The Shark-Infested Custard

by Charles Willeford

  CHARLES WILLEFORD

  THE SHARK-INFESTED CUSTARD

  Charles Willeford was a highly decorated (Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Luxembourg Croix de Guerre) tank commander with the Third Army in World War II. He was also a professional horse trainer, boxer, radio announcer, and painter. Willeford, the author of twenty novels, created the Miami detective series featuring Hoke Moseley, which includes Miami Blues, Sideswipe, The Way We Die Now, and New Hope for the Dead. He died in 1988.

  NOVELS BY CHARLES WILLEFORD

  High Priest of California

  Pick-up

  Wild Wives

  The Black Mass of Brother Springer

  Lust Is a Woman

  The Woman Chaser

  Understudy for Death

  Deliver Me from Dallas

  Cockfighter

  The Burnt Orange Heresy

  The Hombre from Sonora

  Miami Blues

  New Hope for the Dead

  Sideswipe

  The Way We Die Now

  The Shark-Infested Custard

  What is very sweet, bright yellow, and extremely dangerous?

  –old Miami riddle

  Part 1

  Larry “Fuzz-O” Dolman

  In Florida, the guilty party who spills everything

  to the State Attorney first gets immunity…

  1

  It started out as kind of a joke, and then it wasn’t funny any more because money became involved. Deep down, nothing about money is funny.

  There were four of us at the pool: Eddie Miller, Don Luchessi, Hank Norton, and me—Larry Dolman. It was just beginning to get dark, but the air was still hot and muggy and there was hardly any breeze. We were sitting around the circular, aluminum table in our wet trunks. Hank had brought down a plastic pitcher of vodka martinis, a cup of olives, and a half-dozen Dixie cups. That is one of the few rules at Dade Towers; it’s all right to eat and drink around the pool so long as only plastic or paper cups and plates are used.

  Dade Towers is a singles only apartment house, and it’s only one year old. What I mean by “singles only” is that only single men and women are allowed to rent here. This is a fairly recent idea in Miami, but it has caught on fast, and a lot of new singles only apartments are springing up all over Dade County. Dade Towers doesn’t have any two-or three-bedroom apartments at all. If a resident gets married, or even if a man wants to bring a woman in to live with him, out he goes. They won’t let two men share an apartment, either. That’s a fruitless effort to keep gays out. But there are only two or three circumspect gays in the 120-apartment complex, and they don’t bother anyone in the building. The rents are on the high side, and all apartments are rented unfurnished. The rules are relaxed for women, and two women are allowed to share one apartment. That rule is reasonable, because women in Miami don’t earn as much money as men. And by letting two women share a pad, the male/female ratio is evened out. So some of the one-bedrooms have two stewardesses, or two secretaries, living together. Other women, who have more money, like school teachers, young divorceés, and nurses, usually make do with efficiencies. If a man wanted to, he could get all of the women he wanted simply by hanging around the pool.

  Under different circumstances, I don’t think Don, Hank, Eddie and I would have become such good friends. But the four of us were all charter members, so to speak, the first four tenants to move into Dade Towers when it opened. And now, after a solid year together, we were tight. We swam in the pool, went to movies together, asked each other for advice on the broads we took out, played poker one or two nights a month, and had a good time, in general, without any major fights or arguments. In other words, we truly lived the good life in Miami.

  Eddie Miller is an ex-Air Force pilot. After he got out of the service, he managed to get taken on as a 727 co-pilot. Flying is just about all Eddie cares about, and eventually he’ll be a captain. In the meantime (he only flies 20 hours a week), Eddie studies at the University of Miami for his state real estate exam. That’s what many of the airline pilots do in their spare time; they sell real estate. And some of them make more money selling real estate than they do as pilots, even though real estate is a cutthroat racket in Dade County.

  Hank Norton has an A.B. in Psychology from the University of Michigan. He has a beautiful job in Miami as a detail man, or salesman, for a national pharmaceutical firm. He only works about ten or fifteen hours a week, when he works at all, and he still has the best sales record in the U.S. for his company. As the top detail man in the field the year before, his company gave him a two-week, all-expenses paid, vacation to Acapulco. He is a good-looking guy, with carefully barbered blond hair and dark, Prussian-blue eyes. He is the best cocksman of the four, too. Hank probably gets more strange in a single month than the rest of us get in a year. He has an aura of noisy self-confidence, and white flashing teeth. His disingenuous smile works as well on the doctors he talks with as it does on women. He makes about twenty-five thousand a year, and he has the free use of a Galaxie, which is exchanged for a new model every two years. His Christmas bonus has never been less than two thousand, he claims.

  Don Luchessi makes the most money. He is the Florida rep for a British silverware firm, and he could make much more money than he does if the firm in Great Britain could keep up with his orders. They are always two or three months behind in production and shipping, and Don spends a lot of time apologizing about the delays to the various department and jewelry stores he sells to. What with the fantastic increase of the Miami Cuban population, and the prosperity of the Cubans in general, Don’s business has practically doubled in the last four years. Every Cuban who marries off a daughter (as well as her friends and relatives, of course) wants the girl to start off her married life with an expensive silver service. Nevertheless, even though Don makes a lot more money than the rest of us, he is paying child support for his seven-year-old daughter and giving his wife a damned generous monthly allowance besides. As a Catholic he is merely legally separated, not divorced, and although he hates his wife, we all figure that Don will take her back one of these days because he misses his daughter so much. At any rate, because of the money he gives to his wife, by the end of the year he doesn’t average out with much more dough than the rest of us.

  Insofar as I am concerned, what I considered to be a bad break at the time turned out to be fortuitous. I had majored in police science at the University of Florida, and I had taken a job as a policeman, all gung-ho to go, in Florence City, Florida, two weeks after I graduated. Florence City isn’t too far from Orlando, and the small city has tripled in population during the last few years because of Disney World. After two years on the force I was eligible to take the sergeant’s exam, which I passed, the first time out, with a 98. They were just starting to build Disney World at the time, and I knew that I was in a growth situation. The force would grow along with Florence City, and because I had a college degree I knew that I would soon be a lieutenant, and then a captain, within a damned short period of patrolman apprenticeship.

  So here I was, all set for a sergeancy after only two years on the force. None of the other three men who took the exam with me was even close to my score. But what happened, I got caught with the new ethnic policy. Joe Persons, a nice enough guy, but a semiliterate near-moron, who had failed the exam for five years in a row, finally made a minimum passing score of 75. So the Board made him a sergeant instead of me because he was black. I was bitter, of course, but I was still willing to live with the decision and wait another year. Joe had been on the Florence City force for ten years, and if you took seniority into account, why not let him have it? I could afford to wait another year. But what happened was incredible. The chief,
a sharp cracker from Bainbridge, Georgia, called me in and told me that I would be assigned to Sergeant Persons fulltime to do his paperwork for him. I got hot about it, and quit then and there, without taking the time to think the matter out. What the chief was doing, in a tacit way, was making it up to me. In other words, the chief hadn’t liked the Board’s decision to make Joe Persons a sergeant instead of me any more than I had. By giving me the opportunity to do the sergeant’s actual work, which Persons was incapable of handling, he was telling me that the next vacancy was as good as mine, and laying the groundwork to get rid of Sergeant Persons for inefficiency at the same time.

  I figured all this out later, but by that time it was too late. I had resigned, and I was too proud to go back and apologize to the chief after some of the angry things I had said to him.

  To shorten the story, although it still makes me sore to think about the raw deal I was handed in Florence City, I came down to Miami and landed a job with National Security as a senior security officer. In fact, they could hardly hire me quickly enough. National has offices in every major city in the United States, and some day—in a much shorter period than it would have taken me to become the chief of police in Florence City—I’ll be the director of one of these offices. Most of the security officers that National employs are ex-cops, retired detectives usually, but none of them can write very well. They have to dictate their reports, which are typed later by the girls in the pool. If any of these reports ever got out cold, without being edited and rewritten, we would lose the business of the department store industry receiving that report in five minutes flat. That is what I do: I put these field reports into some semblance of readability. My boss, The Colonel, likes the way I write, and often picks up phrases from my reports. Once, when I wrote to an operator in Jacksonville about a missing housewife, I told him to “exhaust all resources.” For about a month after that, The Colonel was ending all of his phone conversations with, “Exhaust all resources, exhaust all resources.”

  So down at National Security, I am a fair-haired boy. Four years ago I started at $10,000, and now I’m making $15,000. I can also tell, now, from the meetings that they have been asking me to sit in on lately, “just to listen,” The Colonel said, that they are grooming me for a much better job than I have already.

  If this were a report for National Security I would consider this background information as much too sketchy, and I would bounce it back to the operator. But this isn’t a report, it’s a record, and a record is handy to keep in my lock-box at the bank.

  Who knows? I might need it some day. In Florida, the guilty party who spills everything to State’s Attorney first gets immunity….

  2

  We were on the second round of martinis when we started to talk about picking up women. Hank, being the acknowledged authority on this subject, threw out a good question. “Where, in Miami,” Hank said, “is the easiest place to pick up some strange? I’m not saying the best, I’m talking about the easiest place.”

  “Big Daddy’s,” Eddie said.

  I didn’t say so, but I agreed with Eddie in my mind. There are Big Daddy’s lounges all over Miami. Billboards all around Dade County show a picture of a guy and a girl sitting close together at a bar, right next to the bearded photo of Big Daddy himself, with a caption beneath the picture in lower case Art type: “Big Daddy’s-where you’re never alone….” The message is clear enough. Any man who can’t score in a Big Daddy’s lounge has got a major hang-up of some kind.

  “No,” Hank said, pursing his lips. “I admit you can pick up a woman in Big Daddy’s, but you don’t always score. Right? In fact, you might pick up a loser, lay out five bucks or so in drinks, and then find her missing when you come back from taking a piss.”

  This was true enough; it had happened to me once, although I had never mentioned it to anyone.

  “Think, now,” Hank said. “Give me one surefire place to pick up a woman, where you’ll score, I’ll say, at least nine times out of ten.”

  “Bullshit,” Don said. “Nobody scores nine times out of ten, including you, Hank.”

  “I never said I did,” Hank said. “But I know of one place where you can score nine times out of ten. Any one of us at this table.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, leaping to my feet. They all laughed.

  “Sit down, Fuzz,” Hank said. “Just because there is such a place, it doesn’t mean you’ll want to go. Come on, you guys-think.”

  “Is this a trick question?” Eddie said.

  “No,” Hank said, without smiling, “it’s legitimate. And I’m not talking about call girls either, that is, if there’re any left in Miami.”

  “Coconut Grove is pretty good,” Eddie said.

  “The Grove’s always good,” Hank agreed, “but it’s not a single place, it’s a group of different places. Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, so I’ll spare you the suspense. The easiest place to pick up a fast lay in Miami is at the V.D. clinic.”

  We all laughed.

  “You’re full of it, Hank,” Don said. “A girl who’s just picked up the clap is going to be turned off men and sex for a long time.”

  “That’s what I would have thought,” Hank said. “But apparently it doesn’t work that way. It was in the Herald the other day. The health official at the clinic was bitching about it. I don’t remember his name, but I cut out the piece and I’ve got it up in my apartment. He said that most of the girls at the clinic are from sixteen to twenty-two, and the guys and girls get together in the waiting room to exchange addresses and phone numbers because they know they’re safe. They’ve all been treated recently, so they know there’s no danger of catching anything. Anyway, according to the Herald, they’ve brought in a psychologist to study the problem. The health official wants to put in separate waiting rooms to keep the men and women apart.”

  “Would you pick up a girl in a V.D. clinic?” Don asked Hank.

  Hank laughed. “Not unless I was pretty damned hard up, I wouldn’t. Okay. I’ll show you guys the clipping later. Here’s a tougher question. Where’s the hardest place in Miami to pick up a woman?”

  “The University of Miami Student Union,” Eddie said solemnly.

  We all laughed.

  “Come on, Eddie,” Hank said. “Play the game. This is a serious question.”

  “When a man really needs a piece of ass,” I said, “any place he tries is hard.”

  “That’s right,” Eddie said. “When you’ve got a woman waiting for you in the sack, and you stop off for a beer, there’ll be five or six broads all over you. But when you’re really out there digging, desperate, there’s nothing out there, man. Nothing.”

  “That’s why I keep my small black book,” Hank said.

  “We aren’t talking about friends, Hank,” I said. “We’re supposed to be talking about strange pussy.”

  “That’s right. So where’s the hardest place to pick up strange?”

  “At church—on a Sunday,” Eddie said.

  “How long’s it been since you’ve been to church?” Hank asked. “Hell, at church, the minister’ll even introduce you to a nice girl if you point one out to him.”

  “But who wants a nice girl?” Eddie said.

  “1 do,” Hank said. “In my book, a nice girl is one who guides it in.”

  “If that’s true,” I said, “every girl I’ve ever slept with has been a nice girl. Thanks, Hank, for making my day. Why don’t we give up this stupid game, get something to eat, and go down to the White Shark and play some pool?”

  “Wait a minute,” Eddie said, “I’m still interested in the question. I want to know the answer so I can avoid going there and wasting my time.”

  “A determined man,” Don said, “can pick up a woman anywhere, even at the International Airport. And you can rent rooms by the hour at the Airport Hotel.”

  “It isn’t the airport,” Hank said. “As you say, Don, the airport’s not a bad place for pick-ups. A lot of women, usually in pairs, hang around
the Roof Lounge watching the planes take off.”

  “We give up, Hank,” I said. “I’ve had my two martinis, and if I don’t eat something pretty soon, I’m liable to drink another. And on my third martini I’ve been known to hit my best friend-just to see him fall.”

  “Eighty-six the Fuzz,” Eddie said. “Tell us, Hank.” Eddie poured the last drink into his Dixie cup.

  “Drive-in movies,” Hank said.

  “I don’t get it,” Don said. “What’s so hard about picking up a woman at a drive-in, for Christ’s sake? Guys take women to drive-ins all the time—”

  “That’s right,” Hank said. “They take them there, and they pay their way in. So what’re you going to do? Start talking to some woman while she’s in her boyfriend’s car, while he’s got one arm around her neck and his left hand on her snatch?”

  Eddie laughed. “Yeah! Don’t do it, Don. The guy might have a gun in his glove compartment.”

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking,” Don said.

  I thought about the idea for a moment. “I’ve only been to a drive-in by myself two or three times in my whole life,” I said. “It’s a place you don’t go alone, usually, unless you want to catch a flick you’ve missed. The last time I went alone was to see Two Lane Blacktop. I read the script when it came out in Esquire, and I really wanted to see the movie.”

  “I saw that,” Eddie said. “Except for Warren Oates in the GTO, none of the other people in the movie could act.”

  “That isn’t the point, Eddie,” I said. “I didn’t think the movie was so hot either, although the script was good. The point I’m trying to make is that the only reason I went to the drive-in was to see Two Lane Blacktop, and it didn’t come on until one-oh-five a.m. Where’re you going to find anyone to go to the drive-in with you at one in the morning? And when I didn’t like the movie either, I wanted to kick myself in the ass.”