Air Dance Iguana

by Tom Corcoran

  “Stuck with that dead sailor years ago and deaths by hanging of Kansas Jack, Milton Navarre, and Lucky Haskins. The chance of bad press from your mother’s free roof is the least of your worries.”

  “End of history lesson,” he said. “Go the fuck away, Rutledge.”

  “Something else went down. You either overlooked it, covered it up, or took part in it.”

  Liska reached for the vodka and said nothing.

  “Were you informed of a suicide in the city about ninety days ago?”

  He nodded, took a slug. “Help me out of this chair.”

  Liska spent about five minutes in the john. I heard the retching sounds, the flushes and sounds of a cleanup. Then a battery-operated toothbrush.

  He came back to the living room, screwed the cap on the vodka, and sat.

  I said, “Did you follow up, look into it yourself?”

  “The old-style Navy uniform got my curiosity,” said Liska.

  “How did you see it?”

  “Like the city’s best detectives, I saw a typical sloppy, sad suicide. Unlike the others, I saw a well-orchestrated murder. When the fingerprints came back I confirmed that the dead man had been stationed on both the Bushnell and the Gilmore. I didn’t remember him from the old files, but…”

  “Is that when you called Millican and told him to get his ass down here?”

  Liska nodded again. “I told him his messy past might be coming back around to haunt him. I covered it up once, I wasn’t going to clean the decks again. You’re going to have to excuse me. I’m going to kick you out and go to bed.”

  “One last thing,” I said. “Do you remember when the Full Moon Saloon moved from United Street to Simonton?”

  Liska looked at the floor, didn’t move, didn’t even twitch a facial muscle. Right about the time I thought he’d gone to sleep he said, “If I had to guess, 1983. Don’t bother telling me why you wanted to know.”

  There was another piece of history I wanted to dredge from his memory, but I forgot what it was.

  “One last favor,” I said. “Can I bum a couple Ziploc bags?”

  26

  The Shelby has a distinct exhaust sound, even more audible at night, so I parked on George and walked two blocks to Tanker Branigan’s house on Johnson. I didn’t see a soul or—local miracle—prompt dogs to bark. On a crapshoot I was going to harvest a recycling container for potential evidence, assuming that Tanker was a friend of both my brother and the environment. My thinking rode the concept that, if I could deliver Tim’s empties to the FBI, via Bobbi Lewis, his palm prints would condemn him or clear him. As Liska had said, it would all come out in the end. Forever the optimist, I saw no choice but to try.

  I found the bin and cursed the darkness. I didn’t want to rattle bottles or cut my hand on a can lid. Master of stealth, I positioned myself to catch street-lamp reflections off the Michelob labels. Then I felt metal press against my neck.

  “Move a muscle, motherfucker, and your mouth’s an exit wound.”

  I froze, heard only the wind rustling the plastic bag in my hand. My penchant for quick comebacks died. I pictured my teeth in an outward spray of enamel and fillings.

  “Jesus Christ, Alex,” said the gruff, sleepy voice. “You need deposit nickels that bad?”

  My knees went soft but I felt the cold pistol barrel lift away. I turned to find Branigan looking sheepish, his weapon now pointed downward.

  “Do you need to guard your trash with a gun?”

  “My tow-truck days, I had to show this monster once a week, but I only flashed it. I never fucking aimed at a human before. What the hell are you doing?”

  I explained why I was there. I knew the police had Tim’s fingerprints, but the key to the nightmare was a palm print. Tim’s palm print, even if obtained by unofficial means, might lift all suspicion before the legal machine put unstoppable gears in motion.

  “You could’ve rung the bell,” he said. “I got two weeks’ worth of trash you can have for free. Just take it outside the door.”

  “You might have been asleep. I’m sure this bin will give me plenty.”

  “But that plastic bag will smear the shit out of prints. You want to pick them up, you need to run a stick inside their spouts. I’ll get you an empty six-pack carton to carry them. And take an empty Icehouse. They’ll need my palm print so they can differentiate.”

  After we’d lifted six bottles and placed the carton in a paper sack, Tanker said, “We okay on every little thing?”

  “I’ve been thinking about your plan,” I said. “You were going to challenge Tim to raise his self-esteem. It lifted my hopes for another shot at the friendship we had as kids. Now he’s sitting in jail, most likely in retribution for your trick with Millican on the star.”

  “Fear not, big brother,” said Tanker. “He’s building character as we speak. It ain’t over ’til it’s over. He’ll surprise all of us one day real soon.”

  I pissed off Bobbi Lewis by calling late.

  “Why six bottles now?” she said. “I can’t do squat until morning, anyway.”

  “We wouldn’t have to connect in the morning. I could go home now and sleep late.”

  “Were you creeping around my house an hour and a half ago? I heard your dual mufflers.”

  “I gave your neighbor a ride home,” I said.

  “From which restaurant?”

  “She was drinking and didn’t want to ride her crotch rocket.”

  “She want to ride yours?” said Bobbi.

  “It didn’t come up.”

  “I’ll leave that line alone, thanks. If those bottles are so damned important, bring them to my office at eight-fifteen. You can personally hand them to a black suit with a Quantico accent.”

  I began to say something, but I was talking to dead air.

  My drinking plus the blood-pressure spike from Branigan’s weapon had me toasted. I didn’t feel like driving twenty-five miles to Little Torch, and I kept thinking of Teresa’s line about people hiring people to kill people. After all the info I’d pulled together, I felt closer to solving the puzzle. But that made me superstitious. What was to stop a pro from waiting in the shadows at Manning’s house, hoisting me up for a midnight ride, making me an air dance Dumbo?

  I needed a spiritual lift, but not by the neck.

  I drove fifteen blocks, parked in front of Sam and Marnie’s house, and dialed the inside number.

  “Yes, Alex,” said Marnie. “I’m on the porch listening to tree frogs and eating Healthy Choice Ice Cream and looking at your car behind the hedge. You may think of our couch as your home away from home.”

  Marnie was stretched out in a long T-shirt and surfer jams.

  “This peaceful pose,” I said. “May I assume you heard from the man we knew as Sam Wheeler?”

  “It’s rained for three straight days in Baldwin County, Alabama. He got fed up and he’ll drive as far as Gainesville tomorrow. We have an actual, real dinner date the next night.”

  “Any response to your classified ad?” I said.

  “One call, from one Mayra Culmer, a widow with the emphasis on lonely. Her late husband, Elmer Culmer, was a first-class boilerman on the Bushnell. Elmer went down to cancer in 1988.”

  “Elmer’s going to miss the party.”

  “Mayra said that the crew and their wives, especially those who lived in town, were a tight-knit group in the early days. She wants to help organize the festivities. She talked to me like her new best friend. I gather it’s been a long slog since ’88.”

  The Conch Train woke me. Marnie was in her office on the phone. I hadn’t meant to sleep so late. When I came out from brushing my teeth, Marnie had coffee for me. “You didn’t hear the phone?”

  I shook my head. “I heard the train driver on South Street yakking about sea-grape trees. Is that your reality gong every morning?”

  “That was the third train today. You were out cold. Meanwhile, I got another call from Mayra, the lonely Navy widow. She’s going through
some old boxes because she thought she still had a cruise book. She thought it might help me find Bushnell and Gilmore crew members.”

  “We want that,” I said. “They were skinny, hardbound versions of your high school yearbook. Big on squadron logos and phony-ass pictures of the captain schmoozing with snipes and deck apes.”

  Marnie’s phone rang again. She ducked away and I spread the morning’s newspaper across a table, sipped my coffee. The real estate ads inspired my next move, an idea that promised fewer speed bumps than pilfering bottles. The white pages had no listing for Sharon Woods. The Yellow Pages listed a title-insurance company on Big Pine. A bubbly-voiced woman answered my call. I told her I needed to find the owner of Deer Abbey Real Estate.

  “Sharon?” she said. “We’ve been trying to reach her since last Friday.”

  “I’m an old friend, not a client, but I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “I’ve heard that she’s trying to cut back on work. Do you live on Big Pine?”

  “Little Torch,” I said.

  “Heck, honey, try the house.”

  “I hate to barge in on her,” I said, “and I misplaced her number.”

  “Well, that’s a problem. She’s unlisted, you know, which has always been odd for a real estate broker. You might have to drive by.”

  “That’s another problem. We never socialized at her house. We met at restaurants, so I don’t know where she lives.”

  “The lady I work with knows where it is, but she’s gambling in Nassau. I’d tell you to call the utility companies, but they’re sworn to secrecy anymore. All these new rules. If Edith calls in, you want me to get directions and call you back?”

  “Love it.” I gave her my name and number.

  “I’m Honey Groves,” she said. “I know it sounds fake, but it’s not.”

  “That’s refreshing,” I said. “Our world is awash in fake names.”

  I stopped on Stock Island to give the six-pack of empties to Bobbi Lewis. I had blown the eight-fifteen appointment, and Bobbi wasn’t in her office. The duty guard recognized me. He checked the paper sack and probably pegged it as a joke. He wasn’t anxious to believe that rattling bottles were possible evidence. I asked him to let Lewis decide.

  I made good time up the Keys. The sky was so blue it looked plugged in, and I rode the easy chair between an Immigration and Naturalization bus and a box-shaped delivery truck. The INS bus had BORDER PATROL across its stern. Another boatload had hit the beach, the bumpy bus ride the best thing desperate Cubans had experienced for years.

  No surprise, Deer Abbey Real Estate was closed up tight. The same FAMILY EMERGENCY sign hung in the window. I drove to the sandwich shop, parked out front. The smells and the sight of the cook stacking bacon, lettuce, and tomato made me instantly hungry. I was the only customer. I sat and offered the young counter server twenty bucks for the BLT. She laughed and said, “Fine. I was going to save it for after work, anyway.”

  “Deal’s a deal,” I said, and opened my wallet.

  She put the sandwich in front of me, along with a minibag of chips and a glass of iced tea. “We’ll settle for five dollars and fifty cents.”

  “I might have to leave a fourteen-dollar tip.”

  She smiled. “That’s up to you.”

  I took time to enjoy the food. The young woman went about her job, set up her work station for the lunch rush. When I was down to my last few bites I said, “Sharon Woods come in for breakfast?”

  The girl shook her head but tapped a photo tacked among a dozen others on the wall. A woman in a Halloween witch’s costume stood in front of a cute cottage. The print quality sucked. I couldn’t make out the face.

  “You want to rent that house?” she said. “My daddy owns it. If you know Sharon, you probably know she’s going to a bigger place.”

  “I’d be interested in renting, but I have to say, I didn’t know she was moving. Actually, for all these years I’ve known her, I’ve never been to her home.”

  “My daddy’s cottage is too small for her wheelchair. I’m not supposed to show it until the day after tomorrow. Sharon doesn’t want to be bothered while she’s packing to leave.”

  “I’m easy,” I said. “If I like the neighborhood, that’s eighty percent of my decision. Write down the address, and I’ll drive by and check it out. If I see her outside, I won’t let her know why I’m around. For certain, I won’t mention your name.”

  She smiled. “You don’t know my name.”

  “So your secret is safe with me.”

  “Okay.” She wrote the address on her order pad. “It’s a mile and four tenths from here. Can I really keep the change?”

  A white picket fence, a screened porch, board-and-batten siding, and a plastic trellis hid the double-wide aspects of Sharon Woods’s small “manufactured” house. A metal roof and green shutters made it look like a Conch cottage, or at least attempted. My knowledge of Big Pine put the closest canal four blocks distant. I’d expected to find a real estate broker in better circumstances.

  I parked on the street and walked toward the house.

  A graveled woman’s voice barked, “Stand out there in the sun and tell me why you’re here.”

  She was behind a screen door and looked to be sitting. I couldn’t make out her face. “I’m looking for Sharon Woods. My name is Alex Rutledge.”

  She coughed. “You’re a policeman?”

  I shook my head. “No. I wanted to ask you about three of your real estate deals. Milton Navarre, Kansas Jack Mason, and—”

  “Haskins,” she said. “Lucky and Tinkerbell Haskins. Can you imagine going through life with those names?”

  I shook my head and kept quiet, tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness behind the door.

  The rough voice: “I know about those killings and I hate the thought.”

  “I know you sold—”

  “Yes, I did, and I’ve been waiting five days for detectives to knock on my door. A woman called about Jack Mason but she never followed up. If you’re not a policeman, what’s your interest in those people?”

  “I’m a part-time photographer for the county. I had to take the crime-scene pictures of the first two deaths. That got me involved. Then a detective showed me a photo she found in one of the men’s effects. It was a young girl standing in front of my home in Key West before I bought the house. I got to know the girl, a long time ago, then lost touch with her. Knowing that a murdered man had her photograph, I was worried about that girl I hadn’t seen in years. She’d be a grown woman by now.”

  “And that”—the woman coughed again—“that brings you all the way to Big Pine?”

  “Not that far.” I reached down to slap a mosquito on my leg. “I’m watching a friend’s house over on Little Torch, on Keelhaul Lane.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I don’t mean the distance you traveled. I just wonder about your curiosity. Was that girl in the picture your only motivation for coming here?”

  “It’s a long story, but there’s a real chance my brother will be accused of the first two murders. He’s had what they call a rough go all his life. What’s the old cliché, ‘bad choices’? The detectives might find him an easy target for suspicion, guilty or not.”

  I saw her hand wave behind the dark screening. She pushed open the screen door and rolled forward a foot or two in a wheelchair. “Get out of the sun and bugs. There’s a bench up here.”

  On the porch, in the shade, I had a better view of the coughing woman in her flower-pattern robe. She lit a cigarette, shifted her position, and rubbed her tongue on the front of her teeth. She took a drag, then said, “I take it you’re trying to be a private eye. You solve the case of the hanging bums and your brother’s off the hook, so to say.”

  In the still-dim light Sharon Woods’s mannerisms gave me a spooky feeling. “That’s part of it, too,” I said. “Anything that might help find the real killer, any connection, I’d appreciate.”

  “Right, plus the little girl you’re worr
ied about.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, like I said, Alex Rutledge, I’ve been waiting for days for the detectives to show up or else”—she shifted her cigarette to her right hand and raised a pistol from next to her thigh, lifted its barrel, then dropped it back to its hiding spot—“or else, because of my connection to the victims, I wondered if a murderer might show up. I wasn’t sure, but I never thought it would be Alex Rutledge.”

  The speech patterns matched the mannerisms, but it took me almost ten seconds to make the connection. When my mind zeroed in on the fact, it struck me like something physical.

  “You’re Pokey Fields.”

  She clenched her jaw, reached to fluff her hair. It looked unwashed and needed more than fluffing. “You’re the man who wouldn’t throw me a quick roll in the hay. I’m surprised you’d even talk to me all these years later.”

  27

  “Which one of them had my picture?”

  “Kansas Jack Mason.”

  Pokey coughed to clear her throat. “You told me to stay away from put-down artists, men who would keep me under thumb so they could be more important and powerful.”

  “Was I wrong?” I said.

  “I have no earthly idea. I didn’t follow your advice.”

  I kept my trap shut. I didn’t want to pass judgment half a lifetime later.

  “Before I met you,” she continued, “I fell in love with a man who died. I never fell in love again. For a few years I tried more men than I could count. My deceased mother used to warn me, it’s a long way from the mattress to matrimony. I finally got married and stayed that way for a hell of a lot longer than most marriages last these days. That deal went down the crapper, too.”

  “Did I make a difference in your life?” I said. “Any difference at all?”

  “Those books did.”

  “How so?”

  “I learned there was a world north of the Seven Mile Bridge,” she said. “I didn’t soak up everything the world has to offer, but the books sure as hell clued me in. I also learned you can’t be a whore where everyone gives it away for free. I’m not talking about sex, you understand?”