“That’s entrapment,” Canter howled. “That shit’s against the law.”
“Against the law?” Martinson laughed. “Take a look around, Anton. The only two out here is me and you.”
He unsnapped the strap on his holster. Anton Canter was all done posturing. Martinson had his undivided attention.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He smacked his open palm into Canter’s chest, knocking him off balance. “You understand me?”
This felt good.
“You remember Josephine Simmons, don’t you? The old lady you beat half to death?”
Canter said, “I didn’t do it.”
“She died.”
“I didn’t do it and you know I didn’t do it.”
“I know you got an alibi,” Martinson said, “and I know it checked out. The first time. That’s all I know. But the State of Florida takes murder very seriously. So there’s going to be a whole new investigation now because it’s a whole new crime. Isn’t the criminal justice system wonderful?”
“I swear to God,” Canter said, “I never laid a finger on that woman.”
“Then you better start thinking about somebody who might have, you little cocksucker, and the next time I talk to you, which is gonna be real fucking soon, you better think about giving me that name.”
Martinson tugged on the gold rope with the Mercedes logo, and Canter’s head came forward. He pulled it again, harder, but it stayed around his neck. Tightening the slack, the third time he used both hands, and snapping the clasp, he pitched the necklace into the gutter.
The Switching Station was an overgrown dive with delusions of glamour, and though it might’ve been plush once, that was a long time ago. Track lights illuminated the dregs of a shag carpet, and three high-backed booths lined one wall. A hanging lamp threw a dim puddle of light on a pool table. Somebody had taped an OUT OF ORDER sign on an unplugged pinball machine.
The bartender at the Calabash was right. The Switching Station had the dead-eyed makings of a tough, freaky crowd. Walking in, Lili counted six patrons and that number was instantly thinned by two. A pair of rugged Cubanos slipped out the second they made her for a cop.
Somebody’s grandmother was bitching about her landlord in a drunken, foul-mouthed Spanish, but Lili didn’t recognize the accent as Cuban. Salvadoran, Costa Rican. Something. A sideburned Romeo listened to her woes, nodding compulsively.
The bartender was dressed as a woman, but it wouldn’t be right to say he was in drag. He was making no effort to fool anybody. He had beefed-up arms, broad shoulders, and a thick, muscular neck. Sporting a pigtailed wig, he also had a dense mustache in addition to a solid five day-growth of beard. He was shirtless under a gingham jumper, a tragic Dorothy taken a twisted trail west of the Yellow Brick Road.
Lili badged him and showed him JP Beaumond’s mug shots.
“Yeah, I know him. Pulled a knife in here once.” He had a rumbling voice, not a queenie lilt. Lili had never seen it done quite like this before. The wig, the clothes, the beard. The guy must’ve been on the cutting edge of some new gay style.
“Is he a regular here?”
“He’s been in a few times. I wouldn’t say regular. What’d he do now?”
A pockmarked poppo called him away. There was one other customer at the bar, a white male, maybe twenty-five. He was wearing a Ricardo Montalban suit, and had his heels hooked over the rung of his bar stool. He tapped his feet in the air, eyes darting, waiting for the action to start.
When the bartender came back, Lili said, “Actually, I’m looking for his buddy. Young kid, tall, probably Cuban. You ever see him come in here with anybody matching that description?”
“You gotta mean Alex. This other guy, the short one, he’s fairly new to the scene. Alex’s been around for years.”
“So you know him?”
“Like I said, he’s been around for years. Miami native, if I’m not mistaken. Last name Hernandez, Fernandez, something real common. Did you try the Ron-Da-Voo?”
“Not yet. Have you seen him lately?”
“Not since the night the short guy pulled the knife. They came in together. Alex’s fucked up, like everybody else who hangs out here, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. What kind of trouble is he in?”
“I just wanna talk to him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the bartender said. “He really is a gentle, sweet-hearted kid. But that other one is a chemical spill. Completely toxic. He’ll never get in here again, I can tell you that. Just do me a favor,” he said, tossing a pigtail over his shoulder. “Don’t give me up, okay? It’d be bad for business.”
“Not a problem,” Lili said. “I appreciate your help.”
“And I appreciate yours.”
This was years before the hype washed over this town like a tidal wave, when all of South Miami Beach was sick with a poverty and an off-the-graph crime rate no European land baron or transplanted nightclub impresario, no Hollywood schlockenstein wanted to touch:
The punk’s name was John Colangelo, a Times Square hustler whose bloom was so long off his rose he’d been niggled into running a short con with his boyfriend, Rudy Burkalter. They took out some classified ads and a PO Box, and had suckers mail in checks and money orders made out to their bogus company. It was a rock-bottom bunco scheme, but they weren’t after any prizes for originality. And it wasn’t like they were making millions or even thousands, though they did have a few hundred bucks coming in every week, enough to cover the rent on their flop, enough to keep them in jumbos and T-Bird.
The fight was most likely over money. Colangelo grabbed the first thing handy, a cast iron frying pan, and whacked Burkalter with it. Then he hit him again. And again. Twenty-six times all together, until Burkalter’s head was a squishy nub on top of his neck. Colangelo emptied their post office box one last time, cashed the checks, and hit the road.
Who knows what he was thinking? Maybe he just wanted to go where the weather was warm.
But Miami Beach was not then and not now an ideal location to go on the lam. First of all, it was an island, and east of the city, you were in the Atlantic Ocean. West, you’d run into the Everglades. South, there was one lonesome road in and out of the Keys. And north was the direction Colangelo had run from. He was at the end of the line.
Before long, somebody made him for John Colangelo, who was wanted for the murder of Rudy Burkalter. That same somebody, his greedy heart set on some imagined reward, phoned the NYPD and informed them that John Colangelo was occupying quarters in an Ocean Drive fleabag, where he was registered as Jerry Collins.
Homicide detective Pat Judice called Beach police and gave them the rundown on John Colangelo. He also gave them the name of the hotel where Colangelo was holed up, a building that had since been torn down to make way for the inevitable forces of progress, a hotel whose name, at the moment, escaped Arnie Martinson.
Colangelo was not there when Martinson and Frank Matzalanis arrived to collect the debt he owed New York State, not to mention the memory of Rudy Burkalter. So they waited. They waited six hours. And during that six hours, Colangelo, with an overwhelming longing to return to his salad days, or perhaps just in need of some company or some cash, made a date with a Philadelphia businessman. The businessman’s wife, it turned out, was in another hotel room way up Collins Avenue.
Martinson was stretched out on the lumpy mattress, and Matzalanis sat on a rickety chair, with the lights off. By then, it was dark. When they heard voices in the hallway, they stood up and positioned themselves on either side of the door. They drew their weapons. The door opened, and as Colangelo reached for the wall switch, Martinson stuck the barrel of his .38 caliber service revolver into John Colangelo’s right ear. The key still clammy between a thumb and a forefinger, Colangelo raised his hands. His trick let out a bark before he broke down in sobs.