MIAMI ICED

by Susan Sussman

  Behind her, her cousins stand and stretch. South Beach, from the looks of them, early-twenties, glitzy jewelry, hair spiked and gelled. “Juicy,” promises fabric stretched across the girl’s tightly toned tush. The boy glances at his Linde Werdelin Spidospeed -- the same watch I debated buying Michael for our twenty-fifth anniversary. I should have done it, price tag be damned.

  Tears start. Lately, they come whenever they please. The knitter glances over, concerned. “Allergies,” I say. Then, to distract her I ask, “What are you making?”

  “Baby blanket.” She tears the wrapper off a new skein of yarn. “When I was growing up, a woman didn’t leave home without some piece of handwork in her bag. I worked an entire Afghan in the hospital when my Caesar was taking so long dying.” She lifts thick glasses and wipes her eyes. “Allergies,” she says.

  Time to go. I’ll wait downstairs until the weather breaks then make a dash for my car. I try to force my swollen feet into my shrinking shoes, feel sudden compassion for Cinderella’s stepsisters. I pick up one shoe and try to stretch out the sides as the trial resumes.

  A leggy blond rises from the defense table. “Maureen Smith,” says the knitter. “She’s the kind you want in your corner.”

  Smith rests a reassuring hand on her client’s shoulder then approaches the witness. “Mr. Taylor,” she says, her voice pure southern syrup, “were you always Brandy Lucas’ jeweler?”

  “Yeah. But back in Jersey, Brandy never spent much. That was before Mel’s accident…”

  “Mel Lucas, Brandy’s husband?”

  “Yeah. Crane fell on him, crushed his leg. Insurance paid out millions.”

  “They moved to Florida but she kept you as her jeweler?”

  “Damned straight. If I tell you it’s a diamond, it’s a diamond. I tell you it’s two carats, it’s two carats. There’s a flaw in a stone, I tell you that, too. A person buying jewelry gotta be careful. A lot of crooks in the business.”

  The man next to me sniggers. He’s not alone.

  Smith smiles. Won’t you come into my parlor… “Did Brandy Lucas ever tire of jewelry, perhaps trade in old pieces for something new?”

  “Sometimes. Upgrade. You know.”

  Smith angles herself toward the jury, smiles that honey sweet smile. “Did Brandy Lucas recently come into your store with the defendant Joseph Galdino?”

  “Yeah, traded in some rings, picked out a necklace. But mostly, Brandy was helpin’ buy something for Joe’s daughter’s graduation.”

  “Why didn’t Mrs. Galdino pick out her daughter’s gift?”

  “Maria?” The jeweler looks surprised. “Nah, she’s the quiet sister, religious, a real homebody. She don’t know nothin’ about jewelry, not like Brandy.”

  The attorney steps closer. “So Mr. Galdino and his sister-in-law were friendly shortly before her death.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “He trusted Brandy Lucas to pick out a very special gift for his only child. The same way,” playing directly to the jurors, “perhaps wanting to exchange old pieces for new, Brandy Lucas trusted Joseph Galdino to safely transport her precious jewelry from Florida to New Jersey.”

  The jeweler looks surprised. “Brandy never said nothin’ about—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. No further questions.”

  The wall clock clicks to four. Judge Kossoff bangs his gavel, adjourning until nine-thirty the next day. The tout rolls his racing form into a tube. “See you tomorrow,” he says, heading out.

  The knitter packs up. “I was afraid they wouldn’t get to the wife today.”

  “How long has this trial been going on?” I ask, stretching the other shoe.

  “A few weeks. That’s longer than most, but it’s nearly over.” She points to a scruffy group kibitzing up front. “Reporters never bother showing until they smell the end. This won’t last the week.”

  A blazing sun bakes rain off the courtyard cement. I inhale the dank steam, feel my hair kink. Pain from my thawing toes reduces my gait to something hobbled. The murdered woman’s children push through the crowd stinking of stale cigarettes and sweet perfumes. I catch pieces of conversation.

  “…I didn’t see the emerald ring with the two diamond baguettes.”

  “And where’s all Nonna Sophie’s stuff?”

  “All that antique shit?”

  “Yeah. I loved that necklace with the fire opal. Someone’s got it.”

  Galdino’s daughter walks out of the courtroom, stops abruptly when she sees her cousins.

  “Little bitch,” mutters Brandy’s son, loud enough for the girl to hear. Her body tenses, on guard. Charming children. Perhaps I’ll invite them to tea.

  “Bitch,” snarls Miss Juicy tush.

  Bullies. A couple of punk bullies. Galdino’s daughter abruptly changes direction, hurrying away from them toward the ladies room.

  Juicy girl’s lips twist ugly as she calls out, “Thinks her shit don’t stink.”

  Anger sparks. Startles me. I’d forgotten the white-hot punch of it. My shoulder muscles knot, shoot pain up my neck. How long since I’ve felt anger? Felt anything? Why feel it now for this girl I don’t know? Is it because she might lose her father the way my Stacey lost hers? No, not the same way; a father in jail isn’t the same as a father dead. Although, in the end, a father is lost and a daughter mourns.

  The South Beach duo strong arm their way through the crowd to an elevator. Why does their cousin go out of her way to avoid them? Is she afraid? Suddenly I’m limping toward the ladies room, pushing open the door, the Protective Mama Bear in me needing to make sure the girl is all right.

  The cramped bathroom off the courtyard has two graffitied stalls, one cracked sink and no noticeable air conditioning. The girl stands at the sink, staring expressionless into the mirror, a Modigliani painting come to life.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Me?” Startled. “Yes, I…I’m fine, thank you.” She sniffs.

  “Here,” I move toward her, pulling a packet of tissues from my purse. She hesitates. “Keep it,” I say, “I always carry extra.”

  The door bangs open and a grim-faced matron stops cold at the sight of the two of us. She narrows her eyes. “You on line?” she demands.

  “There is no line,” I say. She pushes open a stall door and slams it shut.

  The girl takes the tissues, dabs her eyes. “Thank you,” her voice a whisper.

  “And,” I add quietly, “the coast is clear. Your cousins are gone.”

  She regards me warily. “Do I know you?”

  “No, I was just—”

  A deafening flush caroms off the walls and the matron emerges, pushing her way to the sink, crowding our space. “Good luck,” I tell the girl and I walk out, feeling unaccountably happy, as if I’ve done my good deed for the day, the week, the month.

  On the way to the parking lot, I pass the knitter chatting with people at a bus stop. “See you tomorrow,” she calls.

  Tomorrow? Impossible. Tuesday is my sister’s manicure morning. Tuesday afternoons, I drive Bitsy to the library’s book club. All week, she’s raved about the fabulous book she’s reading. Every book Bitsy reads is FABULOUS. Every play she sees is the BEST. Every painter is the most TALENTED. If my sister possessed one scintilla of critical ability, she’d have left Sheldon-the-maggot years ago, before he upped and walked out on her.

  I open my car door to a furnace blast. The seat is on fire, the steering wheel sears my fingers.

  -I should keep a towel under my seat to throw over the wheel when I park.

  -I should buy one of those accordion-pleated sun deflectors.

  -I should leave the windows open a crack and hope no one steals my car.

  Most of all, I should sell my condo and boat and get the hell out of Dodge. I would if I could. Except the economy is in the toilet and my real estate agent hasn’t found any one interested in my condo. And the boat... Damn. I can’t keep putting Quincy off. He deserves better. I’ll stop by the marina
on my way home.

  I ease the car into the exit line and adjust the rearview. A white truck muscles in behind me, nearly squashing the VW that had been hugging my bumper. The matron I’d seen in the bathroom sits in the passenger seat beside a scowling mountain of a man. No wonder she’d been so pushy in the bathroom. He doesn’t look like the type you keep waiting.

  As I pass the courthouse I have to swing around a black town car parked two wheels up on the curb. A driver holds the back door open for Galdino’s daughter. The girl looks drained, lifeless – much like the face in my own mirror these past seven months. How can I not come to court tomorrow? How can I not be there for her, lend moral support as she faces her punk cousins, be there when her mother takes the stand? I aim my car toward the marina. Tomorrow, my sister will have to find someone else to chauffeur her around town. I have a murder in my future.

  4

  I drive into the near-deserted Seaview Marina parking lot -- No law says I have to do this today – and pull up outside the Harbormaster office overlooking yachts bobbing on sparkling waters. What’s one more day, or week, or month -- give or take? The car idles. Fight or flight? I cut the engine and force myself out of the car.

  Quincy sits at his office desk polishing something brass, bracing a phone between a tattooed shoulder and cauliflower ear. A former Navy Seal, Quincy is five foot six of don’t-mess-with-me muscle. He winks, holds up a finger for me to wait.

  For a few minutes I pace the room, risk looking out the window overlooking the marina. The Go Bears bobs in a far slip, hundreds of thousands of our retirement dollars gathering barnacles. This was Michael’s dream, Michael whose father died when he was thirteen, who worked double jobs through college, who built a business from scratch, cared for an aging mother, helped his siblings when times were tough. And the enormous carrot at the end of that particular stick was Michael’s dream of retiring to Florida, buying a condo and a boat. We thought we’d be ancient by the time we could afford it instead of forty-five and fifty. But when a conglomerate swooped down and bought out Michael’s company we took the money and ran straight to Florida, giddy about starting a sexy new chapter in our lives.

  Mentsch tracht, Gott lakht. Man plans, God laughs.

  Michael-memories suck the air from the room. “Gotta go,” I say.

  Quincy cups the receiver. “Just one more minute, darlin’. Promise.”

  A morning paper on his desk says: GALDINO TRIAL ENTERS FOURTH WEEK. “I’m going to grab a coffee,” I say, taking the paper. “I’ll be back.”

  It’s a three-minute walk to the klatch of cafés, restaurants and shops bordering the marina. A late afternoon crowd schmoozes in Hebrew, Russian, Spanish, English, Canadian French. Small children chase birds, splash in the fountain, ignore nannies. I order an iced coffee and settle at an outdoor table to read.

  Joseph Galdino, owner of a New Jersey construction company, is accused of murdering his sister-in-law Brandy Lucas. Her husband Mel – Galdino’s brother-in-law and business partner -- is missing. The article recaps the case. Two years ago, a construction crane fell on Mel Lucas, mangling his leg, crippling him for life. The crane, it turned out, had a structural flaw and the crane company paid millions in settlement. The day the insurance check cleared, Mel and Brandy Lucas fled New Jersey for Palm Beach. They began living large, a home with a swimming pool, luxury cars, a fifty-foot yacht.

  I stir two packets of sugar into my coffee, study the photos accompanying the article. The one of Joseph Galdino is blurry, like a frame cropped from an FBI surveillance film. I try to read his face. What kind of man kills his wife’s sister?

  Another photo shows Brandy and Mel sipping Champagne aboard the Dandy Brandy. Brandy, a blowzy blond with big hair, wears the sort of lip-lined, thick-lashed makeup perfected by female impersonators. Serious jewelry dangles from meaty lobes and drapes a nip-and-tucked neck. Mel, thick gold chains tangled in a forest of curly chest hair, has the puppy-eyed look of a guy crazy in love with his lady. They look nice enough. How did they raise those two obnoxious kids I’d seen in court?

  An exasperated voice pushes in from the next table. “Ma, you don’t cut pills in half.” I glance over the top of my paper at a sixtyish gent scolding an eightyish lady.

  “They last longer,” she says.

  “The doctor gives you the dose he wants you to take. If you cut them in half, you might as well not take them.”

  My son Ethan sounds like that, getting on my case for shutting down after Michael died. “A person grieves like a person grieves,” I tell him, but he doesn’t let up, sends me funny books, silly cards, unrelenting texts of puns. How does it happen that, overnight, we become our children’s children? In court today, Galdino’s daughter seemed concerned for her father that way, keeping herself strong for his sake. The pill-cutter pats her son’s hand. “You shouldn’t worry, boychik,” she says. “I’m fine.”

  My stomach rumbles and my hands tremble. Evidently, caffeine on an empty stomach is a poor culinary choice. I add another creamer to the coffee by way of nourishment and open the paper to page two. The prosecution alleges Joseph Galdino grew increasingly jealous of his brother-in-law’s sudden wealth. Galdino started the construction company with no money but a tremendous drive to succeed. Mel Lucas on the other hand sat around drinking coffee and schmoozing and, as one co-worker put it, “…was laid back to the point of comatose. Galdino would have kicked Lucas the hell off the job if their wives weren’t sisters.”

  I scan to the end of the article. Trouble started after Lucas moved to Palm Beach and Galdino started hitting him up for money. The most recent ‘loan’ was rumored to be a hundred thousand dollars. Galdino quickly blew the borrowed money on slow horses and fast women. Lucas-the-lazy began pressuring his brother-in-law to repay the loan. Prosecutors contend that, unable to repay the money, angry that the Nouveau stinking-riche Lucas would even suggest he wanted his money back, Galdino secretly flew from New Jersey to Florida, killed his sister-in-law, then returned home. Mel Lucas hasn’t been seen since. I read that again. Did Joseph Galdino kill his brother-in-law, too? I think of my sister’s ex-husband Sheldon-the-pond scum. I’d certainly had a few murderous thoughts about him over the years.

  A squealing toddler chases a crumb-seeking bird under my table. I reach down, shielding the child’s head until she runs out. This is the second time today I’ve felt protective. The first was in court with Galdino’s daughter. Danger. Danger. Warning. If I open the door to one emotion, the rest will stampede in like Black Friday shoppers. I’m not ready. My stomach rumbles again, louder, longer. Time to see Quincy then head home.

  Quincy’s off the phone. “Hey, girl,” he says, hugging me around, smelling of brass polish and salt water. “I miss you.”

  I swallow, try to get my voice on straight. “I haven’t had the heart to come by.”

  “Figured.”

  “Thanks for looking after the boat.”

  “Glad to do it. You ready to start usin’ her again?”

  “Sell her,” I say.

  His eyes cloud. “Dunno, Laura.”

  “I mean it. Sell the boat and the slip.”

  “The boat market’s softer than,” he squints one eye, “hell, there ain’t no market.” He sees my tears coming. “Might be,” he says, “I can rent her out.”

  “That would be great.”

  “She’ll show better if you pack away some of your personal stuff. Family photos, that sort of thing. It helps prospective buyers and renters picture themselves living the life.”

  ‘Packing the boat’ means I would actually have to step foot onboard. “I’ll do that soon,” I say. “Real soon.” Neither of us believes it. “Meanwhile, you can show her, if anyone’s interested.” I wave the Sentinel. “All right if I take this?”

  “It’s all yours.”

  Outside, a car pulls up next to mine. A man unfolds from the front seat. There’s something cowboy about him -- lanky build, worn jeans, pointed-toe boots, tee shirt with the sleev
es rolled.

  “Excuse me,” he says, sliding Ray-Ban aviators up on his head. His eyes catch me up short – bright, intelligent, playful. Early fifties, his longish thinning hair is more salt than pepper. Age has added a little softness around his middle.

  I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until he says, “Excuse me,” again.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this the Harbormaster’s office?”

  I turn and look at Quincy’s building where a sign the size of Sandusky says “HARBORMASTER”.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. A slight smile lifts one corner of his mouth. He doesn’t move. I don’t move. High Noon. Finally, “Quincy’s inside,” I say.

  “Harbormaster?”

  “So he says.”

  He flashes a snaggletooth grin and reaches a hand to me. “Sam Parker.”

  “Laura Marks,” and we shake hands, his grip firm and cool. He’s a beat slow letting go.

  “Quincy?” says he.

  “Yes,” says I.

  “Thanks,” and he walks off into the sunset.

  I start the broiling car, crank the air to Ice Age and flip down the visor mirror. A ghost stares back, pale and drawn, dark circles raccooning her eyes. The face that sank a thousand ships. I unearth an ancient tube of lipstick and swipe it over my lips then pinch color into my cheeks and rake fingers through my frizz of hair. Better. Not great, but a lot less Night of the Living Dead.

  It’s time to go home, steel myself against the happy reek of Bitsy’s baking. Monday is Baking Day as rigidly as Tuesday is Manicure/Book Club and Wednesday is Laundry. Bitsy’s days flow through a Grand Canyon-sized rut carved by twenty-five years of following Sheldon-the-Tsar’s inflexible schedule. Bitsy can’t seem to climb out and I’m in no condition to give her a leg up. We’re quite the pair of sisters, one divorced, one widowed, limping along, leaning on a couple of phantom limbs.

  5