by Ron Base
“I didn’t mean to anger you, Mr. Callister,” Traven said.
“No, of course not.”
“And I do not deride your new profession. To the contrary. I hope to make use of it.”
He leaned forward. “I have a small, closely knit group around me. My wife, obviously, a few others. I would like you to be part of that group.”
“Your wife fired me.”
“Have you read any of her books?”
“The Stalin. Years ago.“
“The secret of my wife, Mr. Callister, I believe she’s actually quite enamored of communism. She writes continually of those who corrupted its ideals, but the philosophy itself, what Marx originally espoused, I think she is a believer. A disappointed believer, but a believer.”
“Married to a jailed capitalist.”
Traven spent more time looking at his hands. “Anyway, I’m rehiring you.”
“To do what?”
“Continue your work. Help my wife with security, especially when it comes to this woman.”
“Mickey Crowley?”
“Yes.”
“And her husband, Dwayne.”
“Dwayne Crowley is here.”
“Is he?”
“Unless you know something I don’t.”
“What about Reno O’Hara?”
“What about him?”
“Was he part of your group?”
“Reno did some work for me.”
“What kind of work?”
“Do you mean did he do anything illegal? No, he did not. However, I would be lying if I said I didn’t know something of his background.”
“The work he did for you, did that include coming to my office to threaten me?”
Traven looked taken aback. “No, of course not. I’m not trying to scare you, Mr. Callister, I’m trying to hire you to help us.”
“If you were interested in finding Reno’s boy, Marcello, for example, I might be able to help you there.”
Traven’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, provided, of course, we were looking for the boy.”
“For the operation.”
Traven picked his next words carefully. “What operation, Mr. Callister?”
“I thought Marcello needed an operation, and you are helping him with it.”
“I know my wife is concerned about the young fellow’s well-being,” Traven said with studied smoothness. “Our first priority would be to locate him, ascertain what his needs are, and decide how we can help him.”
“You know the FBI is looking for him?”
Traven paused longer than he should have before he said, “I didn’t know the FBI was involved.”
“They are.”
“Twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Callister.”
Tree looked at him.
“Is that enough?” Brand Traven asked.
“False words are not only evil in themselves,” Tree said, “but they infect the soul with evil.”
“And that is?”
“Socrates,” Tree said.
Brand Traven frowned at his uneaten sandwich. “You’ll have your money by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
29
Had he been bought? Tree thought as he drove south along I-75 toward Fort Myers.
He supposed he had—or would be, as soon as he had twenty thousand dollars in his hands. He always had wondered what it would be like to be bribed, tempted—corrupted. Rather matter-of-fact, it turned out, dressed up as a simple business transaction. Tree could see how Brand Traven might have done the same with his media empire. It’s business so I’ll just skim a few million out of the till and stick it in my pocket. Well, Tree Callister was a long way from a few million. He could be had for a measly twenty thousand dollars.
“What was Traven like?” Freddie asked after he got home that evening. She had spent the day with Marcello, uneventful, she said. Except they had a lot of fun together.
“He talked about Socrates.”
“You must have felt right at home.”
“If you get a good wife, you’ll become happy. If you get a bad one, you become a philosopher.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Socrates.”
Freddie looked impressed—fleetingly. “From Traven?”
Tree shook his head. “When I fed him Socrates he didn’t recognize the quote.”
“Is that a fact?”
“And when I launched into a bunch of meaningless gibberish about a play called The Clouds in which Socrates makes an appearance, Traven bought right into it.”
“Which is to say what? Anyone who really did know the play or Socrates never would have swallowed it?”
“Not for a moment.”
“Maybe he was just trying to be polite.”
“Traven doesn’t strike you as a man who feels an overwhelming need to be polite.”
“So he’s full of shit?”
“Or a man not telling the truth about any number of things.”
“I think they know we have the boy,” she said. “Or they strongly suspect.”
“That’s a distinct possibility.”
“They’ve threatened you, and broken into the house, and none of that has worked. So the question they must be asking is, What will work?”
“Money,” Tree said.
“Exactly. Cue your new Socrates-loving friend Brand Traven.”
“He even likes the way I write.”
“Flattery won’t work, either.”
“It won’t?”
“You can’t be bought.”
“I can’t?” Tree said. “You’re sure about that?”
“I am.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re incorruptible. That’s what I love about you. You are as honest as the day is long.”
“Twenty thousand dollars could shorten the day considerably. Particularly when the guy bribing me compliments my writing.”
“You would turn Marcello over for a measly twenty thousand dollars?”
“Well, I would need a compliment or two to go along with it.”
“Tree.”
“Maybe it’s a lifetime of being underpaid in the newspaper business, but twenty thousand dollars is not my idea of measly.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Would you turn him over or not?”
“Not even if he likes the way I write.”
“Then you really are the man I married.” Freddie yawned. “Being with a child all day is tiring, let me tell you.”
“So is hanging out in federal prisons. Also, there is something I forgot to tell you.”
She looked at him. “About being happily married in the Socratic sense?”
“Not about that.”
“The fact that one of the FBI agents is your old girlfriend?”
Tree stared in dumb amazement. “Most days you just surprise me,” he said. “Some days, though, some days you really surprise me. How did you know?”
“Could be that you’re not the only detective in the house,” she said impishly. “Or it could be detective Cee Jay Boone called looking for you and accidentally spilled the beans.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I may well be mad,” Freddie said. “Am I angry? No.”
“Why not?” Did he sound somewhat indignant?
“You’re going to run away with some chick you lived with twenty years ago?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Besides, it takes two to tango.”
“How do you know Savannah doesn’t want to run off with me?”
“Because she dumped you. Now she takes one look at you and wants you back? I don’t think so.”
“That’s rather brutal.”
“Not brutal at all, my love. Just realistic.”
“What makes you so sure I didn’t leave her?”
“Incidentally, are you happy or a philosopher?”
Tree thought about it. “Well, I’m no philosopher.”
Freddie leaned o
ver and brushed his lips with hers. “Good answer.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
She gave him a delicious smile before she breezed away. The phone rang.
“Mr. Callister?” It was Tommy Dobbs. Tree groaned.
“Mr. Callister, I need your help.” Tommy’s voice was slurry and scared. “I’m in awful trouble.”
30
Nemo’s poked onto the beach beneath a gold-colored canvas marquee. The usual LCD monitors showed the usual football games to a clientele more interested in the drama unfolding near a wall poster listing fifteen reasons why a beer is better than a woman, including “a beer doesn‘t get jealous when you have another beer.”
Tommy Dobbs, backed against the bar, swung an empty beer stein in the general direction of the three men closing in on him. His white face glistened in the yellowish light. The light transformed the bruise on his right cheek into an India ink smear. Despite the damage to his face, he still managed to retain his Ray-Bans.
“Hey, Tommy,” Tree said.
“Mr. Callister, I never thought you’d come.” Tommy sounded out of breath.
“What are you up to?” Tree had to raise his voice to compete with the hard rock blues of ZZ Top.
“He’s about to get himself killed,” said the biggest of the three, showing a blotchy face and bushy beard beneath a Florida Marlins baseball cap. Tattoos crawled up his thick forearms. The other two, bare-headed, also wore their tattoos where you could see them. Not the sort of hombres you wanted to piss off in a shitkicker bar late at night. But that’s exactly what Tommy appeared to have done.
“Come on, Tommy, time to go home.”
“This clown ain’t goin’ nowhere, except to the hospital,” said the tallest and skinniest of the three. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.
“Leave me alone,” Tommy said in a strangled voice.
“He’s drunk and harmless,” Tree said.
“He’s drunk and an asshole,” the skinny guy shot back.
In the background Dolly Parton’s dreamy country romanticism replaced Billy Gibbons’ fine guitar riffs. It didn’t seem to change anybody’s attitude.
“Got a big mouth on him,” Bushy Beard said.
“He does at that,” Tree said agreeably. “Let me get him out of here.”
Tommy regarded Tree with bleary sadness. “I’m so happy you’re here, Mr. Callister.”
“What are you, his old man or something?” The guy with the beard.
“Just a friend.” Tree removed the beer glass from Tommy’s hand. Tommy seemed barely aware he was giving it up.
The third guy, greasy black hair pushed back from a pimply forehead, raised a meaty fist. Bushy Beard caught the fist in his hand. “Not worth it,” he said. The Greasy-Haired Guy’s eyes flashed. Bushy Beard gave him a hard look. The Greasy-Haired Guy backed off.
Tommy sagged. Tree managed to catch him before he hit the floor.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Tommy mumbled.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Tree hoisted Tommy away from the bar. He caught the eye of the guy with the bushy beard. “Thanks.”
“Tell your friend not to come back.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Tree said.
Tree half carried, half dragged Tommy along a cinderblock corridor past a replica of a vintage red Corvette mounted on the wall. He got him onto Estero Boulevard and across the street to where he had parked the Beetle. He propped Tommy against the side of the car, trying to find his key.
“Why don’t you like me, Mr. Callister?”
“Who says I don’t like you, Tommy?” Tree found his key and unlocked the door.
“You don’t like me ’cause I’m a loser.”
“Tommy, get in the car,” Tree said. “I’m driving you home.”
“Don’t you?” Tommy was more vehement.
“I think you’re young,” he said. “In a business I don’t recognize any more. You want me to be things I don’t think I can be.”
“I want you to be my friend.” A note of desperation.
Tree looked at him, at a loss for words.
“Can’t you be my friend, Mr. Callister? Is that so hard for you? To be my friend?”
Tree put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Sure, Tommy,” he said. “I can be your friend.”
Tommy threw up on the Beetle.
My pal Tommy, Tree thought.
____
The next morning Freddie, summery in a pink floral print, came into the kitchen where Tree was pouring coffee. He handed her a cup.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but there’s someone with pimples sleeping on our couch.”
“That’s reporter Tommy Dobbs. My biggest fan.”
“I thought I was your biggest fan.”
“You are my biggest fan without pimples. At least, I hope you are.”
“Never doubt it, pal.”
“You should have seen me last night. I took on a room full of drunk barflies.”
“My hero,” she said.
“I can’t believe I did it.”
“Life lately is filled with things you can’t believe you did,” Freddie observed.
Yes it is, Tree thought. Yes, it is.
After Freddie went to work, Tree poured more coffee and took it into the living room. In the car after he threw up, Tommy had promptly passed out. Tree decided to bring him home. Just like the old days, dragging drunk reporters back to the house in the middle of the night. Didn’t his first wife just love that.
Tommy lay on his back, still wearing the Ray-Bans, his pale face glistening like the polished death mask of a boy pharaoh.
Tree perched on the edge of the couch. Tommy awakened with a lip-smacking grunt, sitting bolt upright.
“I feel awful,” he said.
Tree offered him the coffee.
“Can’t even look at it.”
“Suit yourself.” Tree sipped the coffee. “So what did you do to piss those guys off?”
“Not sure,” Tommy said.
“What were you doing there in the first place?”
“Don’t know. Can’t remember much.”
“Bathroom’s down the hall.” Tree got to his feet. “Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll drive you home.”
Tommy held his head at an angle. “Gotta go to work.”
“All right. Take a shower. I’ll get you a towel.”
Tommy looked up at Tree with unhappy, bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callister.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“I’ll bet it never happened to you.”
“Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” Tree said.
An hour later, Tree parked in front of the Island Reporter’s office. Tommy looked as though he had just climbed out of a sarcophagus.
“I really appreciate what you did for me,” he said.
“It took me a long time to learn this but it’s something to keep in mind: Ernest Hemingway is dead.”
Tommy looked befuddled. “I’m not very familiar with Hemingway.”
Tree shook his head. “Get out of the car, Tommy.”
31
Tree got to his office at ten thirty—half an hour before Brand Traven’s messenger was due to arrive with twenty thousand dollars. The prospect did not excite him. Freddie was right. What was twenty thousand dollars in the scheme of things? More money than he earned in a year? He tried not to think about that.
He went toward the back stairs and encountered Rex Baxter on his way down. “I just saw a ghost,” Rex said.
“You’re spending too much time in the bar at the Lighthouse,” Tree said.
“Savannah,” Rex said.
“She’s upstairs?”
“She’s an FBI agent.” Rex made it sound as though she had landed on the moon.
“I know that, Rex.“
“What’s she doing in town?”
“Unless I miss my guess, she thinks I killed someone.”
“Y
ou? Killing someone? Get serious. She lived with you for God’s sake.”
“Maybe that was her first clue.”
“Weird thing is, she hasn’t changed. There’s a portrait of her in a closet somewhere that’s getting old, but not her. It’s like I always figured. She’s in league with the devil.”
“You never did like her, Rex.”
“Does Freddie know she’s in town?”
“Freddie knows everything.”
“My advice? Do not go up there. Stay away till she flies out of town on her broomstick.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle this.”
“Where Savannah is concerned, all bets are off.”
Tree took a deep breath and mounted the stairs two at a time. FBI Agent Savannah Trask sat in his chair holding a Starbucks Grande Caffe Latte. Another latte waited on his desk.
“You wear glasses,” she said.
“Only for reading,” Tree replied, removing the telltale specs, kicking himself for forgetting to get rid of them before he entered the office.
“I just saw, Rex.”
“I know. He thinks you’re a ghost.”
“He probably thinks I’m flying around on a broomstick.”
“He doesn’t think you’ve changed since Chicago.”
“He never did like me.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“He probably thinks I broke your heart or something. He certainly loves your latest wife.”
“Everyone loves Freddie.”
“That sounds like the title of a sitcom. Are you all right?”
“A little surprised to find the FBI in my office first thing in the morning, that’s all.”
He reached for the coffee.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.
“Mind?” He wrestled with the plastic top. He never could get the damned things off, and he hated drinking through that little hole.
“The door was open.” She watched him defeated by the plastic coffee top.
“You’re always welcome, Savannah,” he said as amiably as he could. “Particularly when you bring coffee.” He still couldn’t get the top off.
“Do you need help with that?”
“With what?”
“The coffee.”
“No of course not.” He delivered what he considered a disarming grin.
The lid popped off. Foam spilled over the rim and rolled down the side of the cup. He said a silent prayer of thanks and sipped at his coffee, managing to glance at his watch. Less than half an hour. Tree felt a tightening in his stomach.