by John Lutz
Carver couldn’t help it; he felt the anger stir in him. He put on a calm act, wondering if McGregor had somehow found out about his troubles with Edwina.
“Can’t answer, asshole? Tongue-tied by love? Or just tongue-tired?”
“That why you’re here, to ask me about my love life?”
“Hardly worth my time to find out how some gimp does it between the sheets.” McGregor probed at a molar with his tongue, staring at Carver with his cheek lumped out grotesquely. Then he said, “I see by the news you got yourself mixed up in a murder over in Orlando.”
“Not in your jurisdiction,” Carver said.
“But this is my jurisdiction, fuckface. Where we’re looking at one another right now. The name Roberto Gomez was in the same news items. It was his sister-in-law got herself offed, right?”
“Still in Orlando,” Carver said, “not Del Moray.”
“Well, I’d be remiss in my duties if I learned a known big-time drug lord like Gomez was in my fair city and I didn’t find out why. He left your office not long ago, didn’t he?”
Carver figured McGregor had put a watch on the office after hearing about the murder in the Gomez condo. He hoped McGregor hadn’t had the smarts or the manpower to watch the beach cottage up the coast, or he’d know about Beth Gomez’s visit. “Gomez was here,” Carver said. “He was my client for a while. He’s not anymore.”
“Sure. Assuming I trust you to tell me the truth. But the fact is, I trust you about as far as you can hobble without your cane.”
Carver shrugged. “Makes no difference to me what you believe.”
“Should, though,” McGregor said.
Carver leaned back in his chair and looked up at the long head on top of the basketball center’s body. “How come you’re interested in this?”
McGregor sneered down at Carver as if that were a stupid question. “I told you, Gomez is a big-time drug dealer and he’s here in my city talking to some pissant private eye. Big time means big bucks, hey? Real big bucks, since it’s drug money.”
“And you want some of it?”
“Christ, Carver, I’m a policeman!” Saliva sprayed as McGregor feigned indignation. Some of it speckled Carver’s bare forearm. Made him nauseated. McGregor wiped a fleck of dampness from his chin and started his shaving cut bleeding again.
“Some policeman,” Carver said, watching the worm of fresh blood ease its way toward the point of McGregor’s long chin.
“Let’s just say that air the money involved means nailing Roberto Gomez can make a hardworking cop’s career.”
“If the cop survives.”
“Sure. And he will if he’s smart. He’ll be promoted to captain, most likely.”
“Someday even chief.”
“I got no desire to be chief.”
“I know better.”
“So you think. But I’m not surprised you think small, Carver.”
“And I’m not surprised you think bigger than you are. You think you’ll bypass the rank of captain and move on to better things? Maybe they’ll make you dictator?”
“Something like that. If a person was considering tossing his hat in the ring for the mayoral election next year, it’d be better if it was a captain’s hat and not a lieutenant’s. You follow?”
“I follow,” Carver said. “And where it goes is horrific.” He knew McGregor was capable of fooling enough of the people enough of the time. Capable of anything, actually; he was a man with the brashness of Napoleon and the scruples of Hitler, not to mention a crude Machiavellian deviousness.
“You don’t think I’d make a good mayor?”
“I think you’d make a good politician, as long as the voters didn’t get to know you. Nobody’s better equipped with the necessary ego and moral vacuum.”
“You call it a moral vacuum, I call it pragmatism. I see the world the way it is. You see it through your boxtop code of honor you shoulda grown outa by the third grade. You sent in for your secret decoder ring yet, fuckhead?”
“What made you consider this possible jump into politics?”
“Everything’s politics,” McGregor said. “Politics is just called politics. And I have it on pretty good authority that the mayor doesn’t plan on running for reelection. Something about a potential scandal.”
“Would you have anything to do with that?”
“I told you, everything’s politics.”
Carver toyed with the crook of his cane. “Well, there’s no political hay for you to make here. I’m out of anything concerning Roberto Gomez. And I guess you ran a check on him and found out he’s not a fugitive.”
“Orlando police’d like to talk with him regarding the death of his sister-in-law,” McGregor said.
“But he’s not a suspect.”
“Guy like that, he’s always a suspect. That’s why the DEA’s on him like flies on shit.”
“So what do I do to get you to leave?” Carver asked. “You after a political donation?”
“I’ll talk to you about that if I become a candidate,” McGregor said seriously. “Right now I just wanted you to know I’m in the game here. You find out anything pertinent, you let me know or I’ll ream your ass.”
“Well, since you ask politely. . ”
McGregor flashed his gap-toothed grin again, probing between his front teeth with his tongue. He got his lanky body turned around section by section and moved toward the door, then paused and said, “Say hello to your lady love, hey?”
“Sure. She’s always glad to hear from you. Likes it when her skin crawls.”
The grin stayed. “Some of ’em do. Incidentally, you get tired of running through that, send it around to see me.”
Carver gripped his cane with aching, whitened knuckles. Held it as a jabbing weapon and stood up, leaning on the desk. “You get tired of breathing, step over here closer.”
Still smiling, McGregor walked out the door. He was obviously pleased; he’d gotten under Carver’s skin again.
Carver sat back down. He was breathing hard. The office seemed smaller and more confining. The dense air still reeked of perfumey cologne.
Carver stood up and limped over to the window. It couldn’t be opened, but just looking outside made it seem easier to breathe. He watched the unmarked Pontiac, McGregor’s tall form bent over the steering wheel so he’d have headroom, turn onto Magellan and pass from sight.
He knew McGregor had successfully goaded him, and he didn’t like it.
Mayor McGregor.
My God, it had a ring to it!
14
Carver drove to the Del Moray marina for lunch. He sat in a window booth at the Sea Delite restaurant, ate deep-fried shrimp, and sipped cold Budweiser while he thought about McGregor’s visit.
Outside of Gomez’s circle, only Carver had talked with Beth Gomez and knew that Roberto wasn’t trying to find his wife to protect her, but to kill her. Gomez had undoubtedly hired the sniper who’d murdered Beth’s sister, and if the law could prove it, Gomez would be charged with homicide if not drug trafficking. The result would be the same with either charge: a future of locks and bars.
Carver dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce and popped it into his mouth, wondering as he chewed if it had been Hirsh on the roof of the building across from the Gomez condo. Probably not. Gomez had a stable of thugs at his disposal; he’d have stationed men at points where Beth might show up. Men with orders to kill. There was no shortage of people who’d obey that order in the world Gomez lived in, because there was no choice but to obey. Life, and death, made simple.
Carver ordered another beer and watched the smooth white hulls of pleasure boats bob gently in unison at their moorings. Del Moray was for the most part a wealthy retirement community, and some of its well-fixed citizens were playing with their floating toys. The white hair, white belts, and white shoes out there in the sun almost caused the eye to ache. Stomach paunches burdened most of the men. The lean, tanned limbs and torsos of many of the women foretold how they’d not on
ly outlive their overweight husbands but would look years younger at the funerals. Wealthy, attractive widows with yachts were always in demand. Topmasts and tummy tucks. Florida was the land of the plastic surgeon, as well as beaches, Disney, drugs, and a nasty strain of zealous fundamentalist religion. Still, Carver knew if he went with Edwina to Hawaii, he’d miss it.
He finished his beer, settled with the waitress, then drove back to the office. There was a rental car in the only shady spot on the lot, so Carver parked the Olds in the sun and limped across the baking gravel to shove open the door to his reception room. He’d turned the thermostat down, and cool air hit him like a chilled wave. Felt great.
He’d limped to his desk and was checking his answering machine for messages (none) when the phone rang. Snatching up the receiver before the end of the second ring, when his recorded outgoing message would begin, he identified himself and waited for the caller to speak.
“This is Beth Gomez, Carver.”
He thought about hanging up, but instead said, “Hello,” rather stupidly.
“I wanna talk to you again.” Fear gave her voice a jagged edge, as if her words hurt her throat.
“We already talked.”
“There’s something I shoulda told you but didn’t.”
“Tell me now.”
“Not on the phone.”
“All right, come over to my office.”
“I can’t. Roberto might have somebody watching it.”
“Not since he personally and forcefully accepted my resignation,” Carver said.
“Ha! Roberto doesn’t accept resignations.”
Maybe she had a point; Gomez wasn’t accepting hers with good grace, unless you didn’t count trying to kill her.
“Meet me in the park near the marina?” she pleaded.
Carver said, “I just came from the marina.”
“I know. I saw you there. At first I didn’t have a chance to approach you. Then, when I could have walked over to you, I was too afraid. By the time I’d made up my mind, you’d driven away.”
“What were you doing at the marina?”
“I followed you there from your office, after that tall man left. If the restaurant hadn’t been so crowded I’d have contacted you there, but I couldn’t risk it. Crowds make me jumpy these days. He a cop, the tall, mean-looking guy?”
“Sort of. Why?”
“It’s kinda stamped on him.”
“You must wanna talk to me in the worst way,” Carver said.
“It’s more important than life or death.”
What the hell did that mean?
“I gotta hang up,” she said. “Been on the line almost long enough for the call to be traced.”
“You on a public phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t worry.”
“Carver, you just don’t know what and who drug money’ll buy. I’m not even sure your phone’s not tapped. But I’ve gotta take a chance here, I’ll wait for you in the park. On one of the benches facing the ocean.”
“I didn’t say I was coming.”
“I know. But I’ll pray you’ll turn up. You’re the kinda guy who answers prayers.”
“Not all of them.”
“Didn’t say you were a saint.” She hung up.
Carver replaced the droning receiver in its cradle. The office that had felt so cool when he’d first walked in now seemed too warm.
He didn’t have to meet with Beth Gomez in the marina park, but he knew he would. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because whoever had sent a bullet into Belinda Jackson’s head should have to pay. Maybe because Roberto Gomez was a walking danger that belonged in prison. Or maybe because he, Carver, knew down deep the truth of what Beth Gomez had just mentioned: Roberto wasn’t the type to accept resignations. Or possibly Carver was exactly what he’d been told he was, a dog with a rag.
He did know he wasn’t meeting Beth Gomez to answer her prayer. He knew himself that well. He wasn’t a saint, he was a survivor.
She was where she said she’d be, seated on one of the pale concrete benches that faced the ocean and its wide horizon,
Carver had made sure he wasn’t followed. He parked the Olds near the white Ford Escort she’d driven earlier to his cottage, Then he limped across the hard, uneven ground toward where she sat, careful about where he planted the tip of his cane.
She was just sitting there watching him. She hadn’t moved. When he got closer, he saw she had some sort of bundle in her lap. She’d shed the baggy gray dress and wasn’t trying to disguise her beauty now, had on khaki safari pants with oversized flap pockets and a thick belt pulled tight around her waist. Her tailored white blouse’s collar was spread wide enough to reveal a gold necklace against smooth, dusky flesh. Her breasts hinted at firmness and bulk beneath the blouse. Caused Carver to wonder what she looked like nude. She had her straightened hair parted on the side now, neatly combed. A touch of purple eye shadow. Her features seemed more delicate, except for her wide, angular cheekbones. Born into another life, she might have become a rich and famous model. On the other hand, in her own fashion, she’d capitalized plenty on her looks.
When Carver sat down next to her on the hard bench, he saw that the bundle in her lap was a bunched blue blanket.
It squawked.
Beth drew aside a corner of the blanket and a tiny, dazed face scrunched up when the light hit it. She got a bottle from the folds of the blanket, fit the nipple in the infant’s mouth, and said, “This is Adam.” Her tone suggested Carver should shake the kid’s hand and call him a likely lad.
Carver was trying to put it all together, but none of it fit quite right. “Adam Gomez?”
Beth nodded, gazing down at the infant the way women do, as if posing for a church’s stained-glass window. “My son. And Roberto’s.”
Carver watched the baby work on the rubber nipple, then watched the masts of the moored sailboats doing their swaying, subtle dance in rhythm with the waves that washed gently against the dock. What was going on? What was the deal here? He said, “You told me Gomez was after you because the child had died due to your heroin addiction.”
“Well, that wasn’t exactly true.”
“Then what is?”
As she spoke, she rocked the baby ever so gently. “Let me tell you, Carver, I grew up in a slum in Chicago. Like most ghetto kids, I wanted the fast and expensive life; that’s the values you get in a place like that.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Doubt it. Anyway, I got outa there the only way I knew how, using what Mother Nature gave me before Father Time took it away.”
Carver thought about that, then said, “You’re still a few steps ahead of Father Time.”
Beth glanced over at him, somehow acknowledging the compliment with only those big, dark eyes. She was used to such remarks and had had practice. “I got mixed up with Roberto and lived the fastest of the fast life. Money, cars, sex, power. Then, a couple of years ago, I was surprised to find myself getting sick of my life. And sickened by what I’d become. Sounds stupid, but I wanted to do some giving instead of taking, even up whatever scales there are. Roberto wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. But he let me more or less do what I wanted, and I began associating with people outside his crowd. Even took some correspondence courses from Florida State University.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from the ghetto,” Carver noted. “Not much slang and slide in the way you talk.”
“I pretty much worked that outa myself long ago, so I’d be acceptable wherever rich men wanted to take me. Though I admit my college communication courses helped some, too. Anyway, when I became pregnant last year I was pleased, but Roberto wasn’t. Not at first. I talked him outa forcing me into an abortion, and when he got used to the idea of fatherhood, he became more enthusiastic than I was over having a son. He never even considered it’d be a girl, and he was right. During my months of pregnancy I began to think about raising my child. I really saw what I was. What Roberto
was. What kind of life I’d be bringing my baby into. I didn’t want it to be that way. I decided it wouldn’t be that way.”
“What about your drug habit?”
“Never actually had one. I secretly put together some money, which wasn’t difficult the way we lived. Money flowed all around Roberto, like a river around an island. I bribed the doctor who delivered Adam. He told Roberto the baby died because I was heavily addicted to heroin.” She looked away from the child and directly at Carver. “I thought we’d have a chance that way, a door out. Roberto would think his son was dead. He’d think I’d be dead within a short time, like most heroin freaks. I could live on what I had for a while, then get some kinda job under another identity and bring Adam up right, not in an environment of narcotics and death and twisted values. Call it the American dream.”
Carver held his cane with both hands. Jabbed at the ground a few times with its tip. There she sat with her son; he had to believe this one. It made sense. A woman begins thinking of her child and not just of herself, and she wants out of the kind of life Beth Gomez had been living. Wants the child’s father to stay out of the picture. A father like Gomez, who could blame her? Attila the Hun would be a better influence.
Beth said, “It only worked up to a point. Roberto thinks Adam’s dead, and that I’m doomed as a heavy user, but he still wants to find me. He thinks I killed his son and he wants vengeance. In all the time I’ve known him, this is the one thing he hasn’t been coldly businesslike about. He won’t stop till he’s killed me, Carver, and now I don’t wanna die. Whatever else you might think of me, I know I can be a good mother, Adam needs me. We need you if we’re gonna make it through this. You might not like it, but that’s the way it fell.”
Carver said, “I’m no guarantee.”
“None of those in this life.”
“Who else knows the truth?”
“Only the doctor, who has every reason in the world not to talk. And my friend Melanie, who won’t talk. A couple of people I was close to know I’m on the run and Roberto wants me dead. I talk to them now and then, and they tell me what they know about whatever he’s doing. That’s how I found out about you turning down Roberto’s offer. Sometimes they don’t know enough, though. I can’t keep out of his path much longer.”