Now Leon was saying that he could feel the vibrations from the moon. He jumped off the edge of the hot tub, his shirt flapping behind him. He tapped his drumsticks against the air, like the moon was a big drumhead. Breathing hard from all the exercise, he fell into a chair. His hair hung over the back. “Martha, you need to loosen up, girl.”
“I’m trying to. Why don’t you leave?”
“Because I’m waiting for you to stand up.” Giggling, Leon took a joint out of his shirt pocket and lit it.
Arlo gave the nut another turn, then said, “Leon, if I was you, I’d put that away. Miguel will be back in a minute, and he don’t like it around.”
Leon sucked in smoke, held it, then said, “That’s ironic. You know what that word means, Arlo? Ironic?”
“I don’t give a fart, Leon.”
“No, that’s ‘apathy.’” He made one of his high-pitched laughs. “It’s ironic that Miguel doesn’t like grass around.”
“You better shut up,” Arlo said, jerking his head toward Martha.
“Like she don’t know. She knows. She knows everything. Don’t you, Martha? You so smart.” Leon sucked on the joint again, smiling at her. “Martha Cruz. Big star.”
Steam floated over the hot tub like fog. Martha reached out and grabbed her wineglass. “The band stunk until I got into it. You don’t want to hear that, do you?”
Leon wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at the sky again, grinning like the idiot he was. Arlo reached inside the door and felt if the nut was tight yet. Almost. He didn’t mind working with his hands. He had arrived in Miami with twenty dollars in his pocket. That had been right after Hurricane Andrew had buzz-sawed through, the whole county looking like a big fist had come down on it. They needed construction workers. A good time to leave Memphis anyway, after he accidentally killed a guy who jumped him in a bar, but try to explain that to a cop.
When Miguel Salazar didn’t have anything for him to do, Arlo worked for Rick Robbins. He was a grip for the bands that came through town. That meant he toted and carried. When he wasn’t a grip, he wore a black T-shirt that said Security, and he could keep order at the door. At punk rock concerts he would supervise the mosh pit and kick some skinhead ass, if need be.
Rick also let him drive Mayhem around to gigs and set up the equipment. Arlo didn’t give a hairy rat’s tit about the others—Leon most of all—but he liked Martha. Arlo had some talent himself, not as much as hers, but some. He used to hang out at a blues bar on Beale Street, where he had once backed up Stevie Ray Vaughan, God rest his soul. They said, Arlo, you got a job here if you want it. A memory like that could keep a man going for a long time.
Last night he’d been lying on the roof looking at the stars—they were in a little different position than back home, but they were still the same stars. And as he lay there he was playing a TV show in his mind. What if he was the one behind those shiny red drums, not Leon? What if it was his name going to be in the magazines? Maybe even at the Grammys. Best new band—Mayhem. It griped him to think of Leon up there. Leon was a little roach. Arlo wanted to smack him. His hands itched to do it. He wouldn’t hit him with his fists, though. Since Martha had told Arlo a couple of months ago that she liked the way he played drums, he’d been more careful with his hands. If he slammed Leon in the teeth, which he dearly wanted to do, he might cut a knuckle.
Arlo threw the switch, and the water started bubbling and rolling in the hot tub. He closed the little door and wiped his hands on a rag. He said, “How’s that, Martha?”
“Ahhhhh, you’re wonderful, Arlo.”
Leon was drinking Miguel’s liquor now, still waiting for him. He took his drink to the table, making up a new song. “Soy el poeta. La voz del aire, del sol, del cielo.” He banged out a rhythm on the top with his sticks. “I am the voice of the universe—”
“Shut up!” Martha Cruz yelled. “Leon, please!”
“You want those sticks down your throat, Leon?”
Leon banged harder, the sticks turning into blurs. “Listen to me, girl. Take you to my world. A mi mundo, al fondo de mi alma—”
“Stop it! Arlo, make him stop.”
Arlo walked over and took the sticks away and snapped them. “My cat could play drums better than you. You’re stoned half the time and can’t keep the beat. Martha and Kelly have to cover your ass. You better get straight before the concert, man.”
Leon sat on the edge of the hot tub. “You like to cover my ass, Martha?”
With a splash Martha stood up. Arlo turned his head, but not before he got a good glimpse of her in the lights coming up through the water. Didn’t have a stitch on. Her breasts were slick, and the soap was running down her stomach, between her legs.
He saw her arm reach for a towel.
“Arlo’s right. You’re a stoner. The band would be better without you in it. I wish you’d go back to Ecuador. I don’t know why Miguel lets you stay here.”
Leon smiled in her face. “At least I don’t have to fuck him, do I?”
Arlo grabbed the little greaseball around the neck.
“¡Quitelo! Arlo, let him go.”
Miguel Salazar was standing in the doorway. He had one of his heavy silk robes on. Arlo wondered how long he’d been there. He gave Leon a shake and let him go.
Martha stomped over to Miguel, leaving shiny footprints across the wood deck. She was crying. “I can’t take this anymore. He’s ruining the band. We’re never going to get a record contract. Never! ¡No puedo suportarlo más!” She threw her glass. It hit the faucet on the hot tub and shattered. Her towel fell halfway off. She grabbed it around herself and ran inside. Miguel turned to watch her go.
Arlo cursed under his breath. Now he would have to filter the water. It would be a bitch finding every last piece of glass.
When Miguel turned back toward Leon, there was a cold flash in his eyes. Then it was gone. Leon started talking in Spanish, and Arlo gathered that Leon had delivered whatever it was he had to drop off.
Arlo wanted to take Leon over to that vacant lot behind one of those rock mounds and straighten him out. Arlo would use his work boots. He started thinking of where exactly to kick Leon, not to ruin Leon’s hands either, because they needed him for the band.
Miguel said a few words, like Leon had made a good point. Then he shook the ice cubes in his glass and said he needed another drink. He smiled to include Arlo. “And for you?”
“No, I’d better go. The pump’s working now.”
Leon said, “Yeah. Miguel and I have stuff to talk about.” He sat on the wooden bench by the hot tub, which was all lit up, the water bubbling.
Arlo looked down at his hands. The big knuckles. The cobra tattoo on one hand, a Harley insignia on the other. The reddish hairs. Maybe putting just one in Leon’s gut wouldn’t do any damage. He shook his head and picked up his toolbox. “See you in the morning, Miguel.”
“No, stay awhile. Have a drink with us.”
Leon flipped his greaser hair out of his eyes and stared at Arlo. Arlo said, “Yeah, okay.” He put his toolbox on the table.
Miguel opened and shut the little refrigerator under the bar. He filled three glasses with ice and poured in some liquor. Usually Miguel made some small talk. Leon was too ticked off to speak, and Arlo couldn’t think of anything to say. He heard the motor under the hot tub. He felt a cold breeze drift through the vines. The moon went in and out of some clouds.
“Leon, come get your drink.”
He stood up, a black outline in front of the hot tub.
Miguel reached into his robe, pulled out a pistol with a long barrel, and fired it twice. Two flashes of light. Two quick pops.
Arlo jerked from the surprise of it, then watched Leon cough, eyes wide open. Miguel still held the pistol pointed straight at him. A little black one, a .22 with a silencer.
Miguel shot him again, and Leon fell over backward.
After a second or two, Arlo walked over to look down into the water. Turning red now, the steam s
till rising, Leon rolling around in there like meat in a soup pot. “Dang.”
He looked back at Miguel, who was pouring Leon’s drink out. Miguel couldn’t see behind him. Couldn’t see Martha standing way back in the darkened room. Arlo made a tiny nod. She opened the door. The sliver of light widened for a second, then got narrower till it was gone. He figured she was smart enough to keep this to herself.
CHAPTER 15
The arraignment in State of Florida v. Martha Cruz was scheduled for Wednesday. Dan dropped by the prosecutor’s office first thing Tuesday morning and knocked on her door.
“Hi, Ruthie. Got a minute?”
“Sure, babe, come on in.” He and Ruthie Martin knew each other, having met on other cases. “What’s up?”
“Martha Cruz,” he said. “Arraignment tomorrow.”
Ruthie found the Cruz file in one of the boxes on the floor. “Here it is. What was this one about, Dan? Oh, yes. Your client slugged the Miami Beach cop. What do you want?”
“What are you offering?”
“This is contingent on the officer’s approval, of course.” Ruthie scanned the arrest affidavit. “Jim Purdy. Oops. Well, I could probably talk him into probation if your client agreed to counseling. You might even get a withhold of adjudication. How about it?” She took off her glasses and whirled them by one stem.
Plea bargaining. Most of Dan’s cases went that way—he and an overworked prosecutor trying to cut a deal. For the most part, his clients were ordinary folks who through stupidity, bad temper, or bad luck got themselves into trouble. They rarely had much money. The Martha Cruz case fell outside the usual pattern, however. Mentally adding up the $1,000 that Rick would pay him, plus another $4,000—the value of one forty-six-foot, fully equipped Bertram sportfisher for a week—then dividing by the time he expected to spend on this case—two hours—he had arrived at a pretty damned good hourly rate. The two hours included the five minutes he had spent yesterday on a call to Miami Beach.
Dan said, “Ordinarily I’d say sure, Ruthie, that sounds fine, but I think you’ve got a little problem here. Your cop. He’s retiring.”
“So?”
“Going back to the old hometown—Evanston, Illinois.” Dan drummed a rhythm on the edge of her desk.
Ruthie Martin sighed, a hand on her hip. “Tell me you’re lying.”
“I called the Miami Beach Police Department to see if he’d talk to me—sometimes they do. Nope. He’s gone, as of next Monday. Check it out if you want.”
She tossed the file onto her desk. “He can fly down for the trial. He’d come back. Get out of all that snow? You bet he would.”
“Are you telling me that your office would authorize a high-season, short-notice, round-trip ticket to Miami, plus hotel and meals for two days—”
“What two days? This is a half-day trial, max.”
“You haven’t seen my list of witnesses yet.”
“Forget the counseling, then. Plead nolo contendere and take a withhold.”
Dan shook his head. “Can’t do it, Ruthie. The girl is a talented young singer, right on the verge of a major record contract, a real sweet kid. Any kind of legal problem at this point could ruin her career. I’m representing Martha as a favor to her manager, a good friend of mine. The situation just got a little out of hand after Officer Purdy roughed up one of her fans. She’s sorry—sincerely sorry.”
A smile started to work through. “How much of this is bullshit?”
“Ruthie. You’ve got better things to do.”
“I never liked Purdy anyway,” she said.
In the lobby downstairs Dan called Martha Cruz at the Salazar house in Lakewood. She was rehearsing at the studio. He left a message for her to call him, hung up, then looked in the case file for the number of Salazar’s company in Miami. A woman with a Spanish accent answered. Señor Salazar was in conference. “Tell him Daniel Galindo called. The matter we discussed has concluded satisfactorily. Let me know when to pick up my payment. He’ll know what that means. Thanks.”
The last call was to Coral Rock Productions. Rick Robbins was out. Dan left a message with the receptionist. “Tell Rick I just scored a bull’s-eye on that case he gave me. It’s time to pay up.”
Dan picked up his mail from Alva Dunavoy’s desk, where a fifties doo-wop tune was playing on the radio. He could see Alva at the open front door, bitching to Charlie about the flowers that had been stolen out of the planters—again. Dan heard Charlie asking why she had to have flowers at all, and Alva retorting that they gave the office some class. Charlie’s bass voice boomed out, “My God, Alva, put in some plastic plants. Nobody would steal those, and you don’t have to water the damn things.”
Smiling a little, Dan shook his head. He would miss these people. Charlie had taken in an unknown lawyer without a single client to bring with him. Dan had opened his door that first Monday to the smell of lemon wax. Alva had polished the old furniture in the spare office till it gleamed and put a potted plant on his credenza. Dan got right to work on the cases Charlie had given him, most of them routine criminal or family matters. Charlie had laughed and slapped him on the back. You and me, Dan, we’re simple swabbies on the great ship Jurisprudence.
Dan had done all right in this office, but it was time to move on.
He took the Business Review off Alva’s desk and flipped to the classified section as he went to find some coffee. The pot in the tiny kitchen was empty, so he made some more. Waiting for it to drizzle through, he leaned against the counter to read the ads for professional employment. Hialeah wanted a city attorney, $45,000. Quite a few ads for personal injury lawyers. Coral Gables area. Associate litigator wanted. Must be able to successfully try personal injury and employment discrimination cases. Salary 40–70K depending on experience. Not criminal law, but a courtroom was a courtroom. He circled that one.
He turned a page, reading the ads for offices to rent. Fort Lauderdale. Trial and/or criminal lawyer wanted to share space, secretarial services incl., walk to courthouse, $1,000/mo. Dan read it again. Fort Lauderdale. Twenty-five miles due north. Closer to Josh and Lisa. It would mean starting over. Losing his clients here, finding new ones in Broward County. A thousand a month. Possible.
Dan scanned the list for Miami. Space avail in established criminal law firm with elegant offices in bank bldg, walk to courthouse. Conf room, library, etc. $2,000/mo. Perfect—but not yet.
He laughed at the next one—a way to avoid rent altogether. A law office on Brickell Avenue offered a “business identity” for $80. He could interview clients in the living room of his apartment.
Charlie came in and took down a mug. “What’s so funny?”
Dan folded the paper. “Just reading about the latest city commission meeting.”
“Hey, I meant to tell you, but I didn’t see you yesterday. I ran into Elaine McHale at the club last weekend. She’s not doing too well.”
“What do you mean? Is she sick?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t make much sense of what she was saying. She was drinking. She sounded depressed as hell.” Charlie filled his mug. “Elaine’s a great gal. A shame to see her that way.” He poked the spoon at the caked sugar in the bowl. “She asked about you. Maybe you should give her a call.”
“I will. Definitely.”
Taking his coffee to his desk, Dan dialed her number from memory. They had worked together on dozens of cases during the six years he had been employed at the U.S. attorney’s office. Elaine had always been so steady, so assured. Even after her husband, Mack, had died—what was it?—four years ago, she hadn’t lost her equilibrium. Henry McHale had been a lieutenant with Metro-Dade. He had died at the scene of a bank robbery, protecting one of the hostages with his own body. A hero. Elaine had received a letter from the White House. She had not remarried, and she lived alone. Her solitude must have become too much to bear.
The ringing at the other end switched over to her voice mail. Dan smiled into the phone. “This is one of your many admir
ers. Where are you, in court? How about lunch? You name the place, my treat. Call me at the office—and if you don’t know who this is, shame on you.”
Watching Kelly Dorff walk out of the restaurant last week, Elaine McHale had experienced a quick surge of panic. She had gone against John Paxton’s advice not to talk to a confidential informant, and that same C.I. had threatened to tell the DEA about their meeting. Elaine had calmly finished her coffee. She decided to talk it over with Vincent Hooper.
He came to her office on Tuesday.
Vince looked at the ceiling, rubbing his fingers through his beard. “Elaine, Elaine.”
“I had to find out for myself where Kelly was coming from with this story of hers about Dan Galindo. I’m the one who’ll have to put her on the stand.”
“And I’m waiting for Rick Robbins to hook me up with Salazar. This operation is balanced right on that one point, and the slightest thing could tip it over.”
“Okay. You’re right. Did Kelly contact you, by the way?”
“Not about you, no.”
“I told her I’d ask you about the master tapes from the studio,” Elaine said. “The band needs them to make a demo for a New York talent scout.”
“I know,” Vince said. “Rick Robbins was whining about it over the weekend. Here’s what I told him. If this meeting with Salazar goes as planned, he can have the tapes.”
“I feel sorry for that girl.”
“Kelly? Give me a break. People put themselves where they are, Elaine. Feeling sorry won’t save her, and it sure as hell won’t help you prosecute Miguel Salazar.”
“Vince.”
He held up his hands. “All right. You’re the last person I want to preach at.”
“How much longer are you going to need her?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” he said. “Till it’s over. I wish I could say thanks and good-bye, have a nice life, see you on the cover of Rolling Stone.”
“I don’t want to put her on the stand,” Elaine said.
“You might have to.”
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