The Mango Opera

by Tom Corcoran

  I found Lester alone in a booth reading a swimsuit magazine and holding his BLT together with all ten fingers and thumbs. The upscale tourist might not appreciate the place. Six patrons sat in the booths, four sat at tables, and two held down the truncated counter. Four greenish fluorescent overhead units cast a moldlike pallor on the food. The exhaust fan on the far wall had not done much of a job in recent years. The odor and sheen of burned cooking oil had long ago fused into the restaurant’s fixtures.

  Forsythe was in his mid-thirties. He had the face of a sixteen-year-old, a hairstyle straight from the bell-bottom era, with long sideburns. His eyes were too close together, his bulky shoulders more flab than muscle. He recognized me and inclined his forehead toward the opposite seat, inviting me to join him. A speed-of-light waitress in cut-off jeans and a black tank top had a paper place mat in front of me before my bottom hit the seat. I nodded “yes” before she asked if I wanted coffee.

  “How’s it going up at this end, Lester?”

  No way he could stop chewing to answer. The place mat showed an artist’s interpretation of a sportsman’s life. A hook and line extended from the gaping jaw of a huge freshwater bass. The line looped to the bowed pole of an angler in a canoe. A slogan at the bottom: “Try Our Bait Shack and Sushi Bar Out Back.”

  Lester cleared his mouth and washed back the chewed food with iced tea. “Same old shit, Rutledge.” Even his voice sounded like a teenager’s.

  “Sorry I bagged out on the action the other afternoon.”

  “No sweat, Rutledge. Larry told me that you knew the girl. I can dig that you couldn’t deal with it. I can dig that. I don’t know who screwed up and called you anyway. Obviously, I had it handled.”

  “You bet, Lester. But I’m curious about some things. I’d like to look at your proof sheets. Whenever you finish up here.”

  “The two sets are already checked out. Hatch and the, urn, neighbors…”

  “I wondered if the FBI would get involved.”

  “… but I just printed a full set of prints. Five-by-sevens. They ought to be dry by the time I finish my Jell-O. Man, all these murder cases…”

  Lester worked up a sweat just crossing the five lanes of U.S. 1 in the midday heat. To kill his thirst he purchased a one-dollar Coke from a machine at the substation entrance. Inside, in a small darkroom at the end of a well-lighted linoleum-floored corridor, he pulled the prints from bulldog clips strung on a taut wire above the sink. The contrast and detail stank. He’d had to correct for his bad negatives. Like a rank rookie, he’d failed to back himself up with fill flash. He also had managed to include his own shadow in several of the shots.

  “Great stuff, Lester.”

  He almost blushed. “I always say, ace output is job security.”

  “You are so right on.”

  But I found something. Four photographs taken after the examiners had unwrapped the plastic. A thief had not killed Julia. I recognized the small ruby ring that had belonged to her grandmother. During a magnificent twenty-four-hour period of our week together in 1977, the ring was all she had worn. She’d flashed it while joking about the sexiness of partial nudity. This time around, the ring looked cold against her colorless skin. There was one other thing. The knots in the yellow polystyrene rope were perfect bowlines and double half hitches. Not many murderers cared about nautical correctness. This killer knew the knots most useful at sea.

  I ran the gauntlet of Marathon’s fast-food strip and continued northward under a mixed sky. Ominous black and violet clouds hung low and pushed to the southeast. Scattered white clouds coasted higher, blowing almost directly west, and pale blue patches offered rare sunshine. A small single-engine tail-dragger wobbled toward a crosswind landing at the municipal airstrip. Colorful snapping pennants flew from trailers that housed instant real estate offices. Above Duck Key, near Mile Marker 75, eight wading fishermen cast into waves on the Atlantic side. The road narrowed to two lanes and I felt fortunate to be heading up the Keys. On Friday afternoon half of South Florida comes the other direction, southward to weekend homes or three-day parties on Duval Street. I knew, of course, that I’d face a long return trip to Key West.

  Forsythe’s photos were still on my mind. I probably wasn’t paying proper attention. I sensed something, though, then saw a U-Haul truck, sixty or seventy yards ahead, pull onto the highway to block my northbound progress. The truck lumbered northward, barely increasing speed, hardly moving at all. Even the Shelby’s brakes would not stop me in time. But I saw an escape route: an opening in the oncoming lane. I slowed and pulled left, crossing the double-yellow to clear the U-Haul.

  Then, just as suddenly, a quarter mile away, a massive dump truck pulled into the southbound lane and headed right for me. I was hung out on the wrong side of the road, blocked by the U-Haul, looking face-to-face at a head-on. Wasn’t time supposed to slow in moments like this? Why hadn’t I seen this coming?

  I’ve always preferred to solve traffic problems with my gas pedal instead of the brakes. I knew my Shelby’s capabilities. But this time I needed more road than the trucks were giving, more acceleration than fourth gear would deliver. I dumped the shifter into second. Too radical. The tach banged to the red line, and the rear tires chirped as the gearing braked the car. I quickly jammed the lever up to third and felt the engine’s torque kick as I came alongside the U-Haul. Its driver, by slowing, would give me room to jump safely back into the northbound lane. But the orange-and-white truck accelerated as if trying to pace me. Why wouldn’t the asshole slow down? Three hundred yards ahead, the dump truck, dark and huge, also increased speed. Didn’t these sons of bitches see me?

  Two choices. Somehow clear the U-Haul, yank it to the right and regain the northbound lane. Or aim left for the shoulder and hope to keep control in chuckhole dirt and broken pavement. The Shelby shuddered as its engine strained in third gear. I was doing sixty-five, a nose ahead of the truck, but barely making ground. The whole mess was turning into a squish job. My only option was the shoulder. I warned myself not to brake with my left wheels on dirt and my right wheels on pavement. The mismatched traction could spin the car into the mangroves or else broadside into the dump truck. The thought came to me that I would miss Julia’s funeral if I was dead.

  I lifted the accelerator. My left front wheel hit dirt and gravel. But the dump truck jerked right, toward the same piece of turf. If the dump-truck driver went for the shoulder, neither of us could avoid a collision. Surely he could see the danger, too. But the truck slipped into the gravel, blocking both the oncoming lane and my road-shoulder escape route. I was back to my original dilemma. Using the brakes would kill me.

  I regained the pavement, pressed the gas, and wondered if my foot might push through the floor of the thirty-year-old car. Still in third, to my relief, I began to gain ground. The U-Haul must have peaked its built-in governor. My rent-a-racer stank of heated grease and boiling antifreeze. The car vibrated with strain. Twenty more seconds at these rpms, and my engine would turn into a grenade. I aimed for the sliver of daylight ahead to my right. The road’s center line passed under my car. I felt my right rear fender scrape along the corner of the U-Haul’s front bumper. With a crunch that sounded like a shattering taillight lens, I cleared the U-Haul and looked upward. The dump truck had swerved back to its left, almost as if its driver wanted to hit me. I needed another two feet. I was running out of pavement. Then, quick as a crash and inches away, the dump truck passed. I was still on the road, accelerating.

  I looked down. Eighty-five miles per hour. I lifted, dumped the clutch, and prayed that my engine would not melt down. I tried to exhale but there was nothing there. I tried to inhale and could not remember how. My fingers felt locked to the steering wheel, frozen in place.

  Nothing made sense in the rearview mirror. One truck was skidding in dirt, but I was not going to hang around to make a scene about my near demise. Where were the cops when you needed them? I pulled the lever into fourth gear, settled down to sixty, and hoped
that the sweat would dry before I entered St. Joseph’s Church.

  Finally, I took a deep breath.

  * * *

  I hadn’t been in Coral Gables for years. The city had not changed, except for narrower tree lawns on the widened main roads and even more construction. The wonderful palms and oaks and Spanish moss still thrived. Executives with perfect hair and skinny telephones welded to their ears drove Japanese luxury sedans. Latino wives and girlfriends piloted German cars, full tilt each direction on every street. There was no way to see ahead in traffic with every car’s rear window tinted black. And woe was unto those who dawdled in Dade County’s sphere of anarchy, who hesitated to read a street sign, or who changed lanes at less than full throttle.

  Fortunately, the directions I’d received were right on the money. I found the church in a neighborhood of large two-story Spanish-style houses, each with thick burglar bars caging its ground-floor windows, each with a sign in the yard touting the security company that backed the homeowner’s right to privacy. Six neckless two-hundred-pounders in bulging suits patrolled the church parking lot. In Dade County, security exists for show as well as protection. My car was directed to the end of a row of somber older-looking sedans. Sent to the back of the bus. Not allowed to park near the Infinitis and Town Cars. In Miami, even in paying respects to the dead, there is a pecking order.

  No big deal. I had arrived alive. I angled the rearview mirror so I could see to run a brush through my hair and knot my necktie. I began a new attack of the sweats, probably brought on by my proximity to a place of worship. I grabbed my suit coat, patted the Shelby on its roof, and walked to the funeral.

  11

  My background is plain vanilla and white bread. I grew up the second of three boys in a Midwest Protestant family. Cleats, snot rags, dirty laundry, bad sneakers, and illicit fireworks filled the house. We were force-fed primary virtues: honesty, grades, quiet, and frugality. Spiritual matters came under the heading of convenience. Except for Palm Sunday, Easter and Christmas, church attendance hinged on good weather and a parent not too hung over to drive. It’s no wonder that the architecture and drawn-out ceremonies of the Catholic Church have always intimidated me. I associate a higher power with higher ceilings. Authority and mahogany hand in hand.

  Then there’s the rump factor. The few Catholic funerals I’d attended had lasted longer than my deceased acquaintances would have tolerated had they not been the subject of the Mass. To me, a lot of up-and-down. Opinion: The reading-and-response never caught the real spirit of good-bye. This service promised to be different. The massive St. Joseph’s chapel, the mystery and ritual and Spanish ceremony would fit my feelings for Julia Balbuena. I was glad that I had come. I’d made it with fifteen minutes to spare.

  As those who’ve not been in touch with the deceased will do, I signed the small leather-bound register and found a seat toward the rear. The oak pews were three-quarters filled. Solemn Latin men wearing the tobacco-tint eyeglasses popular in Central America shook hands. Women in black lace mantillas nodded forlorn hellos. The older children looked to be caring for the elderly or tending to young siblings. I sensed no surreptitious business being transacted, and just a trace of political seating and deferral. Few tears were evident. A sense of wariness pervaded.

  To the side and two rows back sat a group of professional-looking people, including several black women and two older men, no doubt the group from the office, Julia’s co-workers. Behind them sat a group of blacks. The men looked thin, like so many Haitians, and wore loud ties. Perhaps Balbuena family employees. There were not many single men seated alone. Until a bearded man in an ill-fitting sport coat entered, I might have laid sole claim to the ex-lovers’ category.

  I recognized him through the beard. I had once seen almost two weeks’ growth; Ray Kemp hadn’t shaved during the Mariel ordeal. But he’d gone gray in the years since. I had never seen him without a suntan. He hadn’t missed many meals, either. The sport coat was either the veteran of a previous decade or a number from a secondhand store and contributed to his looking several notches down the far side of seedy. Kemp hung toward the rear of the church, sat apart, and did not appear to notice me. I had just decided to move nearer to him when the organ music began. I remained in my seat. Until someone rose to speak in English of Julia, I spent the time studying stained-glass-window images. Several related to how I had felt in the past forty-eight hours.

  Thirty minutes into the service, I looked around. Kemp had slid out the far end of his row and was headed for a side exit. We had not been in touch for years. I wanted to say hello. I also wanted his views on Julia’s murder.

  I almost didn’t catch him. I found him in a sedan about seventy-five feet from the church doors. The security goons must have found his new Pontiac acceptable. Maroon with red upholstery, the color of so many rental cars, and clean. He’d left the driver’s door open to cool the interior as he fumbled to insert the ignition key.

  “Ray.” I started to perspire immediately in the afternoon heat.

  Kemp looked up, looked baffled, then showed genuine surprise. “Not in a million years…” he said. He climbed out, pocketed the keys and extended his hand. The years had scrawled webs of age lines around his eyes. Along with graying, his hair had thinned and headed aft. His shoulders were rounded, his posture poor.

  “Been a while, Captain Kemp. They talk about you in Cayo Hueso, you know. People wonder what happened to you. Not just the bill collectors…”

  “Yeah, I don’t know.” A smirk appeared and vanished in an instant. “I’ve promised myself a Key West vacation for years. I wondered who was still left down there. Every time a new Buffett album comes out, I get homesick.”

  “Every time one does, ten thousand more tourists hit Duval Street. You wouldn’t recognize it. You know Phil Clark died, don’t you?”

  “Well, I thought so. I caught something in Jimmy’s lyrics a while back.” He scratched at his beard and shook his head. “What got him?”

  “Drowned in San Francisco Bay. Overextended the party.”

  “How’d he get that far from the Keys? Of course, I say that. I’m near Seattle, still trying to live a storybook life. Kind of like Phil always did.”

  “He was hiding from bondsmen and lawmen and ex-wives. Fake name and all, bartending in Marin County.”

  “I tried bartending after I left Key West. No way, José. I built a spec house in the Carolinas and, dumbass me, I followed a young bimbo out to Bremerton, Washington. I lost track of her, thank God for that, but I’ve been fishing out of Port Angeles for … I don’t know … eight years. Off-season, I’m into vehicle recovery. Motor homes, big vans, delivery truck repos. I even got domestic and bought a house. You still taking pictures?”

  “I’m still at it.” Unless there’s a dead body on the beach.

  “I figured you’d be famous by now. Articles about you in Time or GQ.”

  I shook my head. “Fame sucks. How’d you hear about Julia?”

  “Local papers up there. Something hits the press wires as a ‘Twin Peaks Copycat Slaying,’ it gets picked up in Washington State. That’s where they filmed most of those segments. Man, it broke my heart. I can’t begin to tell you how often I’ve thought of that woman. They were all supposed to drift away and not be memories. If I had to think of all of ’em, my brain’d weigh fifty pounds. She never did go away. Not for me.”

  “Well, I always felt something, too. Enough that I drove all this way to remember that I’m not much for religious rituals. I’ve always wondered when they’d phase in the collection plate at weddings and funerals.”

  “They figure who might have done it?”

  I told him about the father and the Cuban-American intramural spat. “I guess there’s been other violence, but nothing like this.”

  “You couldn’t get me to live in Miami. Hell, Rutledge, you couldn’t pay me to leave where I’m at. You want to know a secret? It doesn’t rain all the time in Seattle. They keep the myth going so the pla
ce doesn’t get crowded out by tourists and big money.”

  “I remember in the Keys, back about ’75, they would have piggybacked tourists down the highway just to sell postcards. We should have had our own rain rumor. A permanent hurricane warning.”

  “Yeah, maybe that would’ve helped.”

  The conversation stalled. The reunion had sputtered out.

  I waved my arm in a direction away from the church. “You want to go grab a beer?”

  He checked his watch. “Like to, but I can’t.”

  “Ah, the mating call of the Monroe County woman.”

  “I’m out of here in an hour and forty minutes. The only flight I could get, unless I wanted to stick around until Tuesday. This time of year, the job calls. I’ve got to turn in this car to East Coast and—”

  “No sweat, Ray. Good to see you. Hurry your ass back down this way. Man, you wouldn’t believe some of the old crew. Sid’s running Sloppy’s, and a bunch of people are on the wagon. Norman’s still got the Petticoat III. Even Trucker’s got a nine-to-five.”

  “That I do not believe. I’ll bet Tripper’s still peddling bad acid down on Telegraph Lane.”

  “See, your memory hasn’t drained out completely.” I reached to shake Ray’s hand and we paused to look each other in the eye. Many years had gone down the pike. There had been moments, after Ray and Julia had found each other, and during the Mariel trip, when I’d hoped never to see the man again. Time has a way of healing even the most painful wounds. Somehow we all become comrades in survival.

  As our hands came apart I felt no calluses. I glanced down, then back at Ray’s eyes. In a brief moment I saw another look. The look of a man with too many secrets and too many failures. We promised to stay in touch, to look each other up, somewhere down the line. I did not mention Sam Wheeler, nor did I offer an invitation to bunk at my house should he visit the Keys.