by Unknown
"There's a wedding present for you, you bastard," Hoke said softly. Then, feeling a little sheepish but happier, he returned to his house and put the ice pick back into the drawer. Hoke undressed and finished his beer while sitting on the edge of his army cot. His muscles were sore, his cracked ribs ached, and his head buzzed from the beers. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
CHAPTER 17
Molly's Coffee Shop didn't have much of a breakfast crowd, Hoke thought, but when he examined the menu, he could see why. There was no pass-through coffee bar, and this was an anomaly for Little Havana. Most of the Cuban restaurants on Eighth Street served a -desayuno especial---two fried eggs, ham or bacon, long slices of margarined Cuban toast, and -cafe con leche---for $1.49. Molly's breakfast was standard American--two eggs (your way), bacon, ham, or sausage, with grits or home fried potatoes and white bread toast for $2.79. Coffee, at fifty cents, was extra, and there were no free refills. Molly probably made her money, if she made her nut at all, he thought, with the white-collar lunch crowd, workers from the office buildings over on Brickell Avenue. There were several salads on the lunch menu and a few light lunch items that would appeal to legal secretaries.
Hoke got a table by the window and ordered coffee. He was early, and he had brought the sports section from the -Miami Herald- along to read while he waited for the new chief. He read a long interview with Vinny Testaverde, the Miami Hurricanes' hotshot quarterback, and then folded the paper and tossed it onto the empty table behind him. In another five years, Testaverde would be a multimillionaire, Hoke thought, and he'd be trying to make ends meet on a pension of $734 a month, unless, of course, he stayed on the force and tried for thirty years. He shuddered at the prospect.
Hoke signaled the waiter, a sullen-faced Iranian, and asked for another cup of coffee. The new chief came in and joined Hoke at the window table at eight-fifteen. Hoke had talked to the new chief only a couple of times, but then the man had had his job for only three months and hadn't settled in. Hoke hadn't made up his mind about him yet. The old new chief had always worn his uniform, one he had designed himself, complete with four stars on each collar and four more on each epaulet. His cap bill was loaded with gold scrambled eggs. He had been a reserve major in the U.S. Marines, and by giving himself four stars to wear, he had achieved his lifetime ambition to become a general. And like most generals in the army and marines, he had delegated everything, including some important decisions he should have made himself. When a few scandals broke, he didn't know whom to blame, so he had been fired.
The new chief never wore a uniform and probably didn't have one. He wore tailored tropical suits, complete with vests--even when the temperature soared into the nineties. And when he left the station in his Lincoln town car, he wore a white Panama hat with a one-inch black silk hatband. He had had a few years' experience as a police chief in Lawrence, Kansas, but he had spent most of his adult life in college classrooms, lecturing students on sociology and juvenile delinquency. He was purportedly an authority on juvenile delinquency and had written two books on the subject that were used as texts in a dozen colleges. At least he wrote clearly, compared with the old new chief's memos and written directives. The ex-marine new chief had been semiliterate, and Bill Henderson used to circle all his sentence fragments and misspelled words with a red grease pencil before posting his memos on the bulletin board.
The new chief placed his Panama carefully on an empty chair, smiled at Hoke, and said: "It's nice of you to join me here, Sergeant Moseley, and I appreciate it." The new chief was in his early forties, and the pale skin beneath his blue eyes was puffy. His black hair was quite full, with a widow's peak, and two locks were curled on each side of his forehead like commas. Either his wife cut his hair, Hoke thought, or he paid at least thirty bucks for his haircuts.
"I didn't have a hell of a lot of choice."
"Did you order yet?"
"No, sir, I was waiting for you."
"I'm sorry I held you up, but I had a phone call just as I was leaving my apartment. My sister-in-law owns this place, and I hope she can make a go of it. She and my brother were divorced three years ago, and if she can make a decent living here, he'll be able to ease up on some of his alimony payments."
"I know what you mean, Chief, but it doesn't work out that way. My ex-wife married a ballplayer who makes three hundred and twenty-five thousand a year, and I still have to pay alimony. It was in the settlement, you see, when we got our no-fault, and I was dumb enough at the time to sign it."
"Perhaps if you petitioned the judge?"
Hoke shrugged. "I could do that, I suppose. The kids live with me now, as you probably know, and they didn't when we got our divorce. What I do now is send her a check when I have some money left over and skip it when I don't. And about two weeks after a skipped check I get a nasty call from her bitchy lawyer."
The Iranian came over and took their order. The new chief ordered two three-minute eggs in a cup, one slice of dry toast, and a small glass of orange juice. Hoke ordered a Belgian waffle with sausage links and told the waiter to have the cook heat the syrup.
"I always try to eat a light breakfast," the new chief explained. "I drink coffee all day long in the office, and Mrs. Sincavage, my secretary, always has a box of Dunkin' Donuts on her desk. About ten or ten-thirty I usually succumb and take one."
"My father does that," Hoke said, smiling. "He loves jelly doughnuts."
"How is your father?"
"He's in fine shape for his age. He plans on living forever, and I think he'll make it, too." Hoke lighted a Kool, and the new chief frowned.
"You're still smoking?"
"Yes, sir. It's an acquired habit."
"Have you tried to quit yet?"
"I'm not ready to quit yet."
"You can do it if you want to badly enough. I smoked two packs a day, and I managed to quit."
"Is that why we met this morning, sir, to discuss my smoking?"
The new chief exposed a row of tiny blackened lower teeth. "I'm sorry. Ex-smokers, like ex-drinkers, have a tendency to preach the good word. No, that isn't why I asked you here. Ahh--here's breakfast."
The waiter placed the plates on the table. Hoke tested the syrup in the small white porcelain pitcher with his forefinger. "It isn't heated. Take it back to the chef and have him warm it up." The waiter shrugged and left with the little pitcher.
The new chief crumbled his slice of toast into his runny eggs and stirred the mess with his spoon. Hoke buttered his waffle, cut it into bite-size pieces, and then cut up his three link sausages. The waiter returned with a steaming little pitcher of syrup.
Hoke dribbled some of the syrup onto his chopped-up waffle and dug into his breakfast. They ate silently. The new chief shot quick glances at Hoke occasionally, but he didn't say anything until he finished eating his eggs and drained the four-ounce juice glass.
"We've got some problems in the department, Moseley, as you are well aware." He took out a round tin of Copenhagen snuff and removed the lid. The lid was of silver, made to fit the regular container of Copenhagen, and an eagle was engraved on it. He put a small pinch of snuff behind his lower lip, replaced the lid, and put the can back into his jacket pocket. "Eight cops are now waiting trial for murder, and three cops are in jail waiting trial on home-invasion charges. It's bad enough to invade a home, terrorize the residents, and rob them, as these men did. On the murders the men killed were all drug dealers, so there's no loss there, but they weren't killed in a legitimate raid--they were killed during a drug rip-off. At least three of these cops'll be exonerated, but it looks bad for the department when you have that many cops being tried for murder. And when it looks bad for the department, it makes me look bad."
"It not only looks bad, it is bad, Chief, but it's the money. When a patrolman's only making twenty thousand a year or so and can make ten in only two hours on a drug deal, it's hard for him to turn down. Especially if he's married and has a family."
"Would
you risk your career and take a chance on going to prison for ten thousand bucks?"
"Not a chance, Chief. But my background's different from these younger cops. Besides, my father's rich and in his late seventies. When he dies, I'll get a good chunk of cash, even though his new wife'll get most of it. In addition to that, I have only five years to go for retirement."
"I know this, Moseley. Major Brownley and I have gone over your jacket and records, and we know more about you than you do because you've forgotten a lot of it. Major Brownley recommended you for promotion, and I concurred. In two more days, Wednesday at ten, I'll swear you in as a lieutenant in your new office."
"Can't I think this over, Chief? I like working on the cold cases, and so far I've been doing a fair job. I know I took the exam and all, but that's because I didn't think I'd get promoted."
"No, you don't have a choice. You're going to head Internal Affairs. What you'll have to do, and you'll report directly to me, is get rid of our bad cops before they've had a chance to become bad cops. I want you to begin with the new graduating class at the academy. Check their jackets, interview each man personally, and if you have any doubts about any one of them, check his name off the graduation list. They've all been tested for drug use and had a battery of psychological tests, but that isn't good enough. If you don't want a man to graduate, you don't have to give a reason. Just scratch his name off the list. There are also some pending suspensions to investigate, but you'll know how to handle these without any trouble. Later on, maybe by next Friday, we'll get together in my office and discuss further probes. I'll have Mrs. Sincavage call you and set up a time."
"This is a big responsibility, Chief. What about Lieutenant Norbert? I don't respect him, and I don't think I can work with an asshole like him."
"You're Norbert's replacement. He's retiring. He's got twenty-four years in, and I persuaded him to put in his papers. He retires Wednesday, and you'll take over the office. There'll be a little ceremony for both of you in the office when he retires and you're sworn in. The press'll be there because I want the change to be known by everyone as soon as possible."
"I'd still like some time to think this over, Chief."
"There's nothing to think over. The decision's been made, Lieutenant. Incidently, Moseley, Sheriff Boggis, over in Collier County, was mighty grateful about the way you took care of the little problem he had. And that's good for us, too, to have a friend of the department over in Collier County. Don't look so surprised. I had Brownley set this up to see how well you could work on a secret assignment, and you came through beautifully, just as Brownley told me you would."
The new chief got to his feet and waved to the waiter. "Put these breakfasts on my tab, son," he said when the waiter came over, "and add a fifteen percent tip for yourself. And be sure to tell Molly, when she comes in this morning, that I was here for breakfast."
The waiter nodded, picked up two empty plates, and turned away.
Hoke started to rise, but the new chief put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Stay and finish your coffee, Lieutenant. Take some time off, and I'll see you Wednesday morning at ten. Till then clear out your desk, do some shopping. Buy a new suit perhaps."
The new chief left abruptly, departing through the front door without looking back.
Hoke sat still for a moment, benumbed, and then leaped up from the table. He stumbled slightly as he rushed through the empty tables to the men's room at the end of the short hallway. When he started to remove his teeth in the men's room, he noticed he was still clutching his coffee cup. He put the cup into the sink, removed his teeth, and then vomited into the toilet bowl. It all came up: sausage, waffle, warm syrup, coffee. Hoke flushed the toilet. He washed his face at the sink, let the cold water flow over his wrists, and then put his teeth back in.
Major Brownley and the new chief, with an assist from Mel Peoples, had set him up. Hoke had suspected something that morning at Monroe Station, when he had asked the major if this was a test of some kind, but he hadn't suspected anything so deviously Byzantine. The new chief had come up with this weird plan to make sure that he would have something on him; it was a way to ensure that Hoke would be his man. But it wasn't blackmail; it was a stalemate, a Mexican standoff. There was no way that the new chief could use this knowledge without implicating himself, Brownley, and Mel Peoples. If Hoke didn't like it, he could resign from the department, and they wouldn't do anything to prevent that. But if he did resign, he would lose everything--his occupation and his pension. A man is defined by his job, by his work, and if he weren't a detective, he would be nothing. Nothing.
Hoke rinsed his cup at the sink, returned to his table, and ordered fresh coffee. He was calmer now and could think a little more clearly. Deep down he had wanted to be promoted to lieutenant, but it had seemed so far away in the future he hadn't let himself think about it. Looking for dirty cops was a rotten job, and even the straight cops-- the majority of the department--resented the men in IA. But a good man was needed for the job, and he knew that he could handle it. Norbert, ever since he got his twenty years in, had been coasting, and there was a lot of work to be done to clean up the department. Now that he thought it over, he realized that the new chief, with Brownley's recommendation, had picked the best man for the appointment. Not only did he know where a lot of bodies were buried, but he now had the shovel to dig them up. He had no intention of confining himself to investigating cadets.
He was feeling better about his new promotion and appointment already. But first things first. He'd order a new tailored uniform, and buy two new black suits like the ones Captain Slater usually wore, black silk, with a little shine to the material. The new chief had wanted his own man in the office, but he would learn, in time, that Hoke Moseley was nobody's man but his own.
Hoke finished his coffee, dropped a crumpled dollar bill on the table, drove home, and phoned his father in Riviera Beach to tell him about his promotion to lieutenant.
CHAPTER 18
Three weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, Hoke was fixing sandwiches in the dining room. He had a plate of assorted cold cuts, a loaf of rye bread, and some freshly picked beefsteak tomatoes he had purchased that afternoon from a stand on Krome Avenue. Aileen sat across the table from him, watching, and Sue Ellen was making potato salad in the kitchen.
Evening meals were rather casual now that Ellita had gone away. They rarely ate together in the evenings, except on Sunday, although Hoke had taken the girls out to dinner at Burger King a few times.
The Huttons, Donald, Ellita and Pepe, lived in a new two-bedroom condominium apartment Hutton had bought in Hallandale. Hutton wanted to be near the track, he told Ellita, but Hoke knew that Hutton hadn't liked the girls coming across the street all the time to see Ellita and the baby. Hutton had also sold his Henry J by putting a classified ad in both daily papers. Before they had moved out of the house across the street, a man had come by for it with a tow truck. Ellita still had her little Honda Civic, but Hutton had bought a new Mercury Lynx station wagon to haul the baby's stuff around with them when they went out together.
Except for wishing Ellita good luck, when she returned from Nassau with a gold band on her ring finger, Hoke hadn't spoken to her again. When Hutton came over for her furniture and other belongings, Hoke had gone to Larry's Hideaway and stayed there until everything was moved.
"What do you want on your sandwich? Mustard or mayonnaise?"
"Mayonnaise," Aileen said.
Sue Ellen came in from the kitchen with a bowl of potato salad and placed it on the table. "Help yourself to potato salad. I still have to sugar the tea."
"D'you want mustard or mayonnaise on your sandwich?"
"Both." Sue Ellen returned to the kitchen.
"Daddy," Aileen said, "don't you ever miss Ellita?"
Hoke shook his head. "Did you ever watch Ellita eat a Cuban sandwich? First, she'd nibble the bread all the way around, and then she'd take off the top slice. She'd eat all the ham with her fingers, and th
en she'd put the top slice back on the cheese and pork. After the ham was gone, she no longer had a Cuban sandwich, for Christ's sake, she had a pork and cheese sandwich. If she wanted a pork and cheese sandwich, why didn't she order one in the first place instead of asking for a Cuban sandwich? Hell, why would I miss a woman who ate a sandwich like that?"
Suddenly, Aileen began to cry. Tears, unchecked, streamed down her cheeks.
"What's the matter? Why are you crying?"
"Be-because," she said, finally, still sobbing, "because you can't!"
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLES WILLEFORD has been a professional soldier, boxer, radio announcer, and painter. A former Californian, he lives in South Miami, where he reviews suspense and mystery novels for the -Miami Herald-. His novels include -The Burnt Orange Heresy-, -Cock fighter-, -Miami Blues-, -New Hope for the Dead-, and -Sideswipe-.
The End