by Tom Corcoran
I was walking on ice. Time to dance. I shuffled sideways, popped the door, reached down. I found the key wedged in the seat track. I held tight, released the seat-adjustment lever with my other hand. The key slipped free. I popped the trunk. One more stroke of luck: I had offered, then forgotten, to replace Teresa’s burned-out trunk lightbulb. I reached under the old carpet she kept so things wouldn’t slide around in there. The tire iron, fresh as new. The store’s bar-code sticker still on the arm I grabbed. Now . . . close the lid without alarming the man. No way. Too much noise. Leave it open.
Suddenly the shed’s door swung open. A man’s voice: “Yo, Douglas?”
We weren’t twelve feet apart. I smelled the man’s cigarette, or secondhand stink from his clothing. He didn’t see me. He left the door ajar, went back outside. I watched his shadow in the moonlight. He was looking for the padlock. I crouched, hustled toward the wall, froze again. The door swung shut on its own. I slid along the wall to get close to the door. If he came back in, walked in far enough, I could bolt through the door. I could lock him in, make a run for it. No, I thought, that won’t work. If I locked him in, he could climb into the pickup and lean on the horn. They’d be all over my ass. Then I thought, he could be rounding up the troops right now. Even if he came back in alone, I was in trouble.
The door opened slowly. A strong flashlight beam jumped wall to wall. The hand that held the light was attached to an arm as big around as my calf.
He aimed the light at the open trunk lid. He whispered, “What the fuck?”
I slid behind him, poked my blade in his ear. I pushed him forward. The door swung shut behind me. “Say one peep, fuckhead, I’ll stick it through your voice box. You’ll drink your own blood.”
Sam was listening. He said in my ear, “Hang tough. Remember the code word.”
The man stopped, stiffened. He was my height, but outweighed me. His wrist swiveled, the flashlight came back at my forehead. I dodged it, poked with the knife, slapped the light with my left hand. It clattered into the pickup truck bed, remained lighted.
“Don’t do what you’re thinking,” I whispered. “You kick me in the balls, you’ll never talk again. If you live.”
He tried, anyway. He snapped his right calf upward. His ankle cracked into the tire iron. “Shit,” he said. The iron fell on my foot At that point, pain was better than noise. The knife had remained in his ear. I’d felt it puncture skin.
I reached into my pocket with my other hand, grabbed the Master lock, fitted one finger through the loop, a solo-brass knuckle. I rapped the man upside the head. “No shit, no talk,” I said. “Walk to the open trunk.”
He smelled like a boiled-down vat of greasy chicken soup.
I edged him forward, felt power in his back and shoulder. I kept myself alert. He could spin away in an instant, grab me, pluck the knife, toss me out the door, fillet me like a sea bass in the pea rock.
“Get in,” I said.
“Bullshit”
I pressed the knife into his upper ear, felt it break skin again. He jumped. The knife stayed with him. I pushed on his shoulder. “I’ll slash your face, fucker. Or that fat blood vessel in your neck.”
He began to roll in, muttered, “Shit”
I rapped his ankle with the lock. “You kick, and I’ll make that bone popcorn.”
He was in. I pushed down the lid. He fought back. I was in no mood for a shoving contest I jumped up, sat on the damned lid. His resistance quit. The latch snapped shut.
I turned to make sure no one else had joined us. Stood in place for a few seconds to make sure no one had heard the commotion. I said to Sam: “One down, two to go. I’m fine for now.”
He responded: “Two neck arteries, called carotids. Also, jugular veins.”
“That’s good info. Thanks.”
I went to the pickup and flipped off the man’s eighteen-inch flashlight. I still needed pictures. I turned on my small flashlight, hurried around the oblong rooms, grabbed shots as quickly as the flash would recycle. The mopeds, the boat, the vehicles. The man in Teresa’s trunk began to kick and shout. I thumped the lid, told him I’d open up and come in slashing. He shut up. I hoped he didn’t make a personal mess in there.
The flash batteries went south. I took the large flashlight, flicked it off, pushed open the metal door. No one out there. I eased the door shut, fixed the padlock onto the hasp, snapped it. Listened again for observers, then retraced my steps to the dock. I couldn’t see squat on the path. I knew Sam couldn’t see me until I reached the waterline. I suddenly formed an image of Thorsby’s knife-throwing ace just missing me two days earlier.
My feet hit the beach gravel. “Got me?” I crouched by the property edge, sealed the camera in the Ziploc bag.
“Yes. And no one else. Come back the way you came. The long way. You walk straight from there, you’ll hit a dredged slot, be over your head.”
“I’ve been over my head for twelve minutes.”
Four minutes later I was in Sam’s skiff. He tilted his engine halfway down, started it, noise be damned. He let the partially submerged prop counter the tide. I used the flashlight I’d swiped to search for channel markers. After I found the first marker, Sam hit the tilt button, then the throttle. Neither of us looked back.
Twenty minutes later Sam pulled back the gas lever. We were south of the Saddlebunch Keys, near West Washerwoman Shoal.
“My man,” he said, “you need to learn the true essence of yachting.”
He switched off the ignition, reached into a small plastic carrying case, pulled out two iced bottles of beer. We sat on opposite gunwales, rocked on the waves, soaked up the quiet night sea air. Sam had risked his boat. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t in the mood for celebratory beer. I wanted to put my photos to good use. I wanted to put a stop to Thorsby and learn his connection to the murders.
“Find what you needed?” said Sam.
“What I thought I’d find, except more of it Teresa’s car. Heidi’s Jaguar. Like Jemison had a small operation that suddenly got bigger.”
“Why now?”
“I’ve been trying to shape that thought You got recent thefts that tie into a pattern of murders and attacks. And an odd business link between Butler Dunwoody and Mercer Holloway . . . The link is like an umbrella over all of it”
“Wasn’t that in the back of your mind?” said Sam.
“It was there.”
“Which is why we’re right here, right now.”
I mumbled, “Yep.”
“Tone of voice check,” said Sam.
“All day long, every time I heard his name . . . I still can’t believe Mercer’s dead. I mean, what a bundle of conflicts. He loved Key West warts and all. But when I met with him Monday morning, he got incensed because a funky old Ford van parked in front of his beautiful house. Said it parked there all the time. Hated it Like old cars shouldn’t be part of paradise.”
Sam stood, finished his beer, and restarted the motor. “The red van with the Vietnam stickers?”
“That’s the one.”
“Good man. The scars up and down his legs look like zippers. He walks funny because his ankles don’t work. He’s never been able to let it go.”
“Speaking of ankles,” I said. ‘I was thinking this morning about our trip to Bimini in ‘89. This is dumb, but I don’t think I ever asked. How did you break yours?’
“I slipped.”
“That’s it?”
“The bottom rung of the cabin ladder,” said Sam. “I slipped.”
“Now I know.”
“Let’s get ashore,” he said. “I’m reading you like a book. You’re so damn anxious to get that film in the soup, I’m surprised you’re not swimming.”
30
Compare a full-tilt night ride on a fishing skiff to jumping on a trampoline for eight hours. The fifty-minute ride to Key West had worked muscles in my belly and back that I’d been ignoring. Wheeler’s fishing trips had conditioned him. He couldn’t beli
eve that I felt discomfort.
I called Duffy Lee Hall from a coin phone on the dock. Five rings, then a machine. At the beep I begged Duffy Lee to pick up.
Sleep in his voice: “Why, why, why?”
“You name it, I’ll pay,” I said. “One roll, right away, to help stop a killer.”
“You are too much, Rutledge.” A pause for effect “Bring it on by.”
Duffy Lee answered his door in bathing trunks.
I gave him the film. “Two sets of prints?”
“How about ten? Make it worth my while.” He looked over my shoulder, winced at the sight of Sam’s funky Bronco. “It’ll take some time to set this up. Don’t come back before seven.”
I asked Sam to drop me at Sunbeam Market. I needed a six-pack of sedation, with rum back. I could barely get out of the Bronco.
Sam said, ‘Teresa’s car, does it have a remote trunk release?”
“It doesn’t work,” I said. “Shit I left the key in the trunk lock.”
Sam thought a moment, then shrugged it off. “Let’s hope Jemison’s team goes to jail before they come find us.”
“A stupid mistake. Tell Marnie I’ll have prints before she goes to work.”
A typical midnight Sunbeam. A wary clerk and one other customer. A big guy with bloodshot eyes carried an armload of munchies like a day-old baby. I bought the beer and walked toward the lane. On the dock I’d felt peace of mind, mission accomplished. But Sam was right The presence of Heidi’s and Teresa’s cars defined the teams in conflict. Leaving the key in Teresa’s trunk lock was an invitation for revenge.
The vaporous glow of Fleming Street’s crime lights cast green tint into Dredgers Lane. Three steps brighter, it could melt paint off the house. Pale green pavement, humid green haze. Everything fuzzy and hard to see. Nick’s Dodge Ram truck sat next to Carmen’s house. She’d be dancing in the morning, hot-stepping the Bone Island Mambo, or recovering from it
I grabbed the porch door handle, suffered brain fade. No chance a mail delivery had arrived during the past three hours. But I leaned to check my mailbox. I heard a sharp whack above me. I thought a door hinge had seized. I looked up, saw the knife in the door frame. I dropped the six-pack, ducked low, rolled from the stoop. A second blade bounced off the framing, ripped through the screen door, hit something on the porch. I kept rolling, trying to scoot through the croton hedge. I couldn’t find space wide enough. The first blade had been like the one that just missed me Tuesday at Thorsby’s dock.
I was stuck prone against the hedge, a large target in plain view. I waited for incoming, tucked my elbows inward to protect vital organs. My hip ached from rolling on the belly-pack and camera. I heard a thump, a loud “Uhhh” from across the lane. Glass rattled on the pavement
Hector’s voice huffed: “Coño, these bums.”
I didn’t move. I waited for another blade to hiss.
Hector said, “Alex, boy. You in the dirt”
“You okay, Hector?”
“I hate bums, Alex. Get off the burrs. Come see this bum sleep.”
Hector held a bottle neck, jagged and lethal. “I bust that brandy,” he said. “You can pay me back.”
I nodded agreement. I’d just busted a six-pack of beer. But our watchman had scored a slam dunk. The man on his back was Jemison Thorsby’s blade ace. Dressed like a New England fisherman—long pants, knit cap, waterproof boots. A pool of blood under his neck. I didn’t want Hector in trouble if the knife man died. We needed to call 911.
I’d been warned on Sunday about a man who kept an ice pick in his boot I checked the zonker for weapons. A dagger strapped to each ankle. I could start a collection. I pulled them, tossed them into my yard.
“Too damn many bums in the lane, Alex,” said Hector. “I run a bum off your garbage this week. Trash-pickin’ bum.”
“Picking my garbage?”
Hector grunted, which meant yes. “Ran his short, fat, shitty boongie down the lane. I tell that fuck’emup not to come here. He’s a dumb bum.”
My paint-stained camera strap had been swiped from the garbage. The strap found around Bug Thorsby’s neck in die Maxima’s trunk. Hector’s description of short and fat could mean that Robbie Carpona, my original attacker, had killed Bug.
I left Hector to guard the swamp rat. I went inside to call 911, heard the electric air cleaner’s white noise. I flipped on a light. Teresa stood at the bedroom door with her pistol aimed at my chest. She’d been asleep, still fully dressed, and had heard the six-pack hit the porch steps.
She lowered the gun. “Did you get caught?”
“Somebody chucked a knife at me. Hector Ayusa saved my life for the second time in six months.”
Her sleepy face looked bewildered, a mix of worry and frustration. “Why does it need saving so often?”
Good question. Best answered in daylight.
My first call went to Carmen. “You need to be out in the lane,” I told her. “Run interference for your father. He just got me out of a jam. There’ll have to be some explaining.”
“To my mother or the police?”
“The police.”
“At least there’s that” She hung up.
I pulled out my wallet, found the card that Bobbi Lewis had given me. She answered on the first ring: “Yes?”
I said, “Rutledge. Sorry to bother you—”
“Happens all the time.”
“I got a situation here, on Dredgers Lane. Some asshole threw a knife at me, in my yard. My neighbor clocked him, then told me about a trash picker he’d chased away a couple days ago. It might explain how someone got the camera strap that went around Bug Thorsby’s neck.”
She said, “City on the way?”
“I called you first”
“Call the city. They’ll go aggravated assault. If they upgrade to attempted murder, Liska may take it away. Did you walk outside, or were you coming from somewhere?”
“Just getting home from Summerland. I took pictures of stolen cars.”
Bobbi Lewis said, “Oh, my.”
“This is my guess. The cars are tied to the murders.”
“I want picture copies.”
“You were first on my list My processing man already has the film. I’ll have prints by breakfast”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I dialed 911. A blue light flashed in the lane. The city was on scene. One of the neighbors had heard the breaking glass. I recradled the phone.
Teresa ruffled her sleep-mussed hair, walked to a front window. I went to her, put my arms around her. “The people Sam and I creeped on Summerland Key must have figured us out”
“How would they do that?”
I explained about finding her car wedged in among the others.
“Not to diminish the idea that someone tried to kill you, but was my car in okay shape?”
Except for the guy in the trunk? Dodge the truth: “It looked fine, what I saw with a penlight.”
“Thank you for finding it.”
“We’ll get it back,” I said. “Go to bed. There won’t be any reporters.”
“To celebrate the fact you’re alive, I’ll take your word.” She gave me a quick half-asleep hug to answer mine, then returned to the window.
“Can I ask two favors?” I said. “Please call Sam and tell him what just happened. And that gun he gave you? Keep it close.”
“You had a message from Julie Kaiser. It’s still on the machine.”
“I’ll check it when all this gets settled down.”
Teresa walked to the bedroom, unbuttoned her blouse. “Hurry to bed.”
Carmen saw me come off my porch. She ambled my way and whispered, “Play dumb. It shouldn’t be hard.”
“Love you, too,” I said.
The punk from Thorsby’s stable sat sideways in the backseat of the prowl car. The scowling face of Juvenile Evil, in handcuffs. No danger of his passing away.
Carmen had spun the magic perfected by many bilingual Conch women. Two cops were ut
terly confused. One was convinced that Hector spoke no English. The other—a Latin-looking youth with brand-new biceps—knew that he’d better keep his mouth shut. Through Carmen’s translation, the officer in charge understood that Hector had walked to his porch for his nightly cigar, had spotted a prowler throwing knives at my house. He’d challenged the man, had been jumped, and had won the battle.
The officers asked Carmen if they could take Hector somewhere to write out his statement, in Spanish.
Carmen said, “He can’t go downtown. His blood pressure, he may die in the office. And my mama will have to sue the city. They always fire arresting officers when the city gets sued. It shifts the blame. But it hangs you out to dry. We should go inside and take a pressure reading right now.”
“We can get his statement in there,” said the cop.
“No statement is worth waking my mother,” said Carmen. She offered to write out his statement in the morning and deliver it to the police station. After I agreed to press charges, the officer in charge agreed.
A minute later the city cops were gone. I waited while Carmen ushered Hector to his front door, then walked her home. She passed the dark green Dodge truck, patted its fender. “I may have been wrong about this boy. He’s not like the others,” she said. “He gets better as time goes by.”
“You’re telling this to a man who loves you. What’s that awful noise?”
Carmen paused at her door. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s as useless as trying to win someone’s heart with sarcasm. There’s no way to steal wind chimes without making them chime louder.”
Teresa was wide awake when I came inside. “Sam wants you to call,” she said. “Don’t worry about waking him.”
We both heard two short, sharp hissing sounds, then two light taps on the screen door. Teresa pulled the pistol from under the sheet. I raised my hand to calm her. I knew the hiss signal. I didn’t want Sam dusted with his own gun.
He still wore his black clothing. He carried a Heineken and the duffel he’d had on Fancy Fool. “Looks like we declared war.”
“I was right about the trunk key drawing the idiots. But it’s over. Hector gets an award.”
“But I know Jemison Thorsby. He knows it was you, and he probably knows it was me. He knows you’ve taken pictures. He’s not going to wait around for the sheriff to raid him. He takes revenge, or he takes the road to Miami.”