by Peter Pavia
“Would you believe,” Peyton said, re-entering his office, “that Frankie Yin started out as a busboy?”
“I’m here to find out about Harry Healy, who I’m investigating on suspicion of murder. Frankie Yin does not concern me. What more can you tell me?”
“Not much,” Peyton said, less enthusiastic now. “He seemed decent enough.” He swallowed some vodka and looked through it to the bottom of the glass. “Likeable. He was a likeable guy.”
“So he must’ve made some friends here.”
“I don’t know. He was polite, but he pulled up a bit short of being friendly.”
“Nobody he was particularly close with?”
“He might’ve had something going with one of my bartenders,” Peyton said. “Aggie St. Denis.”
Martinson wrote down her name. “What was she, his girlfriend?”
“One night, he swapped shifts with another guy so he could leave with her. Occasionally, I’d notice them coming into work together. Does that make her his girlfriend?”
“Did you ask her, this bartender girl, what happened to her pal Harry?”
“As a matter of fact,” Peyton said, “I did. She told me she hadn’t seen him, and I took her at her word. She’s not responsible for his behavior.”
“I didn’t say she was. But I’d like to get an address and a phone number for her.”
Peyton said, “Sure.” He opened a desk drawer and rummaged through a mishmash of catalogues and brochures and order forms. “I gotta have it around here somewhere.” He unjammed another drawer overflowing with the same kind of mess.
A green metal filing cabinet sat between the desk and a wall. On the side that was facing out, somebody had taped a list of names and corresponding phone numbers. In black marker across the top it said STAFF PHONE LIST. Healy’s name wasn’t on it.
Peyton was rooting in a third drawer.
Martinson said, “What about that?”
Peyton straightened, red-faced and winded, and told him he could use the phone on the desk.
Unless Aggie St. Denis turned out to be a rabid, cophating brat, Martinson made up his mind going in, the right way to play her was soft.
She buzzed him into the building and waited in the doorway of her apartment. She was expecting him, after that phone call from Peyton’s office, but Martinson showed her his badge anyway. She glanced at it, left the door open, and walked back inside.
She was pretty. Not a knockout model type, but fine-featured, attractive, with boyish hair she parted on the side. She was dressed in stiff new Levis, a man’s cut that gapped at the waistband where her figure tapered in, and fit snugly over her hips. She wore a v-neck t-shirt without a bra. Her feet were bare.
They were standing in her living room, near a couch and a TV with a 19-inch screen. She didn’t ask him to sit.
Martinson told her why he was there, and he asked her if she knew a man named Harold James Healy. He might have been going by Harry James.
She jumped on him. “Let me tell you something right now, detective. You’re making a mistake. Harry didn’t kill anybody.”
Which told him Peyton was right. She did have something going with Healy or she wouldn’t have come out of the box so defensive.
“We have a witness who saw him leave the scene shortly after the murder,” Martinson said. “And we have corroborating evidence that proves he was there.” He let this sink in. “If you were me, you’d be looking for him, too. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Earlier this week,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“It was one or the other, wasn’t it?”
She kept the apartment neat, but she owned too many books for the bookcase that stood to the right of the entrance. There were stacks of books on the floor. Martinson unshelved an oversized, leather-bound edition of Shakespeare’s tragedies. It was an old volume, the leather dry and cracked, and there were two more like it that made a set. He thumbed through the first few pages.
Aggie St. Denis closed the cover and put the book back. “I’d rather not have you sorting through my things,” she said, “if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to find out when it was published.”
“1897,” she said.
“Wow, that’s a hundred years ago. That set must be worth some money.”
“Ten dollars each,” she said. “I tried selling them when I was broke, and that’s the offer I got.” She refolded her arms, remaining near the bookcase, but her shoulders had dropped down a bit.
“That’s funny,” Martinson said. “The same thing happened with this watch my grandfather gave me when I was a kid. I kept it in a cloth bag that closed with a string, and put it in a jewelry box and forgot about it. Long story short, I recently came across the watch. I thought, hey this is probably a really valuable piece. I took it to a jeweler and he appraised it for a hundred bucks.”
“But is has sentimental value,” she said. “That’s different.”
Martinson pretended to think about what she was saying. He said, “I guess so.”
“You weren’t close with this grandfather?”
“Nobody was. He was an ornery son of a bitch. Lived in the same apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan most of his life. In ’57 or ’58, he was supposed to come and live with us. My father hired a contractor and was all set to build an addition to our house, but then grandpa died.”
“That’s sad,” Aggie St. Denis said. “But what you’ve got is a family heirloom, and I’ve got a set of books I bought at a garage sale.”
Martinson said, “Family heirlooms are usually worth something besides sentiment, aren’t they? Although when you think about it, nothing has any value, except for the value we assign it. I’ll give you an example. A painting sells for twenty-five million dollars. Twenty-five million. What makes a piece of canvas with some colors splashed on it worth even one dollar? Basically, just somebody’s say-so. Then a second guy comes along and says, Hell, twenty-five million? That’s a bargain. I’ll take it. There you go. That’s what your picture’s worth.
“Same thing with the watch,” Martinson went on. “I take it to three jewelers, they all say the same thing. It’s worth a hundred bucks. But let’s say I had a totally different relationship with my grandfather. Let’s say I loved him more than anybody I ever knew. I’d starve to death before I sold that watch. That watch would be priceless.”
Aggie St. Denis was getting lost following the Martinson logic. She shook her head, and Arnie knew his argument, if he was trying to make one, was falling apart.
“But isn’t that what I said in the beginning?” She sounded like she genuinely didn’t remember. “We’re talking about two distinct quantities. On the one hand, money. On the other, what, emotional attachment? Anyway, that’s a weak example. Your watch’s got nothing to do with my books.”
“Maybe not,” he said, though he’d forgotten where they were, and he wasn’t thinking about whether he agreed with her or not. Arnie felt the first twinge of a headache boring in under his eyes. He took two deep breaths and hoped whatever was coming would go away. Just for a while.
“I guess I was taking the long way around to the point that all of us cling to various things, convinced they’re so valuable, and then something happens, or somebody comes along, and proves us wrong.
“Now let me ask you a question,” he said. “You’re an intelligent woman. What’s more important, living up to some false sense of honor by protecting a potentially dangerous criminal, or helping society make this individual answer for his behavior?”
“We’re back on Harry.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“He didn’t do it,” she insisted. “Harry wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“That’s odd,” Martinson said. “Because he’s been arrested for assault, and he certainly hurt one of our police officers. Put him in the hospital. I would say that not
only is he capable of hurting people, he already has.”
“He wouldn’t do what you said he’s done. He couldn’t have. I know his side of the story.”
“Then why don’t you let me in on it?”
“Would it change your opinion?”
“It might.”
“Harry went to do a job for the man who was murdered. When he returned to the man’s room, he found him dead.”
Martinson said, “A job, huh? What kind of job?”
She double-clutched and broke eye contact. She said, “I don’t know.” She was lying.
“Let me guess. He made a delivery for the victim.”
“I don’t know,” she said again.
“And wonder of wonders, the victim was already gone by the time your boyfriend got back with his money? Is that what he told you?”
This time, she didn’t answer.
“And you believe him? Look, at one point there had been a fairly large amount of cocaine in the victim’s room, and by the time his body was discovered, those drugs were gone.” Martinson went right at her. “Your boyfriend stole those drugs and killed that man. This guy you’re trying to protect.”
“Then why bother with the story?” she argued. “Why wouldn’t he just steal my money and steal my car and disappear in the middle of the night? If he’s the kind of man you say he is?”
“What was he selling you? A frame? Prisons are full of guys who didn’t do it. You know that, right? If he’s so innocent why didn’t he give himself up?”
No answer for that, either.
Martinson said, “So where is he now?”
“I have no idea,” she said. Another lie.
“I don’t believe you. And I wonder if you know that aiding and abetting a fugitive is a felony you could be prosecuted for?” Put some heat under her ass.
“And I’d like to meet the prosecutor who’d try me on those charges. You’re not scaring me, detective.”
“I’m going to find your boyfriend, Ms. St. Denis, and I’m going to bring him back here to stand trial for this crime, with or without your help.”
“We hung out for like a month. We ate some meals, we watched some movies, we worked together. But I want to separate you from the notion that I have some special knowledge pertaining to this case. I don’t. And I don’t have anything more to say to you.”
She walked to the door and held it open. She was lying about not knowing his whereabouts, but Healy did have her convinced he didn’t do it. When she said she didn’t know anything thing beyond Healy’s version, she had told the truth. About that, anyway. Which was more than he could say for himself, and that yarn about his grandfather, who had been dead for years before Martinson’s parents even met.
Chapter Nine
With a reminder beamed at him just about every time he turned on the TV, Leo was feeling guilty about Manfred’s murder. But then a rapist got loose in Gainesville, forcing these college chicks to do it at knifepoint, and after that, some Homestead trailer-court mom buried her twin daughters alive. She claimed she had visions the kids were agents of Satan, who was behind like every other shrub in rural Florida, and this was way bigger news than some drunk getting offed in his hotel room, fabulous South Beach or not. In about a week or so, the Pfiser story died down. Leo’s feelings about him died down along with it.
Though he felt zero remorse over smoking JP Beaumond, Beaumond did come to visit him in a nightmare. Beaumond showed up in his army fatigues, settling once and for all the question of whether you dreamed in color. Leo distinctly saw the brown and khaki, the olive drab that made up Beaumond’s foul camouflage pants. Shirtless into the next world, his pink potbelly hung over his belt. The scary thing was, he had a huge bite out of his chest, a big chunk shaped like an alligator jaw. It wasn’t bleeding. Just a hunk of flesh that wasn’t there. Leo could see light coming through the back of him.
“Yew sum bitch,” Beaumond said in the dream, “Ah’m gwan git yew fer this.” It came out slow, like Beaumond had to think about it.
“Hey,” Leo said, startled by the wound and the fact he could hear Beaumond’s drawl so clearly, “you’re dead. Fuck you.”
Beaumond looked disappointed with the news, but he didn’t bother Leo at all after that, and Leo didn’t devote him any waking thoughts.
Alex Fernandez called and said he was sorry about jumping out of the car that day, but he was really freaked and he hoped Leo would forget it. He told Leo he was thinking about going to Cuba until things cooled off, some story about a sick relative he was going to peddle to Immigration, if it wouldn’t fuck with his green card. Leo thought it was a good idea. He also thought it was a good idea if Alex didn’t call the house any more.
Before he hung up, he asked Fernandez if he’d seen Vicki.
“Vicki?” Fernandez said. “Not at all. Do me a favor, Leo. If you see her, don’t tell her where I am.”
Since Leo didn’t know where he was, and didn’t want to know, he didn’t think that was going to be a problem.
But now he had to worry about Vicki. Leo hated worrying. It got in the way of his fun.
He would’ve started worrying before, had he run into Vicki anywhere, but he hadn’t. Which was weird. South Beach was an incestuous scene that got smaller by half if you lived here year round. You saw the same faces, whether you wanted to or not. It was inevitable. But now that he was looking for Vicki, she seemed to have disappeared. She wasn’t wandering Washington Ave. in the afternoon, or haunting the clubs at night, the stuff she did every day when she was on bivouac at the house.
Leo made up his mind to find her. He was sitting on a café terrace overlooking Ocean Drive, hung over bad from chugging cheap champagne at an agency party. Drinking espresso and profiling with a Marlboro, he peeped the parade of Euros and crude modelitas from behind his Revo wraparounds. Not a hide or a hair of airhead Vicki, her Chihuahua either, whose snout would be poking out of a basket bag that matched the hat Vicki was sure to be sporting. He ordered another espresso to stay alert. If he did get Vicki in his crosshairs, he wanted to be sharp, in case he had to reach some kind of decision.
After two hours, he still hadn’t seen Vicki. But the time hadn’t been wasted, since this bouncing blonde bundle two tables over was staring right at him. Leo played it off with a dramatic drag on his Marlboro, pushing his hair off his forehead, and sipping from an empty espresso cup, as if he were deep in thought, which he was not. He snuck a peek back. No question. She had the Kid locked right in the old pin-spots.
She had a rocking tan under her white bikini and the white shirt she had tied around her neck. Leo scanned the table for signs of neurotica. There were dozens, if you knew how to read them, but on the positive side, every blonde signal was go. She was drinking a glass of wine. Excellent. Sometimes they didn’t drink because they were uptight about their weight, and that could mean they’d be in the bathroom after a pricey meal, barfing up their supper.
Another positive vibration: no miserable mutt anywhere near her. And if Leo was not mistaken, that binder sitting on the empty chair was a portfolio. The genius of it all. Now he could walk up and ask what agency she was with.
He got the waitress’s attention and told her he’d be drinking a Cuervo margarita, straight-up with salt, at that table where the blonde was sitting, and to bring the blonde another glass of whatever she was having.
He picked up his cigarettes, walked over, and introduced himself. Did she mind if he joined her? Of course she didn’t. Leo lifted her book off the chair and asked who represented her.
“I’m not with any agency right now,” she said, implying she’d been with some agency in the past, though Leo knew that was impossible, unless she worked when she was a kid.
Was that a nervous giggle he heard? He believed it was.
Her name was Whitney and she was nineteen, a real corn-fed, hand-spanked, all-American type with either blue eyes or green eyes, a tough call from behind the shades.
Pretty was not Whitney’s problem.
Height was. She wasn’t tall enough to model any kind of clothes, and she had the wrong shape for it besides, her plump titties touching the tabletop. Leo imagined she was thick through the waist and the hips, too, stealing a glance downstairs without being too obvious. The girls who got work were all starvation skinny, five-nine at least (a sixfooter was not unusual), all legs and necks and big flat feet that held them up.
Leo took a look through her book. A natural disaster, it was, in a way, better than he could have hoped. The pictures were poorly lit and the styles were so whack the clothes must’ve come from her closet. A photo of Whitney wearing a floor-length gown chopped a muchneeded three inches off her height. Somebody sausaged her into a one-piece bathing suit with a horizontal pattern; she looked like a zebra-striped fire hydrant. There wasn’t a single tear-sheet, not one shot from a magazine or a catalogue or any actual job she had done.
But toward the back of the book things got interesting. Whitney had a banging body she wasn’t bashful about showing off, and there was no denying those boobies, flowering fully in one photo, no annoying bathing suit blocking his view. The last few shots — the whole cheesebucket, woolly little pubic patch and everything. If her sights were set on the pages of Ass N’ Bush, this was a fine example of her work, but she’d get laughed out of every office on the Beach.
“This is a terrific book,” Leo said. “You’ve got a lot of talent.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Whitney said. “Now all I’ve gotta do is convince those agencies.”
“You know, I just might be able to help. You’d be surprised,” he said, trying to get his mouth around this outrageous lie, “you’re better off than most. But I’ll tell you what.”
Leo took a card from his wallet. He had them printed when he rented the house, cards that said he was associated with the Top Girl Agency, a completely false claim, but if the play was ever going to work, Whitney was the type of girl he had in mind for it.
She swallowed a sip of wine from her fresh glass. “You’re so nice. I wish I’d met you a couple weeks ago.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Leo said. “The important thing is, we know each other now. I could be an important contact for you.”