Charles Willeford_Hoke Moseley 03

by Sideswipe

  An hour later, Stanley was in the Palm Beach County Jail.

  3

  Hoke Moseley spent the next three days in the back guest bedroom in his father’s house. Hoke’s father, Frank Moseley, had been upset when Ellita Sanchez arrived at his Singer Island home with his son, even though Bill Henderson had telephoned and explained things before Ellita drove the seventy miles up from Miami. Frank, a spry seventy-five-year-old, had rarely been sick in his life and had never missed a day of work in his hardware store and chandlery in Riviera Beach. He had been a widower for many years after Hoke’s mother had died of cancer, and had then married a wealthy widow in her early forties named Helen Canlas.

  Frank had called his doctor, as Bill Henderson had suggested, a physician he had known for thirty some odd years in West Palm Beach, and Dr. Ray Fairbairn, who had a dwindling practice, had driven over immediately. Dr. Fairbairn, whose breath always smelled like oil of cloves, examined Hoke privately in the guest bedroom. He then told Frank and Ellita that Hoke was all right but needed rest. Lots of rest.

  “I’ve given him a tranquilizer, and I’ve written out a prescription for Equavil,” Dr. Fairbairn said, handing the sup of paper to Frank. “I think he’ll be okay in a few days.”

  “What did he say?” Frank asked.

  “He didn’t say anything.” Dr. Fairbairn shrugged. “He’s in good shape physically, but the fact that he won’t talk to me indicates that he’s probably decided to avoid everyday life for a while.”

  “I don’t understand,” Frank said, running his fingers through his thick white hair. “How in the hell can a man avoid everyday life? Hoke’s a homicide detective in Miami, and every time I’ve talked to him on the phone—about once a month—he tells me how busy he is.”

  Ellita, who had been listening, cleared her throat. “Hoke’s on a thirty-day leave without pay, Dr. Fairbairn. Will that be enough time for him to rest? I mean, if he needs additional time, Commander Henderson can probably get his leave extended.”

  “I haven’t kept up too well with all of these new psychological theories, madame,” Dr. Fairbairn said, addressing Ellita thusly because he had already forgotten her name and could see that she was pregnant. “But Hoke has what they now call ‘burnout.’ I’ve known Hoke since he was a little boy. He’s always been an over-achiever, in my opinion, and these types frequently have attitude problems when they mature. Hoke’s heart is fine, however, and he’s as strong as a mule. So when someone like Hoke turns away from everyday life, as he’s apparently decided to do, it’s nature’s way of telling him to slow down before something physically debilitating does happen to him. And the buzzword, according to pop psychology, is ‘burnout.’ I read an interesting article about it last year in Psychology Today”

  “Then this could be partly my fault,” Ellita said. “I’m his partner, and I started my maternity leave two weeks ago, so I’m not around to help him on the job anymore.”

  “You’re a police officer?” Dr. Fairbairn raised gray eyebrows. “You don’t look like a police officer.”

  “That’s because I’m eight months pregnant. A pregnant woman, even in uniform, doesn’t look like a police officer.”

  “Are you going to stay here with him?”

  “No, I’ve got to get back to Miami. I share a house with Hoke and his two daughters, and I have to look after them. But I won’t drive back right away if I’m needed here and can help Hoke in any way.”

  “Will my son need a nurse?” Frank asked. “Or should I send him to the hospital?”

  “No hospital, Mr. Moseley,” Ellita said, shaking her head. “If this is just a temporary condition, like Dr. Fairbairn says, it wouldn’t look good on Hoke’s record to have a hospital stay. Rather than do that, I’ll take Hoke back to Miami with me and look after him myself.”

  “He doesn’t need a nurse,” Dr. Fairbairn said, “or hospitalization either. Just let him rest tonight, Frank, and I’ll come by tomorrow and take another look at him.” The doctor consulted his watch. “It’s too late to go back to my office now, so I could do with a drink.”

  “What’ll you have?” Frank asked. “Bourbon? Gin?”

  “I could use a martini, but no vermouth, please. And before I leave, Frank, I’d better give you a prostate massage. You haven’t been into the office for more than two months.”

  Frank flushed slightly and glanced sideways at Ellita. “Helen gives them to me now, Roy. That’s why I haven’t been in.”

  “In that case, I’ll just settle for the martini.”

  “Would you like something, Miss Sanchez?”

  Ellita shook her head. “Not till after the baby. I’ll just go in for a second and say good-bye to Hoke. Then I’d better head back to Miami.”

  “Why not stay for dinner first? Helen’ll be back from her Book Review Club soon, and Inocencia’s cooking a roast.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to fix something for the girls. And they’ll want to know that their father’s all right. What book are they reviewing?”

  “I don’t know the title, but it’s something by Jackie Collins. She’s Joan’s sister, you know. Jackie’s the writer, and Joan’s the actress. We saw Joan in The Stud on cable the other night, and Helen said their new book reviewer is so good at explaining the good parts she no longer has to read the books.”

  “I’ll just look in on Hoke.”

  Hoke was lying on his back on the king-sized bed, still wearing his stained boxer shorts, but he wasn’t under the covers. The room was cool, and there was a whispering hiss from the central air conditioning duct above the door. The sliding glass doors to the back yard were closed, but the draperies were pulled back partially, giving Hoke a view, if he wanted to raise his head and look at it, of the swimming pool, the gently sloping back lawn, a short concrete dock, and Frank’s Boston Whaler tied to the pilings. Across the narrow blue-green waterway there were mangroves, and high above the mangroves black thunderclouds were billowing toward the island from the Everglades.

  Ellita tapped Hoke on the arm. He flinched slightly, but didn’t look at her. “The doctor said you were going to be all right, Hoke. You’re going to stay here with your father for a while, I’m going back to Miami, and I’ll look after the girls. If you want your car, call me, and I’ll have someone drive it up. Don’t worry about me or the girls. We’ll be all right. Okay?”

  Hoke turned on his side and looked out the window.

  “Your robe’s over on the chair. I put your toilet articles in the bathroom. Your teeth are in a glass in the bathroom, and there’s plenty of Polident. There are slacks, sport shirts, underwear, and socks in the suitcase. I forgot to pack your shoes, but your gun and buzzer are in the bag with your wallet. Tell your father to get you some sneakers or something from his store, and I’ll send up your shoes when you want your car. I guess that’s it, then. I’ll be in touch with your dad if you need anything.” No response. “Well, good-bye, then.”

  Ellita closed the door behind her, said good-bye to Frank Moseley and Dr. Fairbairn, and drove back to Miami.

  Later that evening, when Inocencia, the Moseleys’ Cuban cook, brought Hoke’s dinner in to him on a tray, Hoke was sitting in a chair by the sliding glass doors. He had taken a shower and was wearing his white terrycloth shaving robe. Inocencia put the tray on the table beside the chair and left the bedroom without trying to talk with him.

  The rain was coming down hard on the patio tiles outside the sliding doors, and it was difficult to make out the mangroves across the waterway in the driving rain. Hoke put in his teeth in the bathroom, then made a roast beef sandwich with one of the rolls Inocencia had brought. He didn’t touch the Waldorf salad, the broccoli, the baked potato, or the wedge of blueberry cobbler. He drank a glass of iced tea, took another Equavil, and went to sleep on top of the covers.

  Later that evening, when Frank and Helen looked in to see him, Hoke was asleep on his back, breathing through his mouth and snoring.

  Frank and Helen had a long talk about
what to do with Hoke when they went into their bedroom that night after watching TV. Helen didn’t want Hoke to stay with them, even though they had a large house with two spare bedrooms. Frank told her that Hoke would stay as long as it was necessary. Helen patted off her makeup with cold cream, stared at her handsome face in the mirror for a moment, and then hunched her plump shoulders combatively.

  “I want to know that he’ll be leaving,” she said.

  “We can’t decide anything now, Helen. We’ll see what the doctor says tomorrow or the next day, and if it turns out that the police department’s too much for Hoke to handle any longer, I can always let him clerk in the store. He worked in the store summers and Saturdays when he was in high school, and he was one of the best clerks I ever had.”

  “He’s forty-three years old now, Frank, and he’s been a cop for fourteen years. He can’t go back to being a clerk in the store.”

  “Why not? Mrs. Grimes has been in the store for thirty-two years, and she’s sixty years old. I still go to the store every day, and I’m seventy-five. What makes you think forty-three’s too old to be a hardware clerk?”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I just meant that he’s too old to be coming back home to live. Especially after being a police detective. It wouldn’t work out for Hoke, and it wouldn’t work out for us.”

  “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. By the way, Dr. Fairbairn said I was overdue for my prostate massage.”

  Helen sighed, and then she smiled. “I’ll get the Crisco.” She got up from her vanity table and padded lightly down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Later on, when Hoke recalled this dormant three-day period, he remembered every detail of this long first day: Ellita’s frequent reminders of the time, his daughter’s kisses, the drive up the Sunshine Parkway from Miami, and Steely Dan playing “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” on the car radio. Hoke had huddled on the back seat of the old Le Mans with his terrycloth robe pulled over him. He had tried, for a while, to count the kingfishers poised above the hyacinth-choked canal, clinging to telephone wires. The kingfishers, loners to a bird, had been spaced out along the wire about five miles apart, with their heads pulled in as if they had no necks. But he soon lost count, and wondered if it could be the same kingfisher he was counting each time, the same old bird flying ahead endlessly to fool him.

  He didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to answer Ellita, his daughters, Bill Henderson, or old Doc Fairbairn, who had set Hoke’s broken arm when he was eleven, but he had known somehow, cunningly, that if he didn’t say anything to anyone, eventually they would all let him alone and he would never have to go down to the Homicide Division and work on those cold fucking cases again.

  It was funny-peculiar too, in a way, because he had been thinking about Singer Island while he was reading the newspaper, wishing he were back on the island, and now, without any conscious effort, here he was, all alone in his father’s house, lying on a firm but comfortable mattress in a cool and darkened room. And no one was bothering him, or trying to force him to read all of those new Incident Reports and supps that were piled up on his desk.

  Hoke did not, after his first night’s troubled sleep, take any more of the tiny black Equavils. They hadn’t made him feel funny while he was awake (although they must have been responsible for his weird and frightening dreams), but while he was awake, they had robbed him of any feelings, and his mind became numb. If he took four of them a day, as the doctor ordered, he would soon become a zombie. Besides, Hoke didn’t need any chemicals to maintain the wonderful peace of mind he now enjoyed. The bedroom was cool, and although he wasn’t hungry, the little he did eat when Inocencia brought in his trays was delicious. He told himself that he would never have to go back to the police department. All he had to do was lie quietly on the bed, or sit by the glass doors and look out at the blue-green pool or at the occasional boats that passed on the inland waterway ignoring the NO WAKE signs, and everything would be all right. There was no need to think about anything, to worry about anything, because, as long as he kept his mouth closed and refused to react to anybody, he would be let alone. When a man didn’t talk back or answer questions, people couldn’t stand it for very long.

  When Hoke looked back later, those three days had been the happiest he had ever known, and he often wondered if he would ever have such peace again. But he had also known, or suspected—even at the time—that it was too wonderful to last.

  On the fourth morning, Hoke awoke at six, his regular time, opened the sliding doors, and dived bare-assed into the swimming pool. He swam ten slow laps in the tepid water, showered, dressed, put in his teeth, shaved, and then, because he had no shoes, walked barefooted into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. When Inocencia arrived at seven, driving her whale-colored VW Beetle, Hoke asked her to make him a big breakfast.

  “You want to eat now, Mr. Hoke, or wait and eat with Mr. Frank?”

  “I’ll wait for Mr. Frank.”

  Hoke took his coffee into the living room to get out of Inocencia’s way, and sat on one of the tapestried chairs that were spaced evenly around the polished black mahogany table. There were twelve of them, and room at the table for two more. These other two chairs flanked the arched entrance that led down a step to the sunken living room. Inocencia, when she had let herself into the house with her key that morning, had brought the newspaper in from the lawn and dropped it on the table. Hoke didn’t open it. He just waited for his father, sipped his coffee, stared at the bowl of daisies in the centerpiece, and wondered what he should say to the old man.

  Anyone who saw the two together would notice a family likeness. It would be difficult to explain where it was, however, because the two Moseley men, except for their chocolate eyes, did not resemble one another. They were both a quarter-inch over five-ten, but Frank’s shoulders slumped and he was stooped slightly, making him look much shorter than his son. He was also thin and wiry, and not more than 150 pounds, whereas Hoke weighed 190. When he had lived alone, Hoke had maintained an off-and-on diet and had once got down to 180 pounds, but after his ex-wife returned his daughters to him and Ellita had moved into the house in Green Lakes, Ellita had done all of the cooking. The starchy foods she liked—rice and black beans, fried plantains, baked yucca, chicken and yellow rice, pork roasts and pork chunks—had soon restored his lost poundage, and then some.

  Frank Moseley had a full head of white hair. When a few people had told him that he resembled the ex-auto maker John DeLorean, the old man had let his hair grow and had fluffed it out on the sides, which made his resemblance to the automobile designer almost uncanny. But Frank, oddly enough, looked much younger than DeLorean. Perhaps it was because he had led such an untroubled life.

  Hoke’s face was as long as his father’s, but it looked longer because he was balding in front, and his high brown dome and sunken, striated cheeks made his face seem a good deal narrower as well. Hoke had sandy hair, with no gray in it as yet, but he wore it roached back and without a part. His barber had suggested once that he comb it straight forward and let it grow a bit, which would give him a fringe effect. That style would minimize his baldness, he said. But Hoke thought that men who wore bangs looked like fruits, and he rejected the suggestion. A suspect would not, in Hoke’s opinion, take a cop seriously if he looked the least bit gay.

  Hoke’s face was almost as dark as iodine from his lifetime exposure to the Florida sun, and his hairy forearms were deep mahogany because he always wore short-sleeved shirts. When he took off his shirt, his upper arms were ivory-colored; the rat’s nest of black chest hair, and the long black hairs on his shoulders and back, looked like tangled nylon thread against the whiteness of his skin. As a teenager, when Hoke had worked on a live-bait ballyhoo boat out of Riviera Beach during the summers, he had been tan from the waist up as well, but he no longer went out in the sun without a shirt, and, like most Miamians, he rarely went to the beach. Because of his cheap b
lue-gray dentures, Hoke looked older than forty-three; but then, when one looked into his eyes, he seemed younger than that. Hoke’s eyes, so dark it was difficult to see where the iris left off and the pupil began, were beautiful. Here, then, in the eyes, was where the family resemblance had concentrated itself. To see one man with eyes like that was remarkable; to see two men with eyes like theirs together was astonishing.

  * * *

  “Morning, son,” Frank said, picking up the paper and turning to the business section. “How d’you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  The old man put on his glasses and checked the stock market reports with a forefinger. He grunted, shook his head, and removed the glasses. “You going back to Miami, or what? You’ve been mighty quiet the last few days.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Frank. I’ve decided to resign from the department, and I’m never leaving the island again.”

  “You mean you’re moving back here to Riviera Beach?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m not going to leave the island, or cross the bridge to the mainland. I’m going to get a room here on the island, and find a job as a fry cook, maybe, or something like that.”

  “You can come back to work at the store.”

  Hoke shook his head. “Then I’d have to drive across the Blue Heron bridge to Riviera every day. I don’t want to leave the island. I intend to simplify my life.”

  “That ain’t the way to do it, Hoke. You’ve got the two girls to look after—”

  “They can go back to Patsy. That ballplayer she married makes three hundred and twenty-five thousand bucks a year. He can take care of them, or put them in a boarding school. I’m concerned with my survival.”