John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 12 - The Long Lavender Look

by The Long Lavender Look(lit)

  "Don't upset me with logic."

  "A deal has a commercial implication. The marksman was cruising along looking for Orville and Hutch. He did not want to make a deal with both of them. He knew they were on foot, knew they were heading south. Our sizes must be a rough match. And it is not a pedestrian area."

  "And Hutch," I added, "was the taller, and the biggest threat, and I moved so fast he thought he'd shot me in the face. And, if he had a good, plausible, logical reason for killing Hutch, he wouldn't have asked Orville to stuff the body into the canal and stake it down."

  "And," said Meyer, "were I Orville, I would be a little queasy about making a date with that fellow."

  "Ready to go?"

  "We should, I guess, before the mosquitos remove the rest of the blood."

  "And when anything comes from any direction, we flatten out in the brush on this side of the road."

  "I think I will try to enjoy the walk, McGee."

  "But your schedule is way the hell off."

  So we walked. And were euphoric and silly in the jungly night. Being alive is like fine wine, when you have damned near drowned and nearly been shot in the face. Perhaps a change of angle of one degree at the muzzle would have put that slug through the bridge of my nose. So we swung along and told fatuous jokes and old lies and sometimes sang awhile.

  Two

  AT THE first light of oncoming dawn, just when the trees were beginning to assume shape and identity, we came out at the intersection of Florida 112 and the Tamiami Trail. There was a big service station and garage across the main highway. The night lights were on. The sign over the office door said:

  MGR: AL STOREY

  Traffic was infrequent, and very fast. I was heartened to see a squat, muscular wrecker with big duals on the rear, and a derrick with a power hoist It was going to take muscle to pluck Miss Agnes out of the canal. The more muscle, the less damage to her.

  We looked the place over. Coke machine and a coin dispenser for candy bars and cheese crackers and such. I found a piece of wire and picked the lock on the men's room. We washed up. There' was no other building within sight. Management had thoughtfully provided a round cement table and benches off to one side, with a furled beach umbrella stuck down through the hole in the middle of the table.

  As half an orange sun appeared over the flat horizon, off in the direction of Miami, we sat at the table and ate our coin-slot breakfast and spread the contents of the wallets on the cement top to dry. Licenses and money. The mosquitoes had welted us abundantly, but I knew the evidence would disappear quickly. There is a kind of semi-immunity you acquire if you live long enough in mosquito country. The itch is caused by the blood-thinner they inject, so they can suck the mixed fluids up their narrow snouts. But the redbug bites are something else. No immunity there. We both had them from ankles to groin. The itch of the chigger bite lasts so long that the mythology says they lay eggs under the skin. Not so. It is a very savage itch, and the only way to cut the weeks down to a few days is to use any preparation containing a nerve-deadening agent, along with a cortisone spray. The sun warmed us and began to dry the money. More cars and trucks began to barrel through with fading Doppler whine. A flock of ground doves policed the area. I scratched the chigger bites and thought of a big deep bed with clean white sheets.

  At twenty of seven an oncoming VW panel delivery slowed and turned in and parked on the other side of the building. Two men in it, both staring at us as they passed out of sight. The money and papers were dry enough. We gathered them up and started toward the front of the place and met one of the men at the corner of the building. A spry wiry fifty. Khakis, baseball cap, with AL embroidered in red over the shirt pocket. I could hear the twang-ing and banging as the other man was sliding the big overhead doors up.

  "You broke down someplace?" Al asked. It was complimentary. We did not look as if we could afford to operate a bicycle.

  "We went into the canal last night, a ways up 112."

  "Lots of them do," said Al. "Narrer road with a lot of lumps in it. Lots of them don't get out of the car neither. Let me get the place opened up, and when my other man comes on we'll see about getting you out."

  "Hope you don't mind," I said. "I slipped the lock on your men's room so we could clean up."

  He gave me a quick and narrow look and went quickly to the door to the men's room and inspected the lock. He found the right key in his pocket and tried it. "Long as you didn't bust nothing, okay. How'd you do it?"

  "Piece of wire."

  "That there's supposed to be a good lock."

  "If it was, I couldn't get in. It looks good, but it's builders' junk. If you've got the same junk on your main doors, you better get them changed."

  With a certain suspicion and reluctance he thanked me and hurried off to get his station set up. I wandered around. The place was well run. Tidy and clean, tools in the right places, paperwork apparently under control. The other fellow was big and young. It said TERRY on his pocket. Snug trousers and tapered shirt and big shoulders. Face that could have looked handsome in a rugged way, but the eyes were set too close together, and the chin receded just enough to keep the mouth ajar. So he merely looked tough, coarse, and dumb. They were beginning to get some gas trade and some diesel fuel business.

  Then a Highway Patrol sedan stopped at the near island. Al went to take care of it, then called and waved me over. The trooper was older than average, and heavier than average, with a broad red face and very large dark sunglasses.

  He asked me if I was the owner and then if I had my license and registration. Then he sighed and dug around for the proper form and we went inside the station and used Al's desk.

  After copying the information off my license, he studied the registration. Miss Agnes's age apparently upset him. "A Rolls Royce what?"

  "Well, a custom pickup. I mean somebody turned it into a pickup truck a long time back."

  "Is it worth all the trouble and the expense to get it out of where it is, McGee?"

  "She... uh... it has a certain sentimental value."

  "Pass the inspection? Got the sticker on the windshield?"

  "All in order, officer."

  He sighed again. "Okay. Any other vehicle volved?"

  "No."

  "Where and when did it happen?"

  "About twenty miles north of here on Route 112. A little after ten o'clock last night. I was heading south."

  "How fast?"

  "Sixty to sixty-five."

  "In a crock that old?"

  "She's very able, officer."

  "You were driving and your friend there was with you. And you were going sixty-five and no other vehicles were involved and you put it into the canal?"

  "Not exactly like that. A woman ran across the road directly in front of me. She came out of nowhere. I had to swerve to keep from hitting her."

  "Sure you didn't?"

  "Absolutely positive. I nearly lost it right there. I was all over the road trying to bring my car out of it. I finally started to make it. Then a rear tire blew and that did it. She went in fairly easy. It's in about ten feet of water, aiming back the way we came, resting on the left side. We got out of it. Then we came here and waited until Al showed up to open up."

  "Point of departure and destination."

  "We were coming from Lake Passkokee and going home to Lauderdale."

  "Twenty miles north from here would put you in Cypress County. Here. This copy is yours. Al will probably call them on his radio when he's in range. If Sher'f Norm Hyzer has a car come out to look it over, this is your proof you turned in the accident report. And maybe your insurance will want to take a look at it, too."

  He went out to his car. I saw him talk into the hand mike and knew he was checking in to make sure there was nothing out on the car or the driver. It is standard procedure and seldom forgotten, as nothing makes a cop look sillier than finding out later that the plausible stranger is wanted for a bank job.

  He talked for a long time, then
reached in and hung the mike up, shoved his hat back a little with one paw, and unholstered the Police Positive with the other. "Okay. Both of you. Face down. Spread it out. Grab the back of your neck."

  Quick, rough, thorough, and very cautious. Officer Nagle was a competent cop.

  "What'd they do, Beef?" Al asked.

  "I wouldn't hardly know. All I know is, Norm wants 'em, and he'll be coming right along to get them."

  "Isn't there something about rights?" I asked humbly.

  "If I was the arresting officer, I'd read you what it says on the little card, McGee. But all I'm doing is detaining you, a professional favor for the sher'f of Cypress County. Move back there in the shade, and lean against the wall. Move a little further apart from each other, boys. That's fine."

  "You're making a mistake," Meyer said.

  He looked owlishly astonished. "Me? How can I be making a mistake doing what the man asks me to do, asks me nice? Any kind of mistake in this is all Norm Hyzer's, and I hear he doesn't make too many. Int that right, Al?"

  "They seem to keep on electing him up there," Al said. From the tone I guessed he wasn't a Hyzer fan. He headed out to the island to take care of a dusty Buick with a noisy fan belt. The big young one named Terry stood and stared at us with vacuous, adenoidal intensity.

  A blue Rambler came down Route 112, waited at the stop sign, then came across and parked beside the station. A broad brown man with a white grin got out. It said HENRY over the pocket of his coveralls. "Hey there, Beef. What's going on?"

  "How come you can't hardly ever get here on time?" Al demanded.

  "Now look, honest, I had a bad night, and I clean slept right through that alarm again, and..."

  "And Hummer was promised the Olds at ten-thirty and you haven't even started on the brake job yet, so don't stand around asking dumb questions. I don't want Hummer so damn mad he starts yelling in my face again. He sprays spit."

  Time passed. Traffic was picking up, but visibly and audibly slowing at the sight of the patrol car with the distinctive blue roof lights. Meyer started to say something to me, and Beef Nagle said politely that he'd rather we didn't carry on any conversation.

  At last I heard the thin distant scream of an approaching siren. It came down 112, slowed a little at the sign and plunged across, swung and left rubber on the apron in a dramatic smoking stop. Green sedan with a red flasher on the roof. Cypress County Sheriff's Department. Sheriff Norman L. Hyzer. The man who climbed out quickly from behind the wheel wore a khaki uniform that said DEPUTY SHERIFF on the shoulder patch. Long lumpy face, sallow complexion, blond-red hair, and glasses with steel rims that did not give him the slightest look of bookish introspection.

  So the other one had to be Hyzer. Late forties. Tall and slender and very erect. Black suit, shiny black shoes, crisp white shirt, dark blue necktie, gold wedding ring, white Stetson. He had dark hair and noble-hero face, expressionless. He kept the mouth pinched shut. The eyes were very blue, and his examination of each of us was long, intensive, unrevealing.

  Next he examined the pocket-contents Nagle had taken from us, and the accident report Nagle had filled out. The occupations as listed on the Florida driver's licenses seemed to intrigue him. "Salvage consultant?" he said in a deep, soft voice, barely audible over traffic sounds. "Economist?"

  "Unlikely as it may seem at the moment," said Meyer in his best guest-lecture delivery. It didn't match the bristled jowls, the mud-stained clothes and the sorry shoes.

  "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to legal counsel. If you cannot employ an attorney, one will be provided for you. If you choose to answer questions, anything you say may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand, McGee? Do you understand, Meyer?"

  "We understand," I said. "We'll answer anything you want to ask. But it would be nice to know the charge."

  "Suspicion of premeditated murder." His face showed nothing. Nothing at all regional about his voice. Not your stock Florida sheriff by any means. A lot of ice-cold class. Made me wonder why he was content to be sheriff of Cypress County, a lot of swamp and palmetto and maybe, by straining hard, twenty thousand people. "Get into the cruiser." His deputy opened the rear door and stepped back.

  "I'd like to make arrangements about getting my car pulled out of the canal, Sheriff."

  "We'd arrange that in any case, McGee."

  "Can I show this man where it is?"

  "We know where it is." Al said, with a mocking smile, "And no damn need of my asking for the business, is there, Sher'f?"

  "I hardly think so, Mr. Storey."

  "Who got killed?" big Terry asked.

  Hyzer hesitated, then said, "Frank Baither."

  "Overdue," said Al Storey.

  We got in. Steel mesh between us and the two in front. Safety glass at the sides, with no cranks and no inside door handles. The deputy picked a hole in the traffic and scatted across, and barreled it on up to ninety. Hyzer sat erect, silent, and motionless. A few miles along the road an egret came out of the brush on the canal side, tried for altitude and didn't quite make it. It thudded against the high right corner of roof and windshield. I looked back and saw the white feathers falling to the roadbed like strange snow.

  We were in a cage that smelled of green disinfectant and last week's vomit, and was going too fast. Meyer rode with his hands loosely clasped in his lap, eyes closed, half smile on his mouth, swaying and bouncing to the hard movements of the sedan.

  Far ahead I saw vehicles and activity. The deputy waited a long time, then braked hard and pulled over. They both got out, banged the doors shut, and walked up to where a big blue-and-white wrecker was working. It was backed close to the edge of the canal. Traffic was blocked in both directions. On the side door of the wrecker was printed JOHNNY'S MAIN STREET SERVICE. The cable stretched down into black water, under tension as the big winch wound it up. There were some shouts and arm-waving. Then I saw the gleaming, stately, angular contours of the front of Miss Agnes appear.

  "They're doing it just right," I told Meyer. "Stood her up on the back end and the angle brought the wheels right onto the bank."

  "Hooray" he muttered.

  "They've got the wheels cramped right, so they can bring her up and out in one swing."

  "How marvelous."

  "Usually you enjoy seeing something done well, Meyer."

  "I do not like this, not any part of this."

  Neither did I, and maybe not for the same reasons. The wrecker eased forward and brought Miss Agnes out swiftly, gently, and deftly. Made the turn away from us, and pulled over onto the shoulder. The few cars and trucks that had waited were waved on. Hyzer spent a long time checking over old Miss Agnes. The cruiser was getting up to baking temperature inside, sweat popping out and rolling down.

  At last they came back and got in. I asked about damage. Nobody answered. On the way to Cypress City we swung out and passed Miss Agnes. She looked a little crumpled around the corners and there were bright green strings of algae across her windshield and hood. I was happy to see that somebody had been sportsman enough to put the spare on. It would have hurt a little to see her clopping along on the rim.

  We couldn't give answers until they came up with the questions. And then it would be apologies, smiles, handshakes.

  Maybe.

  Three

  IT WAS a little after noon when a fat elderly deputy brought me a cold and greasy cheeseburger wrapped in waxed paper, and a cardboard container of tepid coffee with too much sugar and cream already in it.

  "Why the delay?" I asked. "What's going on?"

  "Beats me, friend," he said, and went out and locked the door behind him. It was a small room with a heavy table bolted to the floor, heavy benches bolted to the plaster walls, wire mesh over the ceiling light and over the single window. The window was on the second floor of the Moorish structure. It looked out across a narrow courtyard at another wing of the U-shaped building. The floor of the room was asphalt tile in a mottled tan and green. The w
alls were yellow tan. I had opened a shallow drawer in the heavy table and found it full of dead cigar stubs and burned matches. Distant sounds of traffic. Radio rock in the distance, on a cheap set. Bird sounds. The room was too warm. I improvised a pillow by rolling my shoes in my shirt, stretched out on the bench, and dozed off.

  "Come on," said the deputy with the steel glasses. I stretched and yawned, rolled the stiffness out of my shoulders, worked my way into the shirt and shoes.

  "You got a name?" I asked him.

  "Billy. Billy Cable."

  "From around here?"