The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  The collar was decorated with red metal flowers, slightly raised. He turned the collar over. The printing on the back announced the “original all style, No Stink Collar.” It was manufactured by the Dublin Dog Company. Silver studs held the collar’s end flap in place and provided anchorage for the buckle and a metal D-ring to which a dog license was attached. It said Clinton was licensed in the city of Montreal. Tree wondered if that made him an outlaw dog here on Captiva.

  Tree scraped his fingernail across the license and then tried to pry up one of the flowers. But the scraping revealed nothing and the flowers refused to budge. Clinton had grown bored and lay down.

  “Here, let me take a look,” Freddie said.

  “You’re not going to find anything,” Tree said, handing her the collar.

  “I know, but let me look, anyway.”

  She turned the collar over in her slim hands. Tree went to the refrigerator and got himself a Diet Coke. Freddie flattened the collar on the counter. She dug a fingernail into the collar’s soft undersurface. The edge of her nail caught something and part of the collar peeled away. Beneath the strip of yellow plastic was an address:

  O. Crimson

  220 NW 26th St.

  Miami, Fl.

  33127

  “You said Vic Trinchera owned Clinton,” Freddie said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Tree said.

  “Then who is this guy?”

  “I have no idea,” Tree said.

  Freddie said, “Supposing we find out.”

  “I’m not sure we’re going to find anything,” Tree said.

  “Maybe not, but I haven’t been to Miami for a while. We can look up this O. Crimson and then have an early dinner.”

  “That’s what it is,” Tree said. “You want to have dinner in Miami.”

  “Your ability to see right through me is extraordinary,” she said with a grin. “Let’s get going. I want to Google a couple of restaurants.”

  12

  In the Wynwood district of Miami, the inmates had taken over the asylum. An invading army of artists forever in search of cheap lands to occupy had transformed what had been a maze of warehouses on a rundown industrial wasteland, filling exterior walls with dramatic murals bursting with color, wild pop art creations reminding Tree of the brightly colored Sunday comic pages of his youth.

  Two-twenty Northwest Twenty-sixth Street was once a garage. Its entrance was wide open so that Tree and Freddie could walk inside. The interior had been converted into an artist’s studio filled with huge canvases.

  “Hello,” Freddie called. “Anyone here?”

  There was no answer. Freddie called again. Tree noted the sign hanging above him on the wall: TODAY IS THE DAY.

  Was it? Perhaps it was. But the day for what? He began leafing through the racks of canvases. Crimson’s output was nothing if not prodigious, a stew of cityscapes and celebrities, intricate homages to an American culture that always seemed to feature Audrey and Marilyn, Elvis and James Dean. Nothing too daring, Tree decided. Lots of stuff you could safely hang on your living room wall—provided that your wall was the size of a football field.

  Tree heard the sound of a motor gearing down. He turned to see a low-slung black and yellow motorcycle turning off the street, slow, and then bump across the threshold into the garage. The bike’s rider wore a Daft Punk-style black helmet. A short black skirt allowed the display of long, graceful legs ending in feet incased in ankle-high biker boots.

  The rider shut down the bike and eased off, removing her helmet, shaking loose shoulder-length hair. She had the kind of perfectly proportioned features that inspired use of the word beautiful; the kind of face young men with acoustic guitars wrote songs about and remembered wistfully when they grew old.

  Tree said, “That’s some bike.”

  The beautiful young woman shook out her long hair again and said, “It’s the Ducati Streetfighter. The world’s best motorbike, in my estimation, and I have driven them all. Are you a biker?”

  “Just an admirer,” Tree said.

  “We’re art lovers,” Freddie interjected. “Art lovers with a lot of empty walls to fill.”

  “Then you have come to the right place,” the young woman said. “Please, make yourself at home. The studio is open to everyone. Oliver should be back any time.”

  “That’s Oliver Crimson?” Tree said.

  “Crimson, just Crimson.” The long-haired young woman removed a velvet bag from the rear of her Ducati Streetfighter and pulled out a pair of high-heel shoes. She proceeded to remove the boots and slip on the heels.

  “My name is Shay—Shay Ostler. If I can help you with anything, please let me know.”

  She drifted off, carrying her biker boots, and disappeared through a door in the rear of the garage. Freddie went back to inspecting the stacks of canvases.

  “Any pictures of a dog?” Tree asked.

  “Not so far,” Freddie said.

  Shay reappeared, this time trailing a big, barrel-bellied man springing into view with a flourish that suggested this was opening night for the stage production of his own life. Straw-colored hair was pushed dramatically back in thick waves from a high tanned forehead. “I am here, right now,” he called to Freddie and Tree in a deep, sonorous voice. “Where have you been?”

  He glided over to take Freddie’s hand in two of his. “We share a moment together,” he announced looking deep into her eyes. “And that’s important. That’s all that counts.”

  Shay announced, “This is Crimson.”

  Tree half expected a guy in a top hat to appear and snap a whip at a tiger.

  “Am I?” Crimson said. “Am I anything that’s real? Are any of us? Perhaps we are all just manifestations of our collected desires, hopes, fears, coming together in these semi-fictional characters we call ourselves.”

  Crimson’s head snapped back, as if he needed extra space in which to inspect his visitors. “Tell me where you are from.”

  “Just up the road on Captiva Island,” Tree said.

  “Ah, from the real world, then.” Crimson sounded disappointed.

  “I wouldn’t say Captiva is anything like the real world,” Freddie said.

  “Whatever. Welcome to the unreal world.” Crimson punctuated his words with a grandiose sweep of his hand. “This is the world most people ignore. It is the world where every breath you take calls into question the importance of being, where art packs the punch of a Caravaggio painting. This is the world of Crimson, my friends. Stand back, pay attention: art is being made here.”

  Tree said. “Today, however, we’re not so much looking for art.”

  For the first time, Crimson’s sunny demeanor was shadowed by something approaching a frown. “What are you looking for?”

  “Answers,” Tree said.

  Crimson look like someone had clubbed him. “Answers?” he roared. “Don’t you know? There are no answers. There are only questions.”

  Shay came and leaned against him. The heels made her legs seem to go on forever. She towered over Crimson.

  “Then we would like to ask you some questions,” Freddie said hurriedly, before Crimson could draw the breath that would launch him into his next soliloquy.

  “Specifically, we want to ask you about a dog,” Tree added.

  Crimson’s brow curled deep into the dark brown of his skin. “Dog? What dog?”

  “A dog named Clinton,” Tree said.

  Shay looked expectantly at Crimson. The glow of artistic joy had extinguished itself. Crimson’s face reformed into a rock wall. “Who are you people?”

  “We’re trying to find out more about him, about Clinton,” Tree said.

  “There is nothing to say. I had him. I had many things. Now I don’t have those things any longer—the dog included.”

  “Did a man named Vic Trinchera take the dog?”

  “I don’t like to hear that name. That name is from the past. I refuse to live in my past—in any past that does not include Audrey Hepbur
n.” Crimson’s face clouded over. “I am tired of this. I thought you people might be interesting. But you are not at all. You are doing the worst thing you could possibly do—you are boring me. I want you out of my studio.”

  A scowl interrupted the perfection of Shay’s face. “Don’t upset yourself, Oliver.”

  “I don’t get upset, Shay. That’s not my style. But these two have brought a bad vibe in with them. Bad vibes are anti-art. Therefore, they must leave before it affects my karma.”

  “Shame on the two of you,” Shay said.

  “Yes, it’s one of our shortcomings,” Freddie agreed. “We have no shame.”

  Tree placed his card on the nearest trestle table. “If you change your mind and decide you want to talk, give me a call.”

  The last thing Tree saw as they left was long, languid Shay pressed against Crimson, his face bright with anger.

  _________

  The sun was lowering, as they came out of the building. The sun caused the three men waiting for them to cast long shadows. The shadows made the trio seem more formidable. Tree recognized them from the Biltmore: the guy with the pockmarked face, on his way to a jazz gig—or maybe just getting back—wearing the same straw hat. Beside him the balding guy looked tired, as though being a grandfather was too much for him. The third, with the mustache and goatee, was Raspy-voice guy.

  Why did the men who were about to get you into trouble always look the same? Tree wondered. Somewhere there must be a thug ranch where they graduate these characters. Raspy-voice Guy said to Tree, “There you are, Mr. Callister. How are you, buddy?”

  “What is this?” Tree said.

  “This is nothing,” said Raspy-voice Guy. “Why should it be anything?”

  “You’re art students, I suppose, out for an afternoon tour of the Wynwood Walls,” Tree said.

  Pockmarked Guy smiled. “Hey, a comedian. I like that.”

  Raspy-voice Guy said, “Yeah, we know just the place for your comedy act, buddy. Why don’t you come along with us?”

  “I don’t think we want to go anywhere,” Tree said, keeping an eye on Freddie who never took her gaze away from him.

  “That’s not the right attitude,” said Balding Guy.

  “Well, we’ve got to get back to Fort Myers,” Freddie said calmly. “You know, beat the rush hour traffic.”

  No one was actually touching Freddie, Tree noticed. But Balding Guy and the fellow with the straw hat were sticking close enough to ensure that she did not move far. To her credit, Tree thought, she appeared more irritated than scared.

  “I don’t like this,” Freddie said, addressing Pockmarked Guy. “I want the two of you to move away.”

  “Don’t hold it against me, darling,” said Pockmarked Guy. “I like to stand beside gorgeous women.”

  “Did you hear me?” A much sharper tone this time. The two looked at the guy with the raspy voice who appeared to be the leader. He nodded and the others took a couple of steps back from Freddie.

  Raspy-voice Guy broke out a reassuring smile. “No one is going to hurt you or your wife, buddy. I’m here delivering a personal invitation from a friend.”

  “I don’t have any friends in Miami,” Tree said.

  “This is a new friend,” said Raspy-voice Guy.

  “He likes comedians,” said Pockmarked Guy.

  “He sure does,” said Balding Guy.

  “Tell you what,” Raspy-voice Guy said to Balding Guy. “Do something that will make our comedian laugh.”

  “He should be making us laugh,” said Balding Guy. “He’s the comedian.”

  “That’s okay,” said Pockmarked Guy. “Go ahead. Make him laugh.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to laugh,” said Balding Guy.

  “Sure he is,” Raspy-voice Guy said.

  “Okay,” said Balding Guy. He pulled a gun out from under the jacket he wore and pointed it at Tree and Freddie.

  “See?” said Balding Guy. “What did I tell you? He’s not laughing.”

  13

  Tree, with his lousy sense of direction, had a vague notion the 1968 Chevy Impala they were in was moving southwest along I-95. Their three hosts weren’t exactly providing directions, even after Freddie asked for them, as in, “Where do you think you’re taking us?”

  She sat beside Tree in the rear, clasping his hand, as though that would offer protection from the unknown represented by the three amigos, squeezed into the front seat, facing forward, saying nothing. All Tree could see were bull-like necks straining against collars.

  It had grown dark by the time they turned off the highway onto what Tree thought was SW 40th Street. The next thing he saw was the distinctive tower of the Biltmore Hotel looming against the deepening sky.

  As soon as the Chevy came to a stop at the front entrance, Pockmarked Guy was out, opening the back door, and then helping Freddie out; a mobster with manners, Tree thought.

  The group entered the hotel, scuttling through the lobby and downstairs where there was an arcade leading to the pool area. Marble statues of what appeared to be Greek goddess-like women in flowing robes lined one side of the vast swimming pool, keeping an eye peeled for drowning hotel guests. Freddie looked impressed. “My goodness,” she said.

  “It was once the largest swimming pool in the world,” Tree said.

  “Is that a fact?” said Raspy-voice Guy, also impressed.

  “Johnny Weismuller used to be the swimming instructor here,” Tree said.

  Raspy-voice Guy said, “Who’s Johnny Weismuller?”

  “A gangster generation gap,” Freddie said, rolling her eyes.

  Raspy-voice Guy looked momentarily confused as they approached a series of cabanas separated by manicured hedges so that their occupants inhabited their very own forest glade, complete with well-appointed furniture.

  Tree and Freddie were led to the end cabana. Raspy-voice Guy indicated they should enter. Tree led the way inside. Three lounge chairs were positioned around a teakwood coffee table.

  A moment later, a fragile figure with white hair coughed as he stepped into view. In the dim light thrown off by the nearby pool, he looked gaunt and pale. The loose-fitting white shirt and baggy white linen pants helped, but it was the haunted eyes ringed with dark circles that cast him as a dissolute character out of a Tennessee Williams play.

  He coughed again before announcing in a thin voice containing the trace of a French accent, “Pardon, monsieur et madame. Apologies for my tardiness. I have a great deal of business to complete here in the Miami area and just could not get away until now.”

  “Who are you and what do you want with us?” Freddie asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Forgive me, madame. I haven’t even formally introduced myself. I am Johnny Bravo.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Freddie said.

  “And you are Madame Stayner. Fredryka, isn’t it? But you haven’t taken your husband’s last name, have you?”

  “What I don’t know,” Freddie continued, “is why you forced us to come here.”

  Johnny Bravo’s white eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Force you? No one forced you, but I did want to meet you because of your husband’s work with my late friend, Vic Trinchera.”

  “I never worked for him,” Tree interjected. “And I suspect he’s not your friend.”

  “Vic and I had our differences, but I owe him a great deal,” Johnny said.

  “You pulled your first robbery with him, I believe,” Tree said.

  Johnny considered this and smiled slightly. “That’s the legend, isn’t it?”

  “I understand they never recovered any of the paintings you stole,” Tree said

  Johnny Bravo studied Tree for a time before he said, “You have been doing your homework, Monsieur Detective. Or did Vic tell you about me?”

  “Vic didn’t tell me anything,” Tree said. “And I am not a detective.”

  “That’s not what I have been led to understand. The Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency,
isn’t it?”

  “I’m retired,” Tree said.

  “But you may have been the last person to see Vic alive.”

  “Whoever killed him had that distinction,” Tree said.

  “You visited Vic’s home in Coral Gables, and now you have Vic’s dog. Am I right about that?”

  “I don’t have a dog,” Tree said.

  “The question I have is this: did Vic hire you to take care of his dog?”

  “He didn’t hire me, and I don’t know anything about a dog,” Tree said evenly.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Monsieur Detective.” The smile was gone now. Johnny Bravo didn’t look quite so frail in the failing light, his pale face hardening. “I want us to be friends.”

  “Maybe I have enough friends,” Tree said.

  “Well, you’ll want to add me to your list. Certainly you wouldn’t want me for an enemy.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” Tree said.

  Before he could answer, Johnny Bravo lurched forward, shoved violently by a figure bursting through the entranceway.

  Swiftly, the cabana filled with men in blue windbreakers, the letters FBI emblazoned in big yellow letters, guns drawn, everyone shouting a cacophony of orders to lie on the ground and keep hands where they could be seen.

  Down on his stomach, Tree spotted Freddie through a shifting haze of sneaker-clad feet. She was also on her stomach, trying to explain that she and her husband had nothing to do with this, that they did not know who these people were, and that they were innocent bystanders brought here against their will.

  Good luck getting anyone to listen to that reasoning, Tree thought. When cops were swarming, hollering unintelligible commands, the adrenalin flowing like molten lava, nobody was listening. Everyone was on edge, wanting orders followed.

  Tree’s hands were roughly pulled behind his back and a plastic band twisted around his wrists, binding them together. Then he was unceremoniously yanked to his feet. He caught a glimpse of Johnny Bravo, mouth pulled into a painful smirk, arms also bound behind him, surrounded by grim-faced agents. He noticed with relief that they lifted up Freddie, the only woman present, with a great deal more care than they handled the males.