Tampa Bay Noir

by Colette Bancroft

  “Is that your old neighbor?” Bosch asked.

  “No, that’s the realtor,” Jasmine said. “Charlie. I used him when I bought this place.”

  Charlie opened the door with a key from the lockbox and went inside.

  “Pat next door told me that they left the place a complete mess,” Jasmine said. “Food rotted in the refrigerator when they turned off the power. Holes punched in the walls. Toilets clogged, the whole nine yards.”

  “Why would they do that if they’re trying to sell the place?” Bosch asked.

  “They’re not. The bank is. It’s a foreclosure.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. It was a husband and wife, no kids. He had some sort of business that went under. Remember when the stock market dropped a thousand points on Christmas Eve? He had just made some kind of move with their investments and lost everything. His wife left him, he stopped paying the mortgage, the bank took the house.”

  Bosch thought about that as he watched one of the cleaners carry a water vacuum into the house. He saw the realtor’s full name on the For Sale sign. Charlie Hounchell.

  “Did Paul Danziger stay here at night?” he asked. “Or did you go to Davis Islands?”

  “Harry, please. It’s none of your business.”

  “Just tell me his address and I’ll stop asking questions.”

  “You can’t go over there. If we falsely accuse him of this, he’ll be very hurt.”

  “And what, stop buying your paintings? Look, if I have to call a friend and run his name through the police computer to get his address, it will leave a flag on his record. Would you rather me do that?” It was a lie but Bosch doubted she would know it.

  “Fine,” Jasmine said. “He lives on Ladoga. I’ll have to look up his exact address because I don’t remember it.”

  “Fine. Look it up. Then I want you to call Monica and tell her to pack up the painting she has at the gallery for Danziger. Tell her to call him and say it will be delivered today.”

  “She won’t want to do that. It will break up the series she has on display. It may hurt her ability to sell through. She says that when people see that one painting is sold, it makes them feel better about buying their own.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. Just tell Monica to get it ready and I’ll deliver it. I’m going to sleep for an hour and then I’ll be by to pick it up. Can you show me to the guest room?”

  * * *

  Bosch drove over the curving bridge off Bayshore that took him past Tampa General and onto Davis Islands. He was following directions on his cell phone app. They took him down Davis Boulevard and then over another bridge, this one spanning a canal that apparently separated two of the Davis Islands. After the bridge there was a hard right onto Ladoga. Paul Danziger lived at 520 Ladoga. Bosch pulled into the driveway of a Gone with the Wind–style mansion that was fronted by six two-story pillars.

  He arrived at a cobblestone parking circle in front of the door. He studied the facade of the house for a few moments before getting out.

  He removed the painting from the backseat and lugged it toward the door. Its wooden crating—designed to keep the painting safe in transit—easily outweighed the painting twenty-five to one. Bosch was huffing when he got it to the door.

  Danziger answered himself. A man nearing seventy with a completely shaved head to hide his baldness in plain sight. He looked surprised to see Bosch. “You’re not the usual guy,” he said.

  “I’m filling in,” Bosch replied. “A favor to Monica.”

  “Do you need help with that?”

  “I can manage, thanks.”

  “This way. Watch the walls.”

  Danziger led Bosch into the house and to the left. They walked down a short hallway and through a living room where there were large paintings over a fireplace and a couch by the opposite wall. They did not appear to be from the brush of Jasmine Corian. It indicated to Bosch that Danziger might be a collector of many artists.

  They went through a set of double French doors into what looked like a second living room, this one smaller but with a large fireplace with a seating arrangement in front of it. There was a desk table and chair at the far end of the room next to a window that looked out across the bay. Bosch could see cars moving on Bayshore Boulevard far on the other side.

  Standing next to the table was an artist’s three-legged easel with nothing on it. Bosch put the heavy painting crate down on a rug but kept one hand on it to make sure the thin wooden package didn’t fall over. He pulled the screwdriver Monica had given him out of his pocket. He had to loosen two screws in the top wooden panel of the crate and then the painting could be carefully lifted up and out. He looked around as he worked the screwdriver. There were three paintings of the same size and equally spaced on the wall above the couch. All three were signed Jazz and seemed to be part of a study of a young man in a white shirt and tie. On the wall over the fireplace was a larger canvas that was a painting of Danziger that made him look strong and upright, peering off into the distance at something meaningful. The wall to Bosch’s left was covered by what looked like velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains.

  “Looks like you’re out of wall space for this one,” he said.

  “Just put it on the easel,” Danziger said. “When I’m ready I’ll find a place for it.”

  Bosch moved to the second screw. He waited a beat before speaking again. “You used to go out with Jasmine, didn’t you?”

  Danziger turned from looking at the painting of himself to stare at Bosch. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude. I saw the painting of you there and that made me remember you two had a relationship.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Who are you exactly?”

  “A friend of Jasmine’s. That’s all.”

  “Have we met? You look familiar.”

  “That’s unlikely. I’m from Los Angeles.”

  “Then you should mind your own business.”

  “You’re right. I definitely should.”

  Bosch felt the wooden plank release and he lifted it out by the two screws. He then reached into the crate and brought the bubble-wrapped painting up and out through the narrow opening. Leaning the package against his legs, he used a folding knife from his pocket to cut the tape that secured the wrapping and carefully unfolded it. Holding the painting between his palms in the way he had seen Monica handle it, he walked to the easel and placed the painting on display. From the canvas, Jasmine’s eye looked between her fingers at him.

  Bosch stepped back and studied the work for a moment. “Twenty-two thousand bucks,” he said. “That’s a lot for something you just hang on the wall.”

  “It’s an investment,” Danziger said. “Her work has appreciated markedly over time.”

  “I heard her old stuff is really valuable. Wish I had invested way back when.” Bosch moved back to the crate and started gathering up the bubble wrap. “You want to keep the crate?” he asked. “In case you can’t find space for it and you just want to store your investment?”

  “I told you, I’ll find a space for it,” Danziger responded. “A painting should be seen and appreciated, not put in a closet.”

  “I totally agree. But if you think that, why do you have the curtain closed?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The curtain.”

  Bosch dropped the bubble wrap to the floor and walked over to the velvet curtain. He reached behind the left edge and found the draw line. He started opening the curtain.

  “Leave that alone!” Danziger cried.

  “I studied your house before I came in. This room has no window on the front wall. I look familiar to you because . . .”

  The curtain opened, revealing the missing painting hung on a windowless wall. The Guardian. Bosch stared for a moment at his own image of twenty-five years before.

  “I don’t kn
ow what you think you’re doing,” Danziger said. “But I want you to get—”

  “A man covets what he can’t have,” Bosch cut him off. “You couldn’t have Jasmine so you bought her paintings. She’d sell you anything but the one on her own wall. So you coveted it and you took it.”

  Bosch reached up and took the painting off the wall. He judged that it was roughly the same size as the painting he had delivered. He took it to the crate and folded the bubble wrap around it before slipping it securely inside. Danziger just watched.

  “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.

  “I’m going to take it back to Jasmine,” Bosch said. “After that, she’s the one you should ask.”

  Bosch screwed the top plank back into place. “I’m not a cop,” he said. “If I was, you’d be in cuffs.”

  “Please, tell Jasmine, we can work something out,” Danziger said, a whine in his voice now. “The police don’t have to be involved.”

  Bosch lifted the crate, ready to go. “Like I said, I just came for the painting. You can talk to her about the rest.”

  Bosch put the crate into the backseat of the rental and drove away. In a few minutes he was on Bayshore. The sun was going down and the sky was orange and blue over the bay. He turned onto Willow and drove under the thick arms of the oak trees.

  A few minutes later Bosch helped Jasmine hang her painting back on the wall.

  “Thank you, Harry,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, Jasmine,” he said.

  CHUM IN THE WATER

  by Lori Roy

  Tierra Verde

  Dale pushes open the door to Smugglers and straightaway sees a new girl working behind the bar. As he walks inside Tierra Verde’s only real tavern, a place where a man can still smoke a cigar, the late-day sun follows him into the dark room and throws a glare. He leans to get a better look. The girl pushes off the bar when the sunlight falls across her, turns toward Dale, and smiles. He drops the door and as it falls closed, snapping off the stream of light and hot August air that followed him inside, she comes into focus. White teeth shining against bright-red lips. Pale-blue eyes that linger on him. Pulling a bar towel from her back pocket, the girl laughs at something, tips her face, arches her back, and blots her neck and chest. Dale drops into a chair at his usual table, or rather the sight of that girl knocks him from his feet, because, damn it all, walking in on something that inviting is almost painful. And then he sees Chum.

  Sitting on his stool at the end of the bar, Chum is the one making the girl laugh. He’s telling her how he got his nickname some sixty years ago. He’s going on about sharks having a taste for him and ancient burial grounds just down the way that protected him. Protected this island from hurricanes too. Look it up, he’s telling her. Dale wants to turn and leave, but that would make Chum suspicious, and he’d come after Dale for sure. Or he could stay and hope the old man forgets he’s here, a possibility given the distraction behind the bar. Quietly, Dale scoots his chair until he’s out of Chum’s sight line.

  The past year has been tough for Dale—lost his business, wife left him, got himself deep in debt to Chum, and he’s never felt so damn old—but he has good reason to believe things will start looking up in the next few weeks, and maybe the new girl is another sign of better days ahead. With a girl like that, Dale damn sure wouldn’t feel old anymore. Just the thought of what her hair would smell like when fanned across his pillow starts him feeling happy about the days ahead. Yes, he’ll stay and hope Chum forgets he’s here.

  * * *

  Most nights, Chum’s gone home by the time Dale gets to the bar, at least that’s how Dale’s tried to work it since he borrowed $150,000 from the old man.

  Chum—real name Santo—is the last living Giordano brother. He’s no more than five foot four, wears black-rimmed glasses, is mostly bald, and has a round, doughy nose. There were four brothers at one time, and before that, two generations of Giordanos ran Tampa’s organized crime. One brother died in a plane crash over the gulf, another was shot in his Tampa driveway, and the third is rumored to be stashed in the fifty-gallon drum that sits outside Smugglers. And it’s rumored that Chum put him there.

  The Giordano family’s days of running bolita and rum over in Tampa, and more recently drugs and women, are long over. Chum likes to say his people were cigar makers and that he’s retired, but he also likes to talk about all the shit he’s seen and how these Tierra Verde types in their cargo shorts and fishing shirts can’t begin to imagine. Mostly Dale has always figured Chum for a nobody who made a living by trading off his family’s history. Hell, Dale hadn’t even believed the rumors about the drum outside Smugglers or that Chum was loaning money for a living, at least not until he needed to borrow some for himself.

  Dale never figured on being one of the guys who borrowed from Chum. But he also never imagined that one season of bad storms would stall the housing market and he’d get stuck upside down in so many condos. But those things did happen and when he needed money quick, borrowing from Chum meant no paperwork and no credit check. Dale’s wife didn’t even need to know. He sure never thought he’d end up having to sell his home of twenty years to pay Chum back, but in two weeks, that’s what’s happening. Two more weeks of keeping clear of the old man and then the sale will close. He’ll pay Chum back and Dale’s life can begin again. Maybe it’ll begin again with this new girl.

  * * *

  Even though from his table Dale can’t see Chum, he can still hear him.

  “Was bit five times by the age of fifteen,” he is saying. His voice rattles in his throat, some say from having had a telephone cord wrapped around his neck, back when people still had telephone cords. “Right there in the channel running alongside Egmont Key. Most shark-infested water on the whole coast. I was like chum in the water.”

  Dale stares hard at the Rays game playing on the big screen, so he doesn’t smile or laugh at hearing this story yet again. He isn’t as good at pretending as the other guys. He has pride, is the way he figures it. That’s been the hardest part of borrowing Chum’s money—having to tuck away the very thing that makes Dale a man.

  “What’s her name?” Dale asks when Donna, the bar’s owner, slides a highball in front of him, the glass leaving a slippery trail on the table.

  “Elise,” she says. The tendons under her wrinkled skin run like slender cables from her wrist to her elbow. Since her husband died last year, she’s been running the place alone and the strain is showing. “Elise from Birmingham. Doing my bookkeeping too.”

  “Do any on the side?” Dale asks, taking a sip of whiskey and giving the new girl a nod to let her know she did good with his drink. “Bookkeeping, I mean. You know I’m needing someone part-time.”

  “Couldn’t say. Worth asking, I guess.”

  “Single?”

  “Far as I know,” Donna says, and as she turns to walk away, she knocks one bony hip against his table. “But you ain’t. And don’t you forget it.”

  Late in the fourth inning, though Chum still hasn’t left, Dale finishes his drink and when the new girl glances his way, he gives his empty glass a shake. Smiling with those bright-red lips, she nod and pulls the Woodford from the top shelf. He hasn’t even talked to the girl yet, but he already knows she’s something special. It isn’t just the lips shining like they’re wet or the bright eyes or the tiny waist that gives way to a full chest and round hips, it’s that she’s kind. She’s really laughing at the stories the guys are telling. Not just pretending for tips. That’s what makes her different from every other girl who’s passed through here.

  As the girl, Elise, walks from behind the bar, Dale gets a good look at the rest of her. She wears tan shorts that hit midthigh and a white V-neck. Her skin, pale, almost pink, would be smooth to the touch, he’s sure of it. When she reaches his table, she rests a hand on his shoulder and stretches across him to set down the glass. Her chest brushes against his head. He closes his eyes and inhales. For the first time since he stopped bein
g able to service his loans and his wife left him for borrowing from Chum, that thing that makes Dale a man, that searing thing that makes him want to attack the world for his share of it, is racing through his veins again.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” the girl calls out to Chum. She smells of lavender-scented lotion and Dale imagines her rubbing it on her arms and legs. “Sharks don’t have a taste for one man over another.” She squeezes Dale’s shoulder. “You believe that?” she says to him.

  “Tell her it’s true, Dale.”

  Dale looks to the bar at the sound of Chum saying his name, and the image of bare legs, one stretched out next to the other, disappears, and so does the girl as she picks up his empty and walks away.

  “Sure is true,” Dale says, taking a long swallow that nearly chokes him. “He’s even got scars to prove it.”

  “You know that spot I’m talking about, Dale?” Chum says, slapping a bill on the bar and walking toward Dale’s table. “You been to that channel? Been there at dusk, Dale? Damn good fishing.”

  This is what Chum does when he’s honing in on a man—keeps repeating his name. Dale saw him do it to a dentist who lived on the island and who borrowed a quarter million to buy out his partner.

  “Yep, that’s me,” Chum says, adjusting his thick glasses before resting both hands on Dale’s table. “Just an old man who likes to help out his friends on occasion. You think my friends appreciate an old man’s help, Dale?”

  Taking another long swallow, Dale nods. “Course they do. I do too.”

  Chum’s sour smell drowns the smell of sweet lotion rubbed on bare legs.

  “I’m all set to close on the house,” Dale says, clearing his throat of the whiskey burn. “Did I tell you? Two weeks. I’ll have all your money wired the second the papers are signed.”