Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  As he parked in the circular driveway, he noticed a monstrous black Harley-Davidson leaning on its kickstand in front of the triple garage. A red-haired man built like a pro wrestler was shining the spokes. Arlo Pate—the band’s new drummer. With his eyes fixed on Dan, he slowly stood up and tossed the rag back and forth in his hands.

  Dan opened his trunk and took out the box. “I’m here to see Kelly Dorff.”

  “Kelly’s busy.”

  “Can you give this to her?”

  “Martha said for you to take it out back.”

  Going through the house, following the short Indian woman with braids, Dan thought he heard the wail of a guitar, muffled and slow. He remembered that Martha had a rehearsal studio on the property, and he imagined that Kelly Dorff was out there behind the soundproof walls, avoiding him.

  White curtains billowed at the open back doors. Through the windows Dan could see the green lawn stretching down to the lake and the line of royal palms along its shore. The red and yellow sail of a beached catamaran luffed in the wind. Dan walked under a trellis thick with deep pink bougainvillea, then onto the terrace. He squinted. Sunlight reflected off the pool, creating a nimbus around a table where Miguel Salazar sat reading the paper.

  When he saw Dan and Josh, he lowered the newspaper but didn’t get up. His white terry cloth robe was open, revealing a turquoise Speedo and a darkly tanned, hairy chest. His bare feet were propped in another chair.

  He smiled briefly at Josh, then raised his black eyes to Dan. “Good morning.” The greeting was quizzical.

  “Some clothes of Kelly’s,” Dan said. “She’s staying here now, I understand?”

  “Yes. Martha’s guest.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Recovering his manners, he extended an arm. “Please, sit down. Have some orange juice.” Over Salazar’s head fluttered the scalloped edges of a white umbrella. He sat in its shade. There was a tray with pastries, napkins, and an insulated silver pitcher.

  Josh spotted Salazar’s niece and sped off to tell her where he was going today. Several people were splashing around in the pool, and a yellow boom box at the far end played a salsa tune, all brass and popping drumbeats.

  Dan put the box beside his chair and poured himself a glass of juice. “The man out front cleaning his motorcycle said to give the box to Martha.”

  “She’s swimming. I think she saw you.” Salazar pointed out the other people on the terrace. Relatives from Ecuador—an uncle and his wife, their daughter-in-law, her baby in a playpen. Salazar’s sister paddled on an air mattress. In the middle of the pool a woman’s slender arms steadily rose and fell as she knifed through the water, coming closer.

  “I thank you again for helping her in the court.”

  “And thank you for the boat,” Dan said.

  “Did you take the boy fishing already?”

  “We’re going out this afternoon. Maybe we’ll do some fishing. He says okay, Dad, but I’m not putting any worms on hooks.”

  Salazar smiled. “When will you go to the Bahamas?” His hand hovered over the tray of pastries, then selected a small roll crusted with almonds.

  “Well … I’m not sure. I still have to work that out with Lisa.”

  That brought a soft laugh. The pockmarked skin drew up along Salazar’s high cheekbones and narrowed his black eyes to slits. “No, my friend. You want to go? Go. You say to Lisa, I’m going to the Bahamas with my son. Oh, you don’t like it? Too bad.” He bit the pastry in half, then gestured toward Dan. “Never beg a woman. It’s weak. You must stay in control. If you let women tell you what to do, they don’t respect you.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind, Miguel.”

  As they talked, their attention moved to the ladder where Martha would emerge from the pool. Dan saw the top of her head, then her hands curling around the shiny chrome, then the water was pouring off her body. The one-piece swimsuit was the same color as her golden-brown skin, giving the impression that she wore nothing at all, and the fabric of the suit was so thin Dan could see the dark rose color at the point of each perfectly rounded breast. Her body was hard and sleek. She glanced at the table where Dan and Salazar sat, then bent over to pick up a ribbon from a lounge chair. The swimsuit barely covered her backside. There was a tattoo of a bird on one buttock. Dan let his eyes wander down her legs to the leafy tattoo around her left ankle, then up again as she wrung out her heavy hair and tied it into a ponytail. Her earrings sparkled against her neck.

  Aware suddenly that he was staring, he turned back around. Salazar was looking at him. Dan smiled. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  “Thank you,” Salazar said, as if his possession of this woman entitled him to the compliment.

  With a towel over one shoulder, Martha put on her shiny green sunglasses and came to say hello. Salazar held out an arm. She bent to give him a fast peck on the cheek, but his hand tightened and pulled her back down. He murmured something in her ear, then let her go.

  Glancing at Dan, she wrapped the towel around herself and knotted it on one hip. “What’s in the box, Kelly’s stuff?”

  “Dan is the delivery man today,” Salazar said. He gripped the handle of the silver pitcher and poured her some juice. “Sit down with us. Have a sweet.”

  “I just ate, Miguel, I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit down.”

  Dan hadn’t touched his juice. He had brought the box, and now he could leave. But he wanted to stick around for a few minutes and see what was going on. He stood up and held a chair for Martha so that she and Salazar were on opposite sides of the table, his own chair between them.

  “Thanks.” She smiled at him and sat down. Her shoulders glittered with drops of water. She smelled faintly of chlorine.

  Dan said, “Kelly told me she’d be staying here with you. Just curious—why did she decide to do that?”

  Salazar laughed. “Because she wants to make sure Martha doesn’t take over the band.”

  “That’s not true, Miguel. My equipment is here. We’re working on the songs. Arlo is here too, so it’s easier.” She said to Dan, “At the party last night, Kelly messed up big-time, and I’m sure people noticed. She really needs to work on her timing. I don’t know what we’re going to do if she wigs out like that at the concert.”

  Salazar leaned back in his chair and knitted his fingers over his stomach. His gold bracelet glittered on his wrist. “Someone told us that Martha would do better on her own with a backup band. We can call it ‘Cruz.’ What do you think, Dan?”

  “I don’t have an opinion. It’s up to the band.” He looked at Martha. “What do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t want to change anything now. It’s two weeks till the concert.” Martha was getting bold—possibly because her lawyer was sitting with her, Dan thought. She added, “Anyway, it’s Kelly’s band. She started it.”

  Salazar smiled patiently at her. “What did the people tell you last night, Martica? You’re the best one. The star.”

  Martha raised her arms to adjust her ponytail, and her breasts lifted. “Kelly’s a better songwriter.”

  “I can’t understand her lyrics. She doesn’t sing, she screams.”

  “She has a lot to say, Miguel. You should try listening.”

  “What does she say? This is such a bad country, such a terrible place. She should go to Ecuador. When I was ten years old, my father took us to the city because there was no work in the mountains. In Guayaquil we lived in a house with a dirt floor. The police beat my father, and he went deaf. Then my mother died with her seventh baby, and we had to pick garbage to live. So I know what’s terrible and what isn’t. Kelly should go there.” Salazar said to Dan, “Martha forgets how she lived before I met her.”

  Martha made no response. She kept her sunglasses pointed toward the lake. A drop of water slid down her neck out of her hair.

  Dan looked back at Salazar. “Martha’s going to do all right. I wouldn’t worry about her one bit.”

  “Yes, Miguel. This time next year, I�
��ll be on a national tour. We’ll be famous. Kelly and me and Scott and Arlo.”

  “You can see her on Saturday Night Live,” Dan said.

  Salazar sat up in his chair, smiling across the table at her. “What will I see? A fat cowboy playing the drums. Kelly Dorff in rags like a beggar, and Scott, the punk with his blue hair, like a maricón! And you—Martha Cruz with her culo hanging out of her pants.”

  “If you don’t like it, complain to Rick.”

  Salazar slapped her, a loud crack. Her glasses went flying off. Martha made a single, sharp intake of breath and held her cheek.

  The people at the other end of the pool stopped their conversations for a second, then turned their backs.

  Dan realized he was standing. He looked down at Salazar. The black eyes were deadly. Dan took a breath. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “Yeah?” He took another breath. His head swam with fear. “Martha, I’ll take you out of here right now. Go get whatever you need and I’ll wait.”

  Salazar stood up. The white robe hung open, and his muscled belly glistened with suntan oil. “She doesn’t go anywhere with you.”

  “If she wants to leave, I’ll take her. If that causes you a problem, tough.”

  Salazar smiled. “Not a problem for me. For you, I think.”

  “Don’t!” Martha’s shrill voice pierced the air between them. She grabbed Miguel’s arm. “Leave right now, Dan.”

  He stared at her.

  “I want to stay. Okay? Just go.” The mark of Miguel Salazar’s hand flamed on her cheek, and her eyes pleaded. “Miguel’s right. This isn’t your business. Please go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want to stay here.”

  Salazar said, “You have the keys to my boat?”

  “At my apartment. I’ll drop them in the mail today. Then you can drive the boat up your culo.”

  Quick as a snake, Salazar’s hands shot out and closed on the front of Dan’s sweater. “I think I’m going to kill you.” He laughed as if somebody had suggested he held the winning lottery numbers.

  “Miguel, stop it!” Martha dug her fingers into his fists. “His son is over there playing. Let go!”

  Josh. It was thinking of Josh that kept Dan from wrestling Salazar into the pool, where he knew he would have the advantage. Keep him under till he ran out of breath and choked. Then leave him on the deck gagging.

  Salazar shoved him away. “Go on. Take your boy and get out.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Under a bright sun, the big sportfisher flew across the water, twin diesels roaring. Dan stood at the wheel, and Josh sat to his left in the mate’s seat. The bay was alive with pleasure craft, sailboarders, speedboats, and multicolored sails tilting to windward.

  Dan had decided that his manhood did not depend on mailing back the keys immediately. Josh had expected a boat ride; he could have one. They had already made a complete circuit of Key Biscayne, then had raced up the Atlantic side of Miami Beach, about five miles out, the boat crashing into the swells and throwing up a spray, leaving a half mile of wake behind it. Now they were coming back south through the intracoastal, just cruising. As they passed under the causeways that connected the mainland to Miami Beach, Josh clambered down the ladder to the cockpit and waved at the fishermen dangling lines in the water. Dan had told him the truth of the situation, more or less: The man who owned the boat needed it back sooner than expected. But they would take a trip together, count on it. He smiled and laughed and hid his anger. He wanted to pull the drain cock and scuttle the miserable boat. He was angry at himself as well. He had goaded Salazar, like sticking pins in a rattlesnake, and Salazar had taken it out on Martha.

  Gradually the open blue sky and the task of steering the boat calmed his churning frustration. By the time they reached the marina and the Bertram backed obediently into its slip, the sun was a fading memory on the horizon and the fuel tanks were sucking air. Dan drove Josh back to Lakewood Village. Lisa barely spoke. Exhausted, dispirited, Dan headed home.

  As his car rose higher on the tangle of roads that made up the Golden Glades interchange, Dan could see the lights of Miami spread out to the south and west, and over to the east, where the land stopped, a line of darkness indicated the ocean. Beyond that, over the curve of the Atlantic, lay the Bahamas.

  He would collect the thousand dollars that Rick owed him for taking Martha Cruz’s case. That and a MasterCard would get him and Josh to Cat Cay for a week. Rick would send the demo tape to the A&R guy from Capitol, who would come to the concert, love it, sign the band, and Martha would be on her way to New York. Adiós, Miguel.

  Dan passed over 151st Street, then 125th Street to North Miami, then 119th. He was bearing down on 103rd when a face jumped into his memory. He jerked the wheel right, cut across three lanes, exited the interstate, then got back on. At 125th Street he headed for North Miami. He had to find Manatee Studios.

  Maybe it was thinking of the demo tape that had jogged his memory. Quick as a strobe light, off and on, he had seen a dark-haired man with a beard. If he could find the studio—it would be open, they were always open at night—he might remember who it was.

  It took him almost half an hour to find the studio. Sodium-vapor crime lights cast their yellowish glare onto the empty parking lot. Dan recognized a dumpster, then a weedy pile of wooden pallets. His headlights picked up a sign: MANATEE STUDIOS. He turned off the engine and looked through the glass door.

  It came to Dan slowly. He had seen the man twice. Once here, a couple of weeks ago, then again this morning outside Elaine McHale’s apartment. Her guest was the same man he had glimpsed in the studio’s dimly lighted control room. Not the engineer, the other one. Looking for Rick, Dan had opened the control room door. The man had remained absolutely still, as if any motion would give him away. For a split second their eyes had met, then the engineer stood up, casually blocking Dan’s view. And Rick had taken Dan back out and closed the door.

  If it was the same man, then why would a record producer visit a federal prosecutor? Dan wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his shorts. He knew he could be wrong about this. Dead wrong.

  Standing in a pool of light on his ex-brother-in-law’s front porch he heard Rick yelling okay, okay. Then a pause, like he was looking through the peephole. Then the click of the door opening.

  Rick was belting his plaid bathrobe. “What is this? Don’t you call first?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be in bed,” Dan said quietly. “Is Sandy asleep?”

  “No, she’s waiting for me, ready to boogie, if you get my drift.” Rick’s hair was standing up, and he smelled of cologne. “Dan, you look like shit. What’s going on, man?”

  Dan heard a creak and glanced toward the stairs. He called out, “Sandy? It’s only me. Dan. I need to talk with Rick for a minute. Don’t bother getting up.” He grasped Rick’s arm and drew him toward the den, a small TV room off the main living area, which glittered, even in the semidarkness, with mirrors and polished tile.

  “What the—”

  “Be quiet and listen.”

  He was halfway through telling Rick what he had seen when the door swung open. Sandy stood there in a sleep shirt, arms crossed, hair tousled. “You boys mind tellin’ me what the hell is goin’ on?”

  “Go on back to bed, pumpkin.”

  When Rick tried to turn her around, she slapped his hand away. “Don’t you do that. I asked a question. This is my damn house too, by God.”

  “It’s nothing, baby—”

  “Rick, I mean it!” She looked from one of them to the other. Rick breathing too fast. Dan frozen. She clenched her shirt over her heart. “Oh, my God. Did somebody die? Is Josh okay?”

  Dan said, “Josh is fine. I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late, Sandy. I had to ask Rick some personal questions—personal to me, I mean.”

  “You were bangin’ on the door like an ax murderer was after you.”


  “I wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Well, I don’t have a car phone, and I was nearby.”

  She looked at him hard. “You’re lyin’ to me, mister.”

  Rick said, “Jesus! This is between me and Dan. Okay? Man to man? Now would you get back upstairs?” There was sweat on his upper lip.

  “No.”

  Dan put a hand on Rick’s arm. “I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

  “Aaah, shit.” Rick sank down on his chair, hands dangling between his knees. His bald spot shone in the light from the reading lamp. He raised his head and looked at Dan. “Tell her. There won’t be any peace and quiet around here tonight if we don’t.”

  After a second Dan said, “Sandy, I didn’t use a telephone because I was concerned that your lines might be tapped. It’s possible—not certain—that a man I saw by chance on the street this morning, who appeared to be an undercover police officer, may also be the man I saw in the control booth at Manatee Studios. Rick told me his name is Victor Ramirez. I just realized this on the way back from taking Josh home, or I would have come sooner. I was asking Rick what he knows about Ramirez.”

  “Oh, my God. Rick—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

  “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I swear.” Rick cleared his throat. “I met Victor Ramirez about two months ago. He gave me some references, and I checked them out. The man is a record producer. The engineer, Willy Silva, is the real deal. Their equipment was exactly what we needed to do the recording for Mayhem. They had Mesa-Boogie Mark III amps, a dynamite console, DAT tapes, computer backup. How many studios you know have computer backup?”

  Dan said, “But if Ramirez and Silva are so good, why are they in that rathole of a building in North Miami?”

  “Why not? In recording, you don’t pay high rent. You don’t need to impress anybody. All you need is the hardware, and they’ve got it. Victor is an investor. He has a couple of nightclubs in Puerto Rico, one in Atlantic City—”