“You are running for office?” he asked.
“I thought you knew I owned a white shirt and a tie.”
“I guess I’d forgotten.”
“I want to look safe and plausible.”
“To whom?”
I poured my orange juice and selected a handful of eggs.
“Five eggs?” he asked.
“These are the super supreme extra large eggs, which means they are just a little bit bigger than robin eggs. Stop all this idle criticism and take a look at the back of my head, please. I took the dressing off.”
I sat on my heels. He came from the booth and stood behind me and turned my head toward the light. “Mmm. Looks sort of like the stitching on a baseball. Nice and clean, though. No redness that I can see.”
He went back to his coffee. I broke the eggs into the small skillet, sliced some sharp cheddar and dropped it in, chopped some mild onion and dropped it in, folded that stuff in with a fork, took a couple of stirs, and in a couple of minutes it was done.
When I sat down to my breakfast Meyer said, “You were saying?”
“I’m saying something new now. We’ve been playing with a short deck. With a card missing, the tricks won’t work. Maybe it is a variation of your invisible planet theory. I’ll describe the missing card to you. The Van Harn airplane comes winging through the blue, and in the late afternoon it spots the Bertram off the north shore of Grand Bahama, as before. There are eight or nine bags of gage, plastic-wrapped to keep the water out. They are about a hundred pounds each. Van Harn makes a big circle at an altitude of a couple of hundred feet. The circle is big so that each time he comes around, Carrie has time to pull and tug and wrestle one of the bags to the passenger door and shove it out on his signal. That would be the way to do it, right? Nine passes. They hope to drop them close enough so they can be picked up quickly with a little maneuvering and a boat hook. Cal Birdsong and Jack Omaha are busily and happily hooking the bags aboard. Probably Birdsong is running the boat and Omaha is doing the stevedore job. Van Harn and Carrie are having a dandy time too. A little bit of adventure, a nice piece of money, and all the bugs have been worked out of the system. The payoff is big. Have you got the picture?”
“It seems plausible. What are you getting at?”
“Cindy told me that a week before he died Cal had a nightmare about something falling out of the sky and killing him.”
I saw Meyer’s face change. I saw the comprehension, the nod, the pursing of lips.
“One drop was too good,” he said.
“And Jack Omaha was careless. He wasn’t watching. He was maybe leaning to get the boat hook into a floating bag. There would be a hell of a lot of impact. A good guess would be that it hit him in the back of the head and snapped his neck. And all of a sudden it wasn’t a party any more. It wasn’t fun any more.”
Nodding, Meyer spoke in an introspective monotone. “So Birdsong wired weights to the body and dropped it into the deeps, after dark. Van Harn flew back to the ranch with Carrie. When Birdsong was due in, she was waiting here at the marina with one of the little panel trucks. Birdsong loaded the sacks into the truck. They got their stories straight. She drove to Fifteen Hundred where the truck was unloaded and Walter J. Demos paid her off. She drove the truck down to Superior Building Supplies. She had probably left her car there. She put the money into the safe and took her share, because she knew the game was over. And she brought her share to you to hold. Travis, how do you read Van Harn’s reaction?”
“Sudden total terror. I don’t think the money mattered one damn to him any more. Marrying Jane Schermer would take care of the money problem forevermore. He knew he had been taking a stupid chance, perhaps rebelling against a career of fronting for Uncle Jake and his good old boys. He would know that if it all came out, it would finish him. It wasn’t a prank. He was involved in the death of a prominent local man while committing a felony. Good old Jack Omaha of Rotary, Kiwanis, and the Junior Chamber. He wouldn’t even keep his ticket to practice law. So I think that all of a sudden he was very anxious to please Uncle Jake.”
“The eyewitnesses were Carrie Milligan and Cal Birdsong.”
“Exactly, Meyer. A hustling lady and a drunk. I just thought of something else: Freddy’s matinee with Chris Omaha. There probably isn’t a better way of finding out how much the lady knows about anything. He wanted to know how much Jack had told her about the smuggling, or if he had told her anything at all. He evidently hadn’t.”
“And the burgled apartment?” Meyer said.
“Same reason. Find and remove any written evidence.”
“What about Joanna and the bomb?”
“That won’t make any sense until we know more.”
“If you can ever make sense out of a bomb. The Irish tried it. Except for the people getting killed, it’s turned into a farce to amuse the world. The Irish have forgotten why they set off bombs, if indeed they ever knew. It’s probably because there’s so damned little else to do in that dreary land.”
“You won’t be popular in Ireland.”
“I’ve never had any urge to go back, thank you.”
“Joanna came aboard bearing goodies. A little feast left off at the cottage for her. Meyer, we were both moving toward her as she started to open the box. If she had been a string-saver, a careful untier of knots, we’d both be dead. But she was the rip and tear type. God, I can still smell the stink of explosion in here.”
“I know. It’s a little less every day.”
After I finished off the eggs, I answered his first question. “I am going to visit the brilliant young attorney at his place of business. And I may have to see Judge Schermer. And I may have to see the Judge’s niece.”
“With what objective?”
“Application of pressure.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Be right here where I can get you if and when I need you.”
Cindy Birdsong was alone in the office when I walked up there from the docks. She got up from the desk and came around the end of the counter quickly, then glanced guiltily out of each of the windows before tiptoeing to be kissed. A brief kiss, but very personal and empathic. “You sneaked away,” she said. “Like a thief in the night.”
“I slept like the dead. I woke up and didn’t know where I was or who I was, darling.”
“I’ll try to keep track.”
She became more brisk and businesslike as she backed away from me. “Something strange, Travis. Jason was supposed to tend the office this morning. Ollie says he isn’t around. And Ritchie has got some kind of a bug.”
“Where does Jason stay?”
“He and Ollie have been living aboard the Wanderer. Over there at the end. It’s ours … mine, I mean. But she needs new engines and an awful lot of other things.”
I could see that the Wanderer was an old Egg Harbor fly bridge sedan, white hull and a rather unhappy shade of green topsides, something under forty feet in length.
Ollie came into the office, round, brown, and sweat-shiny, and gave me a good morning and gave Cindy a dock slip and said, “I put that Jacksonville Hatteras in Thirty-three instead of Twenty-six. It’s new and he can’t handle it worth a damn. It’s easier to get in and out of Thirty-three. Okay?”
“Of course.”
“They’ll sign in personally when they get it hosed down. They’re very fat people, both of them. Not real old. Just fat.”
“Oliver,” I said, “do you think Jason took off for good?”
He stared at me. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. He’s missing. That’s one possibility, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t think of him exactly as being missing, Mr. McGee.”
“Did you notice if his personal gear was gone?”
“I didn’t even think to look.”
“Could we take a look right now?”
He looked at Cindy and when she nodded he said, “Why not?”
We both stepped aboard the
Wanderer at the same moment, making it rub and creak against the fenders. As we went below Oliver said, “We slept here in the main cabin, Jason in the port bunk and me over here. If anybody was entertaining anybody, the other person slept up in the bow. There’s two bunks up there. You can see that he slept in his bunk at least for a while and … you know something? I don’t see his guitar anyplace.”
We checked the locker and stowage area. His personal gear was gone.
“What kind of car does he have?”
“No car. A bicycle. Ten speed. Schwinn Sports Tourer. Blue. He keeps it chained to a post behind the office under the overhang. His duffel bags are the kind that hang off the back rack on a bike. Panniers, they call them. The guitar has a long strap so that he can sling it around his shoulder so it hangs down his back. He loves that bike. He does the whole bit. Toe straps. Racing saddle. Hundred miles a day. That’s how come those fantastic leg muscles.”
I sat on Jason’s bunk and said, “I don’t even know his last name.”
“Breen. Jason Breen,” he said, sitting facing me.
“Okay to work with?”
“Sure. Why?” He looked defiant.
“How much do you really know about him?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“The boss lady has had enough trouble, don’t you think?”
He looked uncertain. “I know. But what has that—?”
“Jason could have done something very bad and very stupid, because he thought he was helping Mrs. Birdsong. I want to get a reading from you about his capacities. You strike me as being very bright and observant, Ollie.”
He blushed. “Well, not as bright as Jason. He reads very heavy things and he has very heavy thoughts.”
“About what?”
“Free will, destiny, reincarnation. Stuff like that.”
“What kind of person is he?”
Oliver pondered, his forehead wrinkling. “Well, he’s a mixture. He likes to be with people. People like him. When there’s a group, people end up doing what he wants to do without him having to push. When he’s having a good time, everybody is having a good time, and when he isn’t, nobody is. At the same time he’s a loner. You never really know what he’s thinking. He does nice things for people without making a big fuss about it. The ladies really like him a lot. You saw how he sort of stepped in and took care of Carrie’s sister, Susan. Got her on the plane and everything. About doing anything wrong. I don’t think he’d do anything he thought was wrong. But there would be no way in God’s world of stopping him from doing something if he thought it was right.”
“Did he have a thing about Mrs. Birdsong?”
Oliver blushed more deeply. “No more than … anybody. I mean she’s a very decent person. And she looks … so great. And Cal was such a son of a bitch to her. Really dirty mean. He’s no loss to anybody.”
“Except to her. She misses him.”
“That’s her, all right. She’s the kind of a person who could even forgive that rotten bastard. Look, I know what’s going on with you two. If you give her a hard time, I’m going to take my best shot.”
“I think you really would.”
“Believe it.”
“What do you think is going on, anyway?”
“Jason told me. He’s never wrong about things like that. He sleeps a couple of hours at a time. He prowls around a lot. He always knows what’s going on over at the cottage and on the boats and in the motel and the whole neighborhood.”
“How did he act about it when he told you? Just how did he tell you? Can you remember the words?”
“Close enough. I came in the other night and he was in the bunk reading and he looked over and said, ‘McGee is screwing Cindy.’ It was just a statement of fact. It stung me, you know. I said you were a bastard to be laying her so soon after Cal died, and he told me that was a sentimental and stupid attitude. I couldn’t tell what he thought about it.”
“Current girl friend?”
“He hasn’t got any particular person at the moment that I know of. He goes over and sees Betty Joller. You know, she’s alone in the cottage now. Unless she can get somebody to come in with her, a couple of girls, she can’t swing the rent and upkeep.”
“Wasn’t there another girl there?”
“Two. Nat Weiss and Flossie Speck. After the bombing, Nat went back to Miami and Floss decided to try it out in California. She was bored with her job here anyway. She was working for the phone company.”
“Didn’t Jason have something going with Carrie and with Joanna?”
“Probably. Sure. It wouldn’t be any great big deal in either direction. It would just have to be the right time and place is all, and it would just happen.”
“Would Carrie have confided in him?”
“What about?”
“Anything that might have bugged her.”
“I don’t see why not. People talk to Jason about the god-damnedest things. He doesn’t pass it along. You know you can tell him things. Funny, come to think of it, how he never tells things about himself to other people. I guess he’s had a hard life. He was in foster homes. They took him away from his own folks because they nearly killed him beating him. He wasn’t even two years old. That’s the only thing he did ever tell me. He had about six broken bones. Maybe more. I forget.”
“Did the storms wake you up last night?”
“Hell, yes!”
“Was Jason in this bunk?”
“Let me think. No, he wasn’t. I could see in the flashes of lightning. I mean it wasn’t anything unusual. He’s always roaming around by himself. Or visiting people. He’s a very restless person.”
“But he’s been here two years, ever since they opened.”
“I don’t mean restless like that. We’ve talked about moving on, but we never do. You get kind of hooked. Boats and water and working outside mostly.”
“But now he’s packed his gear and moved on.”
“I can’t believe he’d just go without a word. But maybe he would. Maybe he would. He’d have pay coming. I don’t know why he’d leave without picking up his pay. Maybe he figures on sending for it. Or maybe he didn’t leave. Maybe he moved into the cottage.”
“Want to check that out for me?”
“For myself too. Sure.”
As I walked slowly back to the office, alone, I could guess at what would convince Jason Breen it was time to pack and leave. If he had been under the open awning windows, crouched a couple of feet from the bed, he would have heard a conversation about Cal’s murder. A little bonus for the restless voyeur of the marina. A little lead time on the blue bike. I wondered if he had sheathed his guitar in rain-proof plastic.
I briefed Cindy and we waited for Oliver. He came back panting for breath, overheated. “Not there,” he said. “Betty hasn’t … gone to work yet. She said … she hasn’t … seen Jason.”
After Oliver left Cindy said, “You don’t suppose Jason … could have listened?”
“Could be. He’d know you were going to talk to Scorf.”
“But does a person … flee on a bicycle?”
“A person flees on what they have at hand, if they are anxious to flee.”
“It makes me feel … sort of rotten to think anybody could have been listening.”
“Ollie says Jason did a lot of prowling.”
“But he seemed so nice!”
“We like the people who like us.”
“I suppose. Rats. Phone call? Sure. Here’s the book.”
I phoned the offices of Frederick Van Harn, Attorney-at-Law, in the Kaufman Building. A soft-voiced girl answered by speaking the number I had just dialed.
“May I speak to Mr. Van Harn, please?”
“Who is calling?”
“A certain Mr. McGee, my dear.”
“Is it a business call or a personal call?”
“Let’s say business.”
“He won’t be in the office today.”
“Out of town?”
/> “No, sir. He won’t be in today.”
“Where can I get in touch with him?”
“You could phone here tomorrow, Mr. McGee.”
“What if I said personal instead of business?”
“You already picked one, sir.”
“Is he out at the ranch? What’s the number there, please?”
“Sorry, sir. That is an unlisted number. You can reach him here tomorrow morning.”
I thanked her and hung up. I wondered vaguely if Freddy was stupid enough to be making another run to Jamaica and decided he wasn’t. I asked Cindy if she could aim me toward the Van Harn ranch. She was blank on that, but she knew the road to take to get to Jane Schermer country, out amongst the grapefruits, and Meyer had told me they were adjacent.
I threw jacket and tie into the back seat of the bright little oven, opened all windows, and headed a little bit south and then turned west on Central Avenue. At first it was a six-lane avenue fringed with motels, the Colonel’s chicken, steak houses, gift shops, dress shops, savings and loans, and small office buildings. After a few blocks of this, I was in used-car country speckled with tired old shopping centers and convenience stores. After a mile or so of that, the road became divided and I went through a long expanse of decaying residential. The pseudo-Moorish and old frame houses had once been impressive—and expensive. They were cut up into apartments and rooming houses. The yards were rank and littered, and the palms in the medial strip looked sickly. The road became two lane, and I went through an area of huge new shopping centers and small dreary-looking developments where, on the flat-lands, the developers had peeled off every tree and had big bonfires before putting in the boxy little houses. As these dwindled I saw For Sale signs on raw acreage, and at about nine miles from where I had made my turn, I came to the first ranchlands, with some Brahman, some Black Angus, some Charolais. Windmills flapped near the water holes. Salt blocks were set out in little open sheds. Where there were trees, the cattle had eaten the bottoms of the boughs off in a straight line, so that at a distance it had something of the look of African landscape.
There was more contour to the land on the right of the road, and more of that was used for geometric groves, laid out with a painful precision. I saw some spray trucks working in the groves, tall booms hissing white into the trees, agitating the leaves and the young fruit.
The Dreadful Lemon Sky Page 18