“I think I heard the name.”
“He’s trying to do a job, but this place is getting rougher every year. I don’t know what’s doing it. Floaters and drifters. Boozing and knifing folks. Used to be quiet and pretty and nice. Now a lady wouldn’t want to go into town of a Saturday night at all. The good stores, they’re all out in the Groveway Mall. Look, you men want a good honest dinner at an honest price, we’re serving from six to eight thirty. Tonight is ribs and chicken.”
The River County sheriff’s office and jail were in a white modern building diagonally across the street from the ornate yellow turrets and minarets of the old county courthouse. County cars and patrol cars were parked in a wire enclosure beside the building. When we went in, I could hear the flat mechanical tone of voice of the female dispatcher somewhere out of sight. A fat girl in a pale blue uniform with arm patch sat behind a green desk, typing with two fingers.
She glared at us and said, “You want something?”
“Sure do,” I said, “but if I asked you for it, you’d probably bust me alongside the head.”
“Oh, you!” she said, with a chubby simper. “Who you wanna see?”
“Whoever is still assigned to the Ellis Esterland killing.”
“Esterland. Esterland. Oh, the rich millionaire guy. That was a long time ago. Look, what we got around here, we got Sunday evening, which is supposed to be a big rest from Saturday night, but tonight it isn’t, you know what I mean? I got to finish this dang thang. It has to go in. Couldn’t you come back tomorrow, fellas?”
“Would it be assigned to anybody in particular?”
“I wouldn’t rightly know myself. My guess is, it would just be an open file, you know. And in the monthly meeting, the sheriff, he goes over the open files with the officers, to kind of remind them to keep their eyes open and keep asking questions even when they’re checking out other stuff. You fellas from another jurisdiction?”
At that moment a sallow man in baggy yellow slacks and a Polynesian shirt came out of one office, heading for another, a stack of papers in his hand.
“Oh, Barney! Look, can maybe you help these fellas? They want to know who’s still working on that rich millionaire that got beat to death at that rest stop over on the turnpike a long time ago.”
He stopped and stared at us, a slow and careful appraisal, and then managed to herd both of us over into a corner away from the girl typing. He smelled tartly of old sweat.
“My name is Odum,” he said.
“Meyer. And Mr. McGee,” Meyer said. There was no hand extended.
“What would be your interest in that case? We’re short-handed here at the best of times. No time for book writers, newspaper people, or those who’re just damn nosey.”
As I hesitated, hunting the right approach, Meyer stepped in. With a flourish, he handed Odum one of his cards. I knew it was meaningless. But it is a thick card on cream-colored stock with raised lettering. There are a lot of initials after his name, all earned. In the bottom left corner is his adopted designation: Certified Guarantor. He had conducted some field surveys of his own and had weeded his options down to these two words. They sounded official and had the flavor of money and personal authority. People treat a Certified Guarantor with respect. If they asked what it meant, he told them in such a way that respect was increased.
“Mr. McGee is assisting me, sir,” Meyer said. “The Esterland estate is a phased estate, in that certain incumbrances and stipulations have to fall into place in a time frame that takes heed of certain aspects of taxation on properties coexistent with the residual portions. So I’m sure you understand that just as a formality, sir, we have to go through the motions of testifying and certifying that yes, we did indeed proceed to Citrus City and review the status of the open case of murder and report back to the administrators and adjudicators, so that things can move ahead and not be tied up in jurisdictional red tape. Please believe me when I tell you that in return for your cooperation, we will take a minimum of time from busy officers of the law.”
Odum’s eyes looked slightly glazed. He shook himself like a damp dog and said, “You want to just… check out where we are on that thing?”
“On a totally confidential basis, of course.”
“Sure. I realize that. Fine. Well, I guess Rick Tate, Deputy Rick Tate, would be the one who’d have it all clearest in mind. Where’s Rick, Zelda?”
She stopped typing. “Rick? Oh, he’s went up to Eustis with Debbie on account of her mom is bad off again. He’ll be back on tomorrow on the four to midnight.”
“You can get hold of him tomorrow,” Odum said. “He’ll come in about three thirty, around there. I won’t be here.”
“If we could have some kind of informal authorization?” Meyer asked. “Maybe you could just write it on the back of the card I gave you.”
He went over to a corner of Zelda’s desk and wrote on the card, Rick, you can go ahead and tell these men everything we got to date on Esterland, which isn’t much anyway. Barney Odum.
When we walked back out into the warm evening, I said, “Certified Guarantor! You could write political speeches.”
“Let me see. You are a Salvage Consultant. Anne called us a couple of con men. From now until tomorrow what do we do?”
“We can check out the Palmer Hotel. Where Esterland was last seen alive. You did nicely with Barney Odum, friend.”
“Yes. I know.”
Most of the old hotels in the central cities of Florida, in the cities of less than a hundred thousand, have gone downhill, decaying with the neighborhoods. Some of them have turned into office buildings, or parking lots, or low-cost storage bins for elderly indigents.
Though the neighborhood had evidently decayed, the Palmer was a pleasant surprise. A clean roomy lobby, pleasant lighting, trim and tidy ladies behind the desk and the newsstand. Walnut and polished brass.
The dark bar off the lobby was called The Office. Prism spots gleamed down on the bald pate of the bearded bartender, on shining glassware, on good brands on the back bar, on the padded bar rim, on black Naugahyde stools with brass nailheads. A young couple off in a corner held hands across the small table.
The bartender said, “Gentlemen,” and put coasters in front of us. I ordered Boodles over ice with a twist, and Meyer selected a white wine. After serving us he moved off to that precise distance good bartenders maintain: far enough to give us privacy if we wanted it, close enough to join in should we speak to him.
“Good-looking place,” I said to him.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do much business?”
“Not much on weekends. Big noon and cocktailtime business during the week.”
“This is a very generous shot of gin.”
“Thank you, sir. This is not really a commercial place, I mean in the sense that there is a lot of cost control. It’s owned by National Citrus Associates. The cooperatives and some of the big growers maintain suites here. There’s a lot of convention and meeting business, a lot of businessmen from overseas, a lot of government people, state and federal. It’s something like a club. The number of available rooms is quite limited.”
Meyer said, “A friend of ours from Fort Lauderdale had lunch here the day he was killed at a rest stop over on the turnpike. A year and nine months ago. Ellis Esterland.”
“A tragic thing,” the bartender said. “Beaten to death and robbed. There is so much mindless violence in the world. I’ve been here five years, and I can see the difference in just that short time. Mr. Esterland had a drink here at the bar before he went to the grill room for his lunch. He sat right where you are sitting, sir. He had a very dry vodka Gibson, straight up, and soon after he left there was an order for another one from the grill room. Of course, I did not know his name at that time. They showed me his Florida driver’s license, the police did, and I recognized the little color photograph as the man who was in here.”