waited, the more awkward I’d feel, especially with Bobbi. I’d already failed to fully disclose details of my friendship with Pokey Fields.
On her third visit, six weeks after I bought the cottage, Pokey parked that old Camaro half into my yard and asked to come in. She had worn a tight T-shirt, skimpy shorts, custom sandals, and fishing-fly earrings. She could have fit in with the town’s hippies, though few Conchs had mixed with the island’s free-thinking new arrivals. She told me that her mother had been a frail, uneducated woman who interacted only through shared work. She pointed out kitchen shelves that the two of them had installed, spoke of helping her mom paint the bathroom and peel up old linoleum to expose the Dade County pine flooring. In the backyard she showed me code markings her brother had cut into bark high on the mango tree. She recalled a jungle gym by the rear fence, began to weep, then came back inside, stood in the living room, and absorbed memories.
“You wouldn’t have a cold beer, would you?” she asked me.
I didn’t give her age a second thought. If she lived with a sailor, she was old enough to drink beer on a warm afternoon. I opened two and motioned toward the porch, but she sat on my rattan rocker. She sipped the beer, studied the walls, then stared at me. “Do you like what you’re looking at?”
I’d noticed that she wore no bra, but hadn’t thought she’d caught me looking. “What’s not to like?” I said.
“You can have some, if you put some hurry into it. I gotta be home.” She stood, put her bottle on the floor, and drew her T-shirt above her head. Her breasts had a slight droop as if she’d been heavy at puberty, then lost weight during her teen years. She began to unzip her shorts. I could see that she wore no panties.
Now her age came into play. “I don’t want to offend you,” I said.
The zipper stopped. A pleasant tuft of pale pubic hair behind her thumb, the hint of a stretch mark from her weight loss. “I was afraid of that,” she said. “My first boyfriend at least said I was cute and threw a great fuck. My new boyfriend tells me I’m shaped funny and have zits and I’m too ugly to get anyone else to ball me.”
“He’s full of shit,” I said. “He’s wrong and an asshole to say it, especially if he thinks you believe him. You’re a lovely girl and you’ll be a beautiful woman if you stay away from jerks who put you down to elevate themselves.”
Self-conscious, still hurt by my hesitation, she raised her hands to cover her breasts. Her shorts fell to her ankles. She looked at me, almost fearful.
I smiled and looked straight at her eyes. She finally grinned, giggled, and stepped out of the shorts. She raised her beer and chugged it, came across the room. I promised myself never to forget the sway of her breasts as she leaned to kiss my forehead.
“Why me?” I said.
“You’re the first person been nice to me in a year and a half.” She retrieved her clothes and entered the bathroom. When she came out in her shorts and shirt, her eyes still red, she thanked me for letting her revisit her childhood.
I asked about that childhood. My early years hadn’t been great, but as her tale spilled out I felt lucky for what I’d had. Her father had buried himself in work and couldn’t relate to anyone but her older brother. Even then, he was overbearing and belittling. Her mother, a chain-smoker and a chain-boozer after five-fifteen “when the working day was done,�
� had explained that she was too exhausted from raising the boy and figured Pokey was smart enough to raise herself. After that, Pokey went anywhere for friendship, among the junior high troublemakers, the island’s psychedelic newcomers, the tough sailors in the Boat Bar and the Big Fleet. She was disciplined for small infractions, and called lazy for reading books. If she stayed away from home for days at a time, it was no problem because she was less trouble out of sight.
When she finished talking, I felt an enormous urge to make the world right for her. An impossible task, of course, but I wanted her to know that she could shoot high as well as low in her pursuit of friends and a satisfying existence. My first step was to open a box of books still waiting for bookcases to be installed in my new home. I pulled out a random handful, gave her at least six or seven. The ones I recall were an old paperback of The Sun Also Rises, an early Kesey novel, McGuane’s The Sporting Club, and a copy of The Last Picture Show.
As weeks went by, she dropped by the house maybe four more times, gave me back some of the books (but not all), and waited for me to offer more. She rarely spoke of her boyfriend, but when she did she compared him to her first lover, whom she had come to idealize. Whenever I asked specifics about that first one, she deflected my questions. I got the impression that she had moved from Key West to one of the Lower Keys. For a while I wondered if my nosiness had driven her away, because the visits stopped without warning. After that year, my first in the house, I never saw her again.
Why, all these years later, would a murdered deadbeat on Ramrod have her picture? Had Kansas Jack been one of the Navy men who used her for sex, then treated her like dirt? Or had he been the one that she idealized?
I heard throaty glass-pack mufflers out on Keelhaul Lane. A low-slung Caprice station wagon with a bent Ohio front tag bounced into the yard and coughed to silence. Last winter’s crusted slush outlined its dark teal fenders, and mismatched hubcaps rode the side I could see. Key West has a tradition of funky Conch cruisers, disused, painted and sculpted. This beast rode in its own category.