Forever’s Just Pretend: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 2)

by Craig McDonald

  The clerk said, “I’m sorry, lady, but the boy has to have a ticket. A paid-for ticket. Now pony up or push on. I’ve got other customers to tend.”

  “But I don’t have any more money, sir,” the woman said. “I used the last of our money—’cept what we’ll need for a meal on the boat. I spent it on this ticket for me.”

  “The rules are the rules,” the clerk said. “I don’t have time for no more poor-mouthing. Step aside with you now. Go ahead on. Other customers are waiting, like I told you.”

  The old man in line behind the woman smiled and shrugged. He said, “I’m just fine. See to the lady’s needs, please.” The woman looked at the elderly man in line behind her. The old man was tall and courtly. His thick white hair was brushed back from a high forehead and just reached the collar of his shirt. He had the palest blue eyes and a thick, white moustache. His skin was deeply tanned.

  The clerk said, “Ease off, Pops. This is not your concern.” The clerk turned on the woman again, wagged a finger. “Look, step aside, lady, or I’ll call a cop on you. I ain’t kiddin’.”

  “I just want a refund then,” the woman said impulsively. “I can’t use this ticket if my boy can’t come along. Just give me my money back. Please, we’re in a terrible hurry.”

  “Just give the ticket to him, then,” the clerk said, nodding at the boy with the black eye.

  “He’s just a child,” the woman said. “He can’t go alone! Please, mister, if you knew what we’re running from, you—”

  “Not my damn problem.” The clerk pointed over his shoulder at a sign: NO REFUNDS. He said again, “I will call the law on you, Ma’am, you don’t step aside. I mean now, sister.”

  The woman looked panic-stricken. The boy was on the verge of tears. The old man took the woman’s arm, leaning in close. “How much do you need, sweetheart?”

  “Ten dollars,” the woman said. “But I couldn’t accept your—”

  “I’m not offering my own money,” the old man said softly, smiling. “You just step behind me, sweetheart. You keep hold of your ticket, and bide your time. But you listen real close to this to come. You’ll learn something doing that to help you down the road if you need more money and fast. Strikes me you might at that in the uncertain days ahead.”

  The woman, still flustered, stepped behind the old man.

  The clerk smiled an oily smile. “And you, sir? What do you need?”

  “Passage for one.”

  The ticket salesman said, “Where bound?”

  “Where that very ship is headed, to Miami,” the old man said.

  The clerk nodded, still a bit surly from the woman before. He said, “Ten dollars, sir.”

  The old man smiled, forked over a twenty-dollar bill. The clerk took it; handed across a ticket and a ten-dollar bill in change. The old man moved to leave, then snapped his fingers and pointed behind the sales desk. “You know, I could use some change.” The old man placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter. “Can you break this for me?”

  The clerk nodded, then counted out three fives and five ones.

  The old man scooped them up, then slapped the counter and said, “Hell, don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t want a bigger roll then I’m toting, and you can probably use the singletons for change more than me. I’ll give you these ones back for a ten.” He dropped a stack of ones on the counter.

  The clerk shrugged and slid across a ten-dollar bill at the old man who scooped it up.

  The clerk picked up the stack of ones and started counting. “Sir, there are only nine one dollar bills here.”

  The old man frowned. “Oh, must have miscounted.” He put down another dollar bill and said, “Here’s one more dollar for ten. So we don’t get confused, you’ve got ten there on the counter. Here’s another two fives. How about you just give me my original twenty back and we’ll call it even?”

  The clerk smiled. “Sure.” He passed the old man a twenty dollar bill.

  The old man accepted the twenty. Behind his back, the old man held a ten-dollar bill between his fingers, waving it at the woman behind him. He felt the bill tugged from his fingers. Heard a whispered, “God bless you, sir.”

  The old man smiled at the clerk, struck a match on the counter and lit a cigar. He blew a smoke ring at the man and said, “Pleasure doin’ business with you, old pal.”

  The old man waited just long enough to confirm the woman’s ticket purchase for her child was consummated.

  When the transaction was closed, the old man smiled and stepped out onto the dock and into the ragged line to board the ship. He figured he’d be safely in dock on the other side before the clerk realized the shortage in his bill tray.

  13

  The Cuban woman said, “Not that I don’t want the sale, sir, but this coffee is awfully strong. And you’ve already had three cups.”

  Hector smiled. “What are you saying? You telling me you have to train to drink this excellent java of yours?” He waved a hand and grinned. “Hell, I live on this stuff, hon.” That was true enough. For Hector, black coffee was like fuel.

  The older woman, black-eyed, black-haired, smiled and said, “You’ll be days awake, gringo. Trust me, you have to work up to this.”

  “Day is young and we’ll all sleep plenty when we’re dead, honey,” Hector said, holding up his mug for a refill. “More of that Joe, please. Pour in a little milk if it’ll salve your conscience about my tender gringo innards.”

  The woman nodded and handed Hector a small loaf of bread. “Here, hombre, on the house. Chew on a little and preserve what’s left of your stomach lining.”

  “You’re a jewel, señorita,” Hector said, tearing off a piece of the soft hot Cuban bread.

  His hostess, more a señora likely, smiled and made loco circular finger motions at her own head. Hector smiled, reopened his notebook and uncapped his pen to resume work on his novel.

  ***

  An hour later, a man came in. He pulled the Cuban woman aside, whispering urgently. Hector watched them, capping his pen. He closed his notebook as the woman began to sob.

  The man was leaving. Narrowing his eyes, Hector grabbed the man’s arm as he passed by. “Hey, brother. What’s the trouble, pal?”

  “Very bad news,” the man said, taking Hector’s hand from his arm. “Her friend died last night.”

  “Unexpected?”

  “Should say so. Her business burned down. Terrible, no?”

  Hector sighed. “Christ, yes. What was her friend’s trade?”

  “She ran a restaurant. They say the grease fryer sparked it. Set the floor on fire. Burned down the whole place. Rose didn’t get out. Goddamn it.” The man crossed himself.

  Hector shook his head. “Rose’s place? That shanty restaurant over at Mallory Dock?”

  “That’s right. You knew Rose?”

  Hector slammed a fist down on the table, making his empty coffee mug jump. “Just.”

  ***

  Brinke was at her writing table, pecking away at the keys. She saw Hector and smiled. He held up his hands. “Sorry, darling,” he said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Brinke stretched and stood. “No apologies. I’m not composing. Just transcribing.”

  “Feeling any better, sweetheart?”

  “Much. Think the worst is maybe past.” Hector hugged Brinke to him and kissed her forehead through careless black bangs.

  She said, “What’s wrong? What’s happened? You look shaken.”

  So much for his poker face, Hector figured. “I’ve got some bad news, Brinke. Terrible news, I fear, darlin’.”

  Brinke tipped her head up. “Oh God, what’s the matter?”

  “Rose is dead, honey. I’m so sorry. It looks like murder.”

  Brinke was stricken. She fell back into her chair. “Dear God! How?”

  “Some one burned down her place. They say Rose died in the fire.”

  Brinke hung her head. “Goddamn it! You’re sure, Hector?”

  “I went
down and poked around the scene myself. There’s nothing left, darlin’. Fire burned a hole right through the deck. And it’s in the newspapers. About Rose’s death, I mean. No doubts.”

  Brinke rose and squeezed him tightly to her. “Oh, damn it, Hec. My God!”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. She beat on his back with her fist. After a time, Brinke looked up at Hector with angry black eyes. “No more soul-searching, then. No more fence-sitting from you. We need to find out who’s doing this. We need to stop it. We’re the only ones who can around here.”

  Hector’s fingers combed through her black hair. “Yeah, figure that’s sorrily so. Time we did all that.”

  Brinke said, “Those papers you read say when they’re going to bury Rose?”

  “Thursday at ten in the morning at the Key West Cemetery,” Hector said.

  “I’ve walked that cemetery,” Brinke said. “The graves are above ground, like in New Orleans. You know, because of the water table here. Lizards sun themselves on the head stones. That bothers me, somehow. I would hate to be buried there.”

  Hector nodded, biting his lip. “So noted.” This funny chill. “Don’t plant me there, either, hear?” He got out a cigarette.

  Brinke said, “Butt me, too, would you?” Hector shook loose a second cigarette for Brinke. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I’ve nearly given up the habit. But this one time?”

  “I’ve been cutting back, too,” Hector said. “’Specially with this tropical climate. Somehow this place doesn’t encourage smoking in me. Well, maybe cigars would feel right. Cubans, of course.”

  “Not in this house,” Brinke said. “I hate the smell of those things. Well, Hec, we should get down to cases, and I mean this very minute. We need to start asking some of the right questions. We need to try and get a handle on this bloody mess. I’m just so sorry we’re starting too late to save Rose.”

  14

  The reporter used his napkin to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The woman sipped her sweating mojito and stroked her black hair behind her ears. He couldn’t believe his luck to be sitting here with the very woman he’d been lusting after Christmas night.

  The reporter said, “So, Miss Tessa Templeton, what about the rings there on your hand?”

  “Those are my mother’s rings,” Brinke lied. She waved her left hand, considering her left ring finger. “Call the bangles discouragers. They leave a lady the option of choice.”

  The reporter grinned. He had very crooked teeth. “A façade then?”

  “More of a tactic,” Brinke said. “Come-ons by boors don’t send me.” Brinke had borrowed one of Hector’s T-shirts, a v-neck that was too big for her and whose plunging neckline exposed the tops of her breasts. She leaned across the tiny table, crossing her arms under her breasts and pushing up her décolletage. “The rings see to it that the also-rans stay never-tries.” She smiled, full on. “Do you know what I mean?”

  The reporter, Mike Rogers, smoothed his thinning hair and smiled, rubbing down his damp palm on his pant’s leg under the table where Brinke couldn’t see. She was the most attractive woman who ever accepted one of Mike’s drink invitations. He had butterflies just looking at her. He was afraid of saying something stupid, something that might send her on her way. “I get it,” he said. “I do. And you probably get a lot of also-rans, looking beautiful as you do. No end of them, I expect. You must get come-ons all the time.” He smiled and winked. “Tell me I’m not right.”

  Brinke shrugged and changed the subject. “Wow, boy, some story you’re onto, huh, Mikey? The Key West Clubber. You come up with that nickname for him yourself? It’s sure some spooky thing.”

  “Sure. I mean, he beats the women to death. It made sense to me as a name.” He smiled, showing those crooked teeth again. “And no denying it sells papers. I’m in this for the money.”

  “Not a crusader, huh?”

  His eyes blazed. So, the man had a quick temper. “No, I’m that, too. But gotta make money to pay for ink and turn the presses. Can’t do much to help folks if I’m in the red, right?”

  “But you must be doing pretty well for yourself,” Brinke said. “That breezer of yours looks brand new. And expensive.”

  The reporter blinked. “Breezer? Come again?”

  “The convertible you drive. You know, your pretty new car.”

  “Oh. Yeah, it is new.” He frowned. “Don’t draw any conclusions from that, okay? I mean, I’m not doing all that well. What my car boasts, my house lacks.”

  Brinke thought, So do your wardrobe and teeth. Quite the lady-killer, this one.

  Mike said, “Really, I’m not rich.”

  Brinke stifled a smirk, figuring Rogers must be getting the impression she might be some flavor of gold-digger. Time for a course correction. She said, “Awful, what he does to these women. The Clubber, I mean.”

  “He’s a monster,” Mike said flatly. “A fiend.”

  “But I don’t get it,” Brinke said. “Fires set here, then women murdered over there. How do you know both are the work of this… monster?”

  “The police,” Mike said. “They say it’s so. They’re the professionals. So it must be true.”

  “And…?”

  “And they are the police, like I said.”

  Yes, not a watchdog journalist, this sorry excuse for a reporter. Brinke bit her lip. “Sometimes police are wrong. Lots of sometimes.”

  Brinke came on sultry, all bedroom eyes and her chin propped on her palm, giving Mike a better look down her T-shirt. “What do you think, Mikey? What are your theories about these crimes? Seasoned reporter like you, you’ve been around. Man of the world that you clearly are, you’ve been some places and seen some things. Must have some theories of your own. Maybe a theory as good as or even better than those of the cops.”

  “Things were quiet here for years,” the reporter said seriously. “We never had stuff like this happen. Then that big fire swept the Key in twenty-three. More fires soon followed. Then the beatings ensued, the rapes and murders. Gotta be the same guy doing this stuff, ’cause it came all at once.”

  Brinke nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense, when you put it that way. ’Scuse me.”

  She dipped her head and grabbed her purse, headed toward the restrooms. Brinke could feel his gaze on her legs, on her hips. She turned around and caught him looking. Mike grinned awkwardly, blushing. Brinke said, “Back in a jiffy, tiger.”

  Brinke turned the corner into the narrow corridor for the restrooms. Mike could no longer see her. She slipped out the back door of the restaurant, running down an alley and then crossing over to a side street and back onto Duval. She slipped on her black sunglasses and tied a scarf around her head to hide her hair, just in case Mike came looking.

  She thought about her chat with the reporter and shook her head.

  Fruitless. A dead-end.

  ***

  Hector was wearing his single warm-weather suit and a black nylon tie. He’d picked up a clipboard at the general store for under a dime.

  Paw-Paw Stryder had lectured him years before, in one of the few lessons of its strange kind that stuck, “Look confident and carry a clipboard and all doors will open to you, sonny. Nobody will ask you why you’re there or what you’re doing. They’ll just try and stay out of your way, hopin’ you’re not there to take their jobs away. A clipboard and attitude are the world’s wickedest and simplest skeleton keys, kiddo.”

  Hector stood scribbling on his clipboard now, frowning and looking annoyed.

  The mortician, who doubled as Monroe County coroner, arched wormy gray eyebrows above thick glasses. “I confess I didn’t get a good look at your credentials, Mister ah—.”

  Hector continued busying himself scratching away at his clipboard, apparently taking furious notes. “Stowe. Ronson Stowe, state regulator.”

  “Regulator?” The old man scowled. “What’s that mean, exactly?” The man wet his lips.

  “I suppose it’s another word for inspector,�
� Hector said. “Sorry, but state regulations are strict, albeit quite new. And that’s why I’m tolerating all your increasingly tedious questions while I’m trying to take notes.” Hector sighed deeply. “Okay. I’ll explain it once more. All mortuaries in the state of Florida are under intense and rapid review for recertification. Everything is very much on the double-hurry. Something the state legislature stipulated after that dreadful mess in Tampa.”

  “Tampa? Dreadful mess?” The mortician mopped at his forehead with a graying handkerchief. “What in the Lord’s name happened in Tampa?”

  Hector sighed again, acting as if he’d just about run up against the limits of his patience. “It was kept from the papers, lest the whole bottom fall out of your industry. The consumer backlash against Florida funeral homes and mortuaries could be, well, profound just doesn’t quite get there in terms of a description. Let’s just say I’m here to assay the disposition of all your current cases. To account for the bodies, don’t you know? See they’re where you claim they are. And also that they haven’t been, how to put this politely? Interfered with. And I must do all this quickly. I have other stops today. Working my way back up to Miami, on the double quick.”

  The mortician, still looking confused, said, “There’s just the two right now. Bodies, I mean. The one badly burned in a fire last night. She’ll be buried day after tomorrow. Then there’s the rape victim who was found in her home.”

  “Rape?” Hector made a face. “I see. How terrible. And that deceased’s name is…?”

  “It’s confidential. We’re keeping it from the papers until next-of-kin can be found.”

  “I’m not the damned press as we both know,” Hector said, all sarcasm and impatience. “Please, I am already sorely pressed for time. Don’t make me go over your sorry head.”