by Ron Base
21
The four women could not have been any more than eighteen or nineteen. Not beauties exactly but impeccably creamed and blushed and rouged, dripping with glittery jewelry and dressed to kill in short tight skirts. They chattered excitedly in Spanish.
Tree said, “Hey, there, ladies.”
Nobody paid any attention. He was the help. They were the stars. He finally caught the eye of a reed-thin Latina with violet Elizabeth Taylor eyes and jet black hair falling in thick waves.
He said to her, “Any idea what this is all about?”
She shrugged. “Some rich guy.”
“Party time,” the only blond member of the quartet added with a bright smile.
“Do you know who the rich guy is?”
The Latina kid shrugged. “Axe. X. Something like that.”
A plump African American woman said, “Aksel Baldur. That’s the dude’s name. I Googled him. Makes cheap clothes or something. Big deal. He’s rich. That’s all you have to know.”
“Maybe I’ll marry him,” said Elizabeth Taylor eyes.
“You stand in line, baby,” the blonde said.
Everyone giggled. “Hey, dude, quit talking and get this hearse rolling,” said the Latina.
A chorus of agreement rose from the back. Tree waved a hand in surrender, straightened around, found the key in the ignition and started the engine. The excited Spanish chatter resumed.
The limo ahead of him started forward. Tree slid the gear shift into drive and the car lurched ahead. That’s when it struck him that he had never driven anything this size before. Anywhere near this size, come to think of it.
As it turned out, any driving expertise proved unnecessary. The limo convoy proceeded along for barely two miles before the convoy turned through golden gates that opened onto a sprawling seaside mansion built around and above clusters of live oaks and banyans so that it resembled a gigantic tree house; a boy’s thirty million dollar dream. Its vastness silenced the backseat chatter and replaced it with admiring gasps.
A tiled drive swung beneath a portico where the limos disgorged their glamorous passengers: dozens of eager, squealing young women in revealing party dresses.
It was Tree’s turn under the portico. Well-muscled young men bursting out of black Armani suits, outfitted with plastic earpieces, stood in clusters, taking pride in the level of menace they could display.
A tall, broad-shouldered man surged out of the mansion as Tree opened the passenger door. Tree recognized Aksel Baldur from his clothing ads.
Gold chains and medallions glittered against a massive bronzed chest framed by the white linen shirt open to the waist. Luxurious frosted blond hair flowed to his shoulders. He would have fit right into a Bee Gees tour, circa 1977.
Tree’s passengers tumbled out amid a chorus of shrieks and laughter, gleefully embracing their hugely smiling new best friend.
“Okay, fella, move it along,” snarled a security guard. Tree got back in the limo and rolled the car forward, following the road away from the entrance. Sasha on the roadside waved him to a stop. “Take it around to the back,” he said. “Chop. Chop.”
Tree nodded and spun the limo along the drive. He turned off the stereo. Blessed silence. A parking area lay beyond a low retaining wall. A section had been roped off for more than a dozen limos. Tree parked at the end of the line and turned off the engine. His cell phone buzzed. It was Freddie.
“Just checking to make sure you’re still alive,” she said.
“I’m in Sarasota,” he said.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Driving beautiful women around in a block-long limo.”
There was a fair amount of dead air before Freddie said, “I never know whether you’re kidding.”
“I’m even wearing a chauffeur’s outfit.”
“I guess my next question is—why are you chauffeuring beautiful young women around?”
“Just part of the job,” Tree said.
Sasha rapped on the driver’s side window, causing him to jump. “Got to go,” he said to Freddie. “I’ll call you later.”
He closed down his cell phone and got out of the car. “What are you doing?” demanded Sasha.
“I’m on the phone,” Tree said.
“Make phone calls on your own time. You’re working for me, you pay attention to business. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“Come on over with the guys.”
The drivers were gathered just beyond the line of parked limos as Sasha and Tree approached.
“Okay, listen up fellas,” Sasha said. “Here’s the way it goes down for the rest of the night. Chances are we won’t be needed, but if we are, they call me and I send one of you around front with a car to pick up passengers. You deliver them where they want to go. Don’t know how to get there? That’s why there’s a GPS installed in each one of these babies.”
One of the men asked, “How long we supposed to hang around?”
“You hang around as long as I tell you to hang around. That’s what you’re getting paid for. I’ll be back in a while.”
Sasha stalked off. Inside the house, a band struck up its version of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”
A short guy with a pock-marked face dragged on his cigarette. “I don’t get it,” he said. “All these available broads. They barely speak English and don’t even seem to know where they are.”
The guy Sasha called Tango said, “Like the man stated, you drive the car and don’t ask questions.”
“You ask questions you get into trouble,” someone else agreed.
“That Aksel, he likes the babes, for sure,” Tango said. “I can’t tell you how many chicks I’ve driven up here—kids. Who knows what kind of shit they get themselves into?”
That produced knowing chuckles from the group.
“Wetbacks,” the pock-marked guy said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tree said.
“If there’s one green card among those babies, I’d like to see it,” said the pock-marked guy.
“Never mind the green card,” Tango said. “If they were checking IDs, none of these girlies would be old enough to get in the door.”
“What can you do?” the pock-marked guy said. “You’re rich, you get the pussy. You’re poor, you drive the pussy.”
Tree heard something behind him and turned as Sasha reappeared. Everyone grew quiet. Sasha pointed at Tree. “You. What’d you say your name was?”
“Bill,” Tree said.
“Okay, Bill. Come with me. Chop. Chop.”
“What’s up?” Tree said.
“You know what, Bill?” Sasha said. “You ask too many questions. Just do as you’re told and come with me.”
He followed Sasha across the parking lot. They went around the corner of the house. Sasha abruptly veered to the right so Tree could get a better view of Fudd and Elmer coming toward him.
“Hi, Tree,” Fudd said.
“You can’t imagine what a surprise it was to see you drive up to the front of the house,” Elmer said.
He stepped forward raising a fist the size of a ham. He used it to smash Tree in the mouth.
22
Tree dropped to the ground, his mouth filling with the warm taste of blood.
Fudd and Elmer grabbed his arms, half-carried, half-dragged him across an expanse of lawn onto another drive. The gleaming black curve of a Lincoln Towncar came into view. Tree could hear sounds of music and merriment—a pretty good version of “A Whole Lot of Shakin’ Goin’ On”— rich people having a swell time while the poor were being beaten to death out back.
Fudd and Elmer plopped him down at the rear of the Lincoln. As if by magic, the trunk popped up; the yawning entrance to the rabbit hole. Tree should have screamed, “No, not the trunk.” Except his mouth was full of blood, and he couldn’t get the words out. Just as well, he thought dimly. The words would sound silly and would have no effect.
Fudd and Elmer lifted him up and wit
hout ceremony dropped him into the trunk. He looked up in time to glimpse a blue-black Florida sky splayed with stars before darkness descended, and the beaten old pharaoh was entombed.
Okay, Tree thought, this is what it’s like inside an automobile trunk—pitch black with panic roiling the pit of his stomach. A trifle claustrophobic, too, but nothing that a two-fisted private detective like Tree Callister couldn’t handle—a detective so tough he could be felled by a single blow, reduced to such a weakened state that a couple of thugs could throw him into a trunk with no more effort than it takes to lift a sack of potatoes.
The Lincoln lurched forward. His head banged against something solid. He fought off an abrupt rise in the level of his claustrophobia. As the car picked up speed, his stomach twisted and dropped, producing the same nausea he experienced as a kid when his parents forced him to sit in the back of their big green Chrysler, the air filled with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Damn. He shouldn’t have thought of that. He must not throw up. Not in these cramped confines.
He tried to think of something else. He thought about Fudd and Elmer who said they represented a client crazy for Kendra Callister. Was Aksel Baldur that client? Was he the rich man so anxious to have Kendra back he would send a couple of hired thugs after her?
It looked that way.
And were those same thugs capable of killing Kendra’s father-in-law because he crashed a party?
That appeared to be a possibility.
The car turned a corner. He braced himself by pushing the palms of his hands against the trunk lid. His stomach rumbled and dropped again. Bile filled his throat. He was going to be sick. Then the car lurched to a stop.
Silence, save for the ticking sounds of metal at rest. His stomach continued to churn. The air was close. The trunk flipped open. Hands wrenched him out and dropped him to the ground.
He became aware that the Lincoln had parked at the edge of some sort of junkyard. There was no more time to contemplate his surroundings, however, as either Fudd or Elmer—in the darkness and confusion it was hard to tell—chose that moment to deliver a hard kick to his ribs. He didn’t so much gasp—he would have preferred the manly gasp—as howl in pain, certain that the force of the kick had shattered his rib cage.
On the watery edges of his vision, he had the impression of someone bending over him, peering down to get a better look at the damage inflicted.
“Really stupid.” Elmer’s voice fluttered through the hurt.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Fudd, from somewhere off. He delivered the next blow. Tree produced a truly awful howl.
Elmer continued in an all-too-reasonable voice: “You are a stupid amateur, Tree, and too old to boot. You have stumbled into the jungle, and we are the wild animals in the jungle, and you are helpless against us.”
“Any doubts about that,” Fudd added in an equally reasonable voice, “and you just have to look at the predicament you’re in.”
“Also, look at your total lack of ability to do anything about it,” Elmer said. “Take note of that. It really is pathetic.”
“Truly pathetic,” Fudd agreed.
Tree heard a dull hard splat, like a baseball bat hitting a water melon. Fudd dropped in front of him, glasses clattering to the pavement, mouth agape.
He looked up to see a massive form hit Elmer in the stomach. He issued a high-pitched shriek and joined Fudd on the ground. The form shifted and the available light revealed Ferne Clowers in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with an upraised baseball bat.
“I don’t know who you tom cats are,” Ferne said, standing over the prone bodies of Tree’s assailants. “But hear this: Tree Callister is a friend of mine. Got it? Hey, there, pal.” She nudged Fudd with the tip of her bat. “Got it?”
Fudd managed to move his head up and down.
“So you leave him alone. Okay?” That got a prompt nod from Elmer. “Otherwise, next time I don’t bring a bat. I come back with a meat cleaver. That doesn’t work, it goes to guns. I got big guns, believe me.”
She came over and looked down at Tree, her face shadowed and gentle, a descending angel sent to save him. A big angel, but an angel. Not so long ago she was trying to kill him. Tonight, she was saving his life.
He struggled to his knees.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Not a bad idea, Tree thought, a moment before she yanked him upright. Not a bad idea at all.
23
Whooo-hoooo!” Ferne bellowed as she drove her Cadillac Eldorado away from the threat of Fudd and Elmer. “Nothing like it. Nothing like a gal with a baseball bat to focus your attention.”
Tree, in pain from his swelling mouth and what he imagined was his shattered rib cage, said, “You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“So what if I did, Tree? They were about to take you apart. You think there would have been anything left of you if I hadn’t come along?”
“I don’t want anyone dead,” he said.
“If I wanted them dead, they’d be dead. As it is, I just wanted to mess them up a little so they think about Ferne and her baseball bat every time they take a breath for the next six months or so.”
“I think they broke my ribs,” Tree said.
“We’ll get them taped up,” Ferne said, as if she dealt with broken ribs all the time.
Tree settled into the red leather. The pain dispersed a bit. He found he could breathe more easily. “How did you find me?” he asked.
“I didn’t find you,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. “I followed you.”
“Followed me? Why would you follow me?”
“Because I thought you might be getting yourself into trouble, and you might just need a gal with a baseball bat.”
“I don’t like the idea of you following me, Ferne.”
“I’m sorry, Tree. Why don’t I take you back to those two jerks?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you did for me.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ferne said.
“Although I don’t quite understand it.”
“What’s not to understand? I like you. I help the people I like. Everyone else, look out.”
“How can you like me, Ferne? A few days ago you were trying to kill me.”
“What can I tell you? Us gals are fickle creatures. Besides, you’ve got enough enemies without adding me to the list. Why were those two after you, anyway?”
“They’re working for a guy who wants my daughter-in-law.”
Ferne gave him a quick glance. “You gotta be kidding. The guy who owns that mansion?”
“His name’s Aksel Baldur.”
“Axe-and-bladder? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“He’s a Finn, I think.”
“A fin? What’s a fin?”
“Someone from Finland.”
“What’s your daughter-in-law doing with a guy from Finland?”
“That’s a good question,” Tree said.
“And why are you mixed up in it?”
“Another good question,” Tree said.
“Because the next time, Tree darling, love you though I do, I might not be around to save your behind.”
“Ferne, you don’t love me.”
“From the moment I walked into your office,” Ferne said in a serious voice. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was as if I had been hit by lightning or something. I didn’t know what to do. I had it all arranged to take you up there to Matlacha and have Slippery finish you off. But I couldn’t do it, Tree. When the rubber hit the road, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Weirdest thing.”
“But why would you want to kill me in the first place?”
“Because of what you did to a friend of mine.”
Tree looked at her, more confused than ever. “What friend? What did I do?”
“Dwayne Crowley. You killed him.”
“How did you know Dwayne?”
“We were in Coleman together,” Ferne said. “Cellmates. I loved him.
He loved me, although, to be honest, Dwayne wasn’t always very successful in showing his true feelings.”
“But how could the two of you have been in Coleman?”
“This was before I became a woman,” Ferne said.
A long beat ensued before Tree managed to say, “Before you became a woman?”
“For a long time, I was a woman trapped in a man’s body,” Ferne said. “At Coleman I was transformed into my true self. Ferlin Flowers became Ferne Clowers.”
“You could do that in prison?”
“Sweetheart, you can do anything in prison.”
“What were you in for?”
“Nothing too serious. They said I hijacked some trucks.”
“That was it?”
“Okay. And attempted murder.”
They drove in silence for a time.
“My cousin Len actually stole the trucks,” Ferne added. “I just drove one or two of them across state lines. A bad move on my part.”
“Dwayne was coming at me with a shotgun,” Tree said. “He’d already killed an FBI agent.”
“I imagine Dwayne could be a mean bastard with a shotgun,” Ferne said.
“I didn’t have a whole lot of choice; it was going to be either him or me. I thought it would be me for certain. No one was more surprised than I was when it turned out to be him.”
“Dwayne probably got what he deserved,” Ferne said. “In retrospect I can see that. Still, I felt I had to do something, you know, avenge his death. Kill the killer. But as soon as I walked into your office I got this gentle, loving vibe from you. I knew that becoming Ferne had made me a different person, and that I could not kill you. I was in love.”
“Except you still drove me up to Matlacha and put me in front of Slippery, who didn’t seem to share your love.”
“But when he tried to cut you, I stopped him. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
How could Tree argue with logic like that?