Normally, I read the sports section first, but today it was the headlines. On the front page was a ghoulish overhead photo of the corpse in Julie Lopez's backyard. It was a good clear shot taken overhead from a helicopter. In journalism there were big murders and little murders, and this was being sold as a big murder. Something was clutched between the skeleton's hands. I asked Sonny his opinion, and he opened his eyes and studied the paper.
“Looks like a gold crucifix,” Sonny said.
I had another look.
“I think you're right.”
“This was your last case, wasn't it?”
I sipped my coffee and nodded. I was thinking about Julie Lopez's pimp, Ernesto, who according to the paper was being held without bail. Ernesto was deeply religious, and I wondered if this was his way of giving Carmella a proper burial. I didn't want to believe it, but facts were facts. Ernesto must have killed Carmella, then waited until Skell was in prison before plopping her in the ground. I had sent away the right man for the wrong crime. It made my head hurt.
“A guy was checking out your car when I pulled in this morning,” Sonny said a few minutes later.
“Checking it out how?” I asked.
“Looking it over, reading the license plate.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was in plain clothes, late forties, short hair.”
“Think he was a cop?”
“I made him for a private dick.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Cops don't get up that early.”
The Legend was the only thing of value I owned, and I was sick of people messing with it. Going outside, I inspected my car, including the undercarriage. The black transmitter stuck to the gas tank was hard to miss. I went back inside.
“I need your help,” I said.
“Name it,” Sonny replied.
“This private dick put a transmitter on my car. I want you to take my car out for a spin. I'll follow you and see if I can nail this guy.”
“I got DUIed last month and had my license suspended,” Sonny said. “Why don't you ask Whitey?”
“Is he around?”
“Sure. Hey, Whitey, get up.”
There was stirring from the other side of the room. Whitey's snow-white head appeared an inch at a time over the bar as he pulled himself off the floor. He was wearing yesterday's clothes, his face a mosaic of broken blood vessels and gin blossoms. He brushed himself off while grinning lopsidedly.
“Wass up, captain?” Whitey asked.
“You got a car?” I asked.
“Last time I checked.”
“Your driver's license any good?”
Whitey jerked out his wallet, spilled his credit cards onto the bar and extracted his driver's license. He scrutinized it, then nodded enthusiastically.
“Here's what I want you to do,” I said.
Five minutes later we put my plan into action. Whitey drove south on A1A in my car while I followed in his filthy Corolla. Whitey was impaired and probably shouldn't have been driving, but that was true for a lot of folks in south Florida.
As I drove I watched the side streets. If my hunch was correct, the private dick hired by Simon Skell's sister would soon appear and start following Whitey. Most dicks were failed cops, which explained the harsh treatment I'd been getting.
Two blocks later, I was proved right. A black Toyota 4Runner with tinted windows pulled out and started tailing the Legend. At the next intersection, Whitey pulled into a 7-Eleven and hustled inside, the ten bucks I'd given him burning a hole in his pocket. The 4Runner also pulled into the lot, and the driver followed Whitey in. He was my size, with gunmetal hair and a dark suit that made him stand out like a sore thumb. The look on his face spelled trouble, and I parked on the street and hurried inside.
I found the guy in the rear of the store. He had cornered Whitey in the potato chip aisle and had his back to me. I shot my hands through his armpits and put him in a full nelson.
“Hey!” he yelled in alarm.
“Hey yourself,” I replied. “I'm sick of your crap.”
“Let me go.”
“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”
His muscles tensed. He felt powerful, and I sensed a fight coming on.
“Are you Jack Carpenter?” he asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I replied.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Call my secretary and set up an appointment.”
“Come on. Stop acting like a fool,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“Isn't that what we're doing?”
“Are you going to let me go?”
“Not until you apologize to me and my friend.”
“I have nothing to apologize for,” he said.
The guy was both stubborn and strong. There are some people in this world you can't reason with, and I decided he was one of them. Releasing my grip, I shoved him forward. To my surprise, Whitey stuck his leg out. The guy fell headfirst into the potato chips, and took down the entire aisle.
Whitey ran out of the store laughing like a delinquent kid. I followed him, apologizing to the manager as I passed the register.
“Stay out of here!” the manager shouted.
Whitey and I exchanged keys in the parking lot. I pulled out of the lot just as the guy staggered out. His jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and there was defeat in his eyes. Honking my horn, I waved and drove away.
I went to the Sunset and picked up my dog. I hadn't felt this pumped in a long time. I decided to go to my office and get some work done.
I took the bridge back to civilization and headed toward town. Halfway there, I turned down a dusty two-lane road flanked by palmetto trees and a junk-filled boatyard. My destination was a local hideaway called Tugboat Louie's that had everything a person could want: bar, grille, dockside dining, and a marina with dry dock storage.
The bar was a ramshackle affair with bleached shingles and hurricane shutters. Inside, I found the owner behind the bar checking inventory. His name was Kumar, and he wore a white Egyptian cotton shirt and an oversized black bow tie. He was a small Indian man with a big personality, and he shook my hand.
“Jack, how are you? You are looking well. Is everything good? What can I get you? Coffee, tea? How about something to eat? Scrambled eggs perhaps?”
“I'm fine,” I said.
“How about your dog?”
“He's fine, too. How are you?”
“Wonderful, fantastic. Business is good. I have no complaints.” “
You're a lucky man,” I said.
Belly-dancing music filled the air. It was the ring tone to Kumar's cell phone, and he removed it from his belt and took the call. Behind the bar was a stairwell with a chain strung across it and a sign marked private. Stepping behind the bar, I unclipped the chain and headed upstairs.
The second floor had two offices: Kumar's and my own, which I occupied rent free. I'd worked here for six months in total anonymity, with no one except Kumar and a handful of employees knowing about it.
My relationship with Kumar was based upon a single act, which he seemed obsessed with repaying. On a summer weekend two years earlier, I had come in with my wife and daughter for dinner. Outside a bikini contest was taking place, its sponsor a local rum distributor. Rum and beautiful girls are what made south Florida great, and they were flowing in abundance, with a gang of drunks ogling ten scantily clad ladies standing on a makeshift stage. A local DJ was hosting, and in a moment of true stupidity, he'd invited the drunks to dance with the ladies, then played Steppenwolf's “Born To Be Wild.”
The drunks had rushed the stage and started groping the ladies. Sensing a disaster, I went behind the DJ's equipment and pulled the plug on the main electrical outlet, then marched onto the stage holding my detective's badge over my head. I led the ladies into the bar and stood by while they got dressed. Within minutes everything was back to normal.