by Carl Hiaasen
Meadows kept coming back to Nelson. His disappearance was perplexing, outrageous. Several times he had picked up Terry’s beige bedside phone to dial police headquarters, only to stop himself.
Nelson had set a mouse loose in a nest of snakes and then had abandoned him. Why? Something was wrong. No matter how Meadows juggled the pieces they would not fit.
Nelson should have waited. If the sketches were so precious to the case, nothing would have driven him away.
The logic eluded Meadows. Was Nelson trying to set him up? Suppose Nelson were allied with the dopers. Suppose the whole mission at the funeral parlor had been a charade, Nelson’s way of feeding the killers their victim.…
Meadows recoiled at the thought. It was a possibility, but it did not square with his intuitions about the cynical, intense Cuban.
There was one other explanation: Nelson had used him for bait. Knowing Meadows would be recognized by the killers, Nelson had waited outside the funeral home for the architect to be dragged out, like a gaffed fish. And when Meadows had emerged alone, Nelson had simply waited some more, keeping his distance to see if the minnow really would get away. It was plausible. More than that, it was probable.
Meadows could not swallow the rage. Nelson, who had railed so bitterly about the impotence of the law, had found a cruel but clever way of subverting it. Give the loco dopers a target, someone scared and naïve enough to wear a bull’s-eye on his own chest. Then step in and pick up the pieces. If one of those pieces happened to be broken…que sera, sera.
Meadows walked out to the balcony and surveyed the ocean’s horizon, purple under distant clouds. Nelson’s scheme had failed; the detective would get no more chances. Next time, Meadows thought, the plan will be mine.
OCTAVIO NELSON was not in a good mood.
“How’s Garcia?” Pincus asked.
“He’s OK.”
“Where’d he get hit?”
“Left shoulder, left knee.”
“I heard it was the chest,” Pincus said.
“You heard wrong.”
“I heard it was his own gun.”
Nelson lifted a mug of steaming coffee to his lips. “Yeah. That’s right,” he muttered sourly.
What a fucking nightmare, Nelson thought. When the dispatcher at Central broadcasts an “officer down” call, you simply do not stop to ask questions like: Did your hotshot cop shoot himself? Was he playing quick-draw? Did he fuck up? You don’t ask; you move because the next time it could be your ass out there full of bullets.
But the call had come—one of his own men—so Nelson had muscled the old Dodge clunker into its very best bat-out-of-hell routine and torn away from that funeral parlor so fast…
And, inside, a terrified architect had been trying to do him a dangerous favor. Damn.
Christopher Meadows had been gone, of course, by the time Nelson had returned. The detective had driven the streets for nearly an hour, peering at figures slouched in doorways, aiming his Q-beam spotlight into the cat-ridden alleys of Little Havana. Still, no Meadows.
The incident had been catastrophic enough, but now here was Pincus, typing up his accursed eight-by-ten index cards and asking questions about Meadows.
“I don’t understand,” Pincus said.
Nelson turned his back to rummage through a drawer. “You seen my cigars?”
“What happened at the hotel?” Pincus pressed.
“He was gone,” Nelson said curtly. “He took off.”
“But what about the trace?”
“Ah!” Nelson beamed, holding up a fresh H. Upmann, courtesy of the Christopher Meadows collection. He gnawed off the tip and ceremoniously began firing up the cigar. Pincus said nothing; he knew he would have to wait for his answer.
Soon Nelson was enshrouded in smoke. The words came this time with contented patience. “Wilbur, the trace was fine. The address was good. All your information was good. It was nobody’s fault. Meadows must have got spooked and ran, that’s all.”
“But how?”
Nelson shrugged. “Whatcha typing?”
Pincus ignored him. “Did he leave anything?”
“Two shirts, a new toothbrush—you know, the kind with the angled bristles—a can of Right Guard. Fascinating stuff really. It’s all in a bag in my locker, if you’re interested.”
Pincus smiled officiously and shook his head. “I wonder how he knew you were coming.”
“He had just killed a man and nearly got himself killed for the third time inside of a month. That would put my nerves on edge, too.” Nelson’s voice was taut; his story seemed frayed.
“Were the people at the hotel any help?”
“Oh, yes. Spent an hour telling me what a polite, wonderful fellow our architect friend is. They had no idea a crime was involved, and I didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have believed it.”
Pincus went back to his index cards, glancing up from the typewriter now and then to venture an idle question. Nelson tired of the game very quickly.
“Don’t ask me if I checked his house. He’s not there, and he’s not stupid enough to go there. Look, Wilbur, the guy is very bright, and he’s got lots of money. He could be anywhere right now, from Key West to Paris. He’s scared out of his Ivy League brainpan, and I don’t blame him.”
Pincus shrugged. “I bet he’s still in town.”
Nelson groaned and shook his head.
“He won’t go near that airport again,” Pincus asserted.
“Good point,” Nelson said sarcastically. “What are you telling me, that the guy can’t drive fifteen miles up to Lauderdale, or charter a Beechcraft out of North Perry, or lease a fucking Bertram and cruise to Bimini? Wilbur, this guy is not stupid. He’s scared, that’s all. I think he’ll call again. Soon.”
Actually Nelson wasn’t sure at all, but he glared at Pincus when he said it. Damn this kid. He won’t let up.
“Are you just going to wait for him?”
“Christ! Wilbur, what in the fuck do you want me to do?” Nelson erupted. “At best this is a lousy manslaughter case, and at worst it’s self-defense and we’re not even going to get an indictment out of the state attorney. You want me to run up a few hundred miles tracking down some panicky little architect with wet pants, and in the meantime I’m looking at six open homicides, not the least of which is some hotshot English professor who comes in today with seven holes. From a machine gun, no less. Now that, Wilbur, turns my crank.” Nelson pointed his chin at the ceiling and let loose a vaporized geyser of acrid tobacco smoke.
The two men sat across from each other with the postures of weary boxers, tired but ready for the next left hook. Pincus was enormously glad when Nelson’s phone rang. It gave him a chance to extract a creased spiral notebook from his coat jacket. He flipped the pages until he found what he was looking for. His writing was precise, a virtue among cops. The notation said: “Buckingham Hotel. M.B. 555-3200.”
As soon as Nelson lumbered off to the john, Pincus made his phone call. The desk clerk sounded like Myron Cohen.
“Is Mr. Meadows a guest there?” Pincus asked.
“Oh, no, not anymore. Are you related?”
“I’m a business associate. Do you know where he went? It’s most important.”
“No, no…hang on. Sadie! Sadie!” The clerk’s voice faded away into a distant quarrel. An old woman came on the line.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Christopher Meadows. My name is John Lake. I’m a business associate,” Pincus said.
“Yes, yes, Izzy told me, Mr. Lake. I’m sorry, but Mr. Meadows is not here. Now God forbid I should say something out of line, but I think you must know that Mr. Meadows is in some kind of trouble.”
“Oh, no,” Pincus said with expert sympathy. “What makes you think so? Did Chris leave in a big hurry?”
“Yes, young man, you might say that. He left with the police. It was unbelievable, such a nice young fellow.”
“The police? I don’t un
derstand. Did you get the officer’s name?”
“Let me ask Izzy. He’s the one who let him up the stairs. Hold on, please.” Sadie left the phone for a full minute; Pincus strained to hear her harping at hapless Izzy.
“He forgot. I’m so sorry, Mr, Lake. Izzy’s memory is very poor. Very poor.”
“That’s all right,” Wilbur Pincus said, “but Chris did leave with a policeman?”
“Yes, yes, I saw them go out the door myself. He was a big man,
Mr. Lake, a detective. Izzy saw the badge himself, but as I said, he can’t think of the name. I’d know him again myself, though.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?” Pincus asked tentatively.
“Yes, Mr. Lake, but I can only remember the mustache and the cigar. He was Cuban. I’m sure he took Mr. Meadows to jail. It was very upsetting.”
“I’m sure it was,” Pincus said thoughtfully. “Thanks for everything, Sadie.”
MEADOWS COVERED HALF A MILE of tepid green ocean in a powerful, churning crawl. What he lacked in grace and efficiency as a swimmer, he made up in effectiveness. Swimming was his most treasured vice. The heat that enabled him to swim nearly every day of the year had been decisive in his decision to establish himself in Miami.
Far off the sandy beach Meadows rolled over on his back and thought about the man he knew to be el Jefe. A consummate actor. A man of charisma, of substance. And no doubt, in the face he showed to the outside world, a man of charm. Who was he?
Meadows decided to find out. It was the only way to begin to find a way out of the narrow and obscene canyon in which he languished: Nelson baying from one rim and the cocaine killers from the other. With el Jefe’s identity, at least Meadows would have something to bargain with. But how to find out?
By the time he returned to Terry’s apartment Meadows had it: Clara Jackson.
Clara Jackson was a police reporter with a national reputation at the Miami Journal. She thrived on violence and on implacable contempt for the editors she worked for. Meadows had met her when she’d dated a contractor friend, and he had found her remarkable. Clara had led a grand tour of the Journal’s department-store news room with running commentary. Later, over dinner, all of them—the contractor, Meadows and Sandy—had listened with a mixture of revulsion and awe while Clara Jackson had talked about her job. The topic then, as now, was murder.
“Clara, hi. This is Chris Meadows. We met many years ago when—”
“Sure, I remember. The architect,” Clara cut in. “That was back when I was seeing…”
“Jack—”
“Renner, right. We all had dinner. I remember what you said about the Journal building. You called it the world’s largest Sunoco station.”
Meadows laughed. “Just a joke,” he said.
“The truth,” Clara said. “How have you been?”
“Not good.” Briefly Meadows told her about Sandy’s death and how he had witnessed it—but said nothing of his own continuing terror.
“God, I’m so sorry. I wrote that story about the girl and her mother, and I didn’t even realize who it was.”
“Her last name was different when you met her.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clara said again. “Goddamn cokeheads. They’re maniacs, Chris, every one.”
“I need a favor,” Meadows said. “I drew a sketch of a man—”
“The killer?”
“No. But one of them who is…involved.”
“Did you give it to the cops?”
“I intend to, Clara, but I want you to see it, too. I’d like to send you a copy.”
There was a pause. Meadows could hear a half dozen electric typewriters clacking smoothly in the background.
“I’ll look at it, Chris, but…well, I have to be honest. Most sketches are useless. Even police artists make everybody look like Mr. Potato Head.”
“Just take a look. Please,” Meadows implored. “I’ll send it over in a cab this morning.”
“OK Listen, Chris, I really got to run. I’m having a war with one of the junior editors here over a story that’s supposed to be on the front page tomorrow.”
“More drug killings?”
“Oh, no. Just some crazy husband who shot his wife with a spear gun and pinned her to the refrigerator. Asshole editor thinks it’s too gory and wants to bury the story on the inside, so I gotta go.”
Meadows placed the sketch of the suave man at the funeral parlor in a brown office envelope and sealed both ends with wide strips of duct tape. He printed Clara Jackson’s name in capital letters on the front but did not write his own.
He gave the Yellow Cab driver twenty bucks and prayed that the man was honest. Once the package was on its way, he felt washed with relief.
The next day Meadows swam and walked the beach. He could feel his strength returning and with it his sense of mental balance.
He was a fugitive, but it was not the police who pursued him, he was sure. Just one lone-wolf cop. And two gunmen who killed for a chimera with a rose in his lapel.
Meadows feared them, but his panic was gone. He would let time be his ally. He was safe where he was. He had plenty of money, and he had no hurry.
He would wait until Nelson and the dopers found new distractions, like hounds bored by a stale scent. Let them gnaw one another in their own private frenzy. Meadows would be gone.
If Clara Jackson came up with a name for the doper king, Meadows might even be able to take some sweet revenge long distance. He’d send copies of the sketches and an appropriate anonymous note to the FBI and the DEA. To everyone but Octavio Nelson. Let him find out from the feds who his precious Jefe was. That would sting, wouldn’t it? And then maybe Nelson wouldn’t be so cavalier with the next bumbling civilian who crossed his path.
Meadows was learning something about himself. He had known abject terror for the first time in his life. He had been bounced from pillar to post at the whim of a demonic puppetmaster. And by Jesus, he had survived. In spite of himself, perhaps, but he had survived.
Late that afternoon he called Clara Jackson to see how the opening salvo in his campaign of character assassination was being received.
“Did you see what they did with my story?”
“No. Which one?” Meadows answered, rattled.
“Speargun Spat Ends in Tragedy.”
“Oh.”
“Page Three C. I really lost that battle,” Clara said.
“Did you get my sketch?” Meadows asked anxiously.
“Yeah, I got it. What kind of a joke is it supposed to be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You sent me a drawing of José Bermúdez.”
“You know him?” Meadows’s pulse raced. Bingo.
“Everybody knows him, Chris. He’s one of the most dynamic, prominent, up-and-coming, et cetera, young Cubans this town has ever seen. In another couple years he’ll probably be the goddamn mayor.”
“Clara, are you certain?”
“Chris, Bermúdez’s picture is in the paper every other day. The editors of our Spanish editions have just about canonized him. Bermúdez has tons of money, and he’s a sucker for every charity around. He cuts more ribbons than the vice president.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not mixed up with the dopers, does it?” Meadows said, reeling inside. “Maybe that’s where all his money came from.”
“I tried that idea on two sources, Chris, one local and one federal. They practically laughed in my face. Bermúdez is the original straight arrow. No files anywhere.”
Meadows was crestfallen. “Maybe it’s not the same guy.”
“Maybe not,” Clara said. “Your sketch was sure as hell on the money, though.”
“Could you send me his photograph, Clara? Just to be sure. I’d be happy to pay for it.”
“I’ll just swipe one from the files. We’ve got a hundred of them back there,” she said. “I’ll get some clips together and put the whole thing in the mail this evening. I think when you read this stuff,
you’ll see what I mean.”
Meadows gave her his Coconut Grove address, then blurted: “Do you know anything about a Detective Nelson?”
“There’s a couple of them.”
“This one is with the city of Miami. Narcotics,” Meadows said. “Stocky, tough, a bit rumpled.”
“Octavio.”
“Right!” Meadows exclaimed.
“You hit the daily double today, Chris. Nelson is squeaky clean, from what I know. He’s made some huge cocaine busts in the last two years.”
“That doesn’t mean he turns it all in,” Meadows cracked. He could hear Clara typing in the background.
“Octavio Nelson is a fanatic,” she went on. “A couple years ago he got shot during a bust and nearly died, but not before he put two dopers away for good. Two Colombian pros.”
“So you never heard anything bad about him?”
“A few little things,” Clara said. “Last year there were two brutality complaints that probably had some basis in fact. Nelson roughed up a couple of nickel-and-dimers in his car. He used that big flashlight they’re all issued. Nothing came of it. They jumped bond anyway.” Her tone of voice told Meadows that the incidents were of minor journalistic significance. He thanked her for the information, hung up and submerged into his swirling thoughts.
He was certain of his information, sure of what he had lived and seen. Clara Jackson, who could find out more with a dozen profane phone calls than he could in a year, was certain that Meadows’s drug kingpin was a pillar of the community.
The thought of being wrong didn’t gall Meadows. He knew he was not wrong. Meadows thought fleetingly of taking his story to someone who might care. The state attorney? Federal officials? Wouldn’t they see justice done? Clara Jackson didn’t think they would even listen to him. And even if they did, could they possibly protect his anonymity?
Besides, in the cold light of day, what facts did Meadows have that would persuade anyone? That Bermúdez had talked in a funeral parlor with two men Meadows knew to be killers? There was nobody in that grisly purgatory that night that the unctuous man with the rose had not talked to.
Meadows did not even know the killers’ names. And before he talked about them, assuming anyone would even listen, he would have to explain what had happened in the parking garage at Miami International. And that would leave T. Christopher Meadows, AIA, up shit creek.