“What did he do?”
“He was chief of police.”
“And something happened to a girl named Taylor?”
“You didn’t know,” she said.
“I told you. Marvin wants to find his sister. What was the Taylor girl’s first name?”
“Sarah, Sarah Taylor,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got to tell you.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died,” said Ethyl Bingham. “She died. I’m sorry. I don’t like ghosts in the morning.”
“I know how you feel,” I said. “But…”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can or wish to say.”
She hung up.
I called Harvey and said, “Good Morning, Americans,” in my best Paul Harvey, which is far worse than Harvey’s. “Vera Lynn Uliaks married a Charles Dorsey in Arcadia in 1975. He was chief of police. A young woman named Sarah Taylor died in 1975 in Arcadia. There may be a connection.”
“If the Arcadia court system and police have a data bank or the newspaper, I’ll get back to you soon. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding Charles Dorsey and Vera Lynn Dorsey.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just keep mentioning it,” he said. “I live on health food, computers, and sincere compliments.”
I shaved with my electric razor and went outside where the sun was glowing orange and happy. I ignored it and with my toothbrush and paste moved down to the rest room shared by the tenants.
An old man, fully clothed, was sitting on the toilet. His head was back and he was snoring. I moved to the sink and brushed my teeth. The hot water wasn’t working. I washed cold.
Considering the state of the building, the indifference of the landlord, and the clients and the homeless, the rest room was reasonably clean thanks to Marvin Uliaks who swept and scrubbed once a week and then knocked on every door in the building holding his hand out and saying, “Bathroom’s clean.”
Some said “thanks.” Some didn’t answer. Most gave him a quarter or even half a dollar. I gave him what I could, usually a buck. It was worth it.
The homeless guy snoring in the toilet stall had a definite smell of baked and spoiling human. He woke up with a snort. There was a partition between us but I could hear him drop his pants, use the toilet, cough, pull up his pants, and stagger forward.
He turned to look at me.
“You’re the little Italian,” he said, pointing at me.
In spite of the heat he wore two sweaters and a three- or four-day growth of beard.
“I am,” I said, washing the remnants of soap from my face. The bruise on my face provided by Bubbles Dreemer was almost gone.
“I slept here,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for something he didn’t seem to be able to find.
“I guessed.”
“Usually sleep in a closet at one of the twenty-four-hour Walgreens,” he said. “Move from one to the other. Used to be a pharmacist. No, that’s not right. I am a pharmacist. I just don’t work as one. It’s been more than a while.”
“That a fact?” I asked, toweling off my face.
“True as the fact that the sun is out there waiting to bomb us to early ultraviolet death,” he said, searching his other pocket for whatever was missing. “Not good to spend too much time in the sun.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
“You’re in the office about five doors down,” he said.
“I am.”
He failed to find what he was searching for in his second pocket.
“I’m a bit unsteady today,” he said. “Oh, I don’t drink. Never did. No drugs either. It’s my mind. Doesn’t function right. I lose days, weeks, get headaches, fall a lot, get to know the people over there in the emergency rooms at Doctor’s Hospital and Sarasota Memorial.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s the way things are,” he said with a sigh. “Saw something last night might interest you.”
“What was that?” I said, heading for the door.
I had to come within inches of him. Decay.
“The ghost of Martin Luther posted the bans on your door,” he said. “I stood in the shadows, and in his robes, a cowl over his head, he posted them on your door.”
“A man dressed like a priest?”
“Or a woman,” he said. “My eyesight is… well, years ago I had glasses but today I’m a living testament to man’s ability to endure.”
There was a definite note of pride in his voice.
“We endure,” I said. “You like Thai food?”
“I consume any food. I’m a human in need of fuel. I have given up the concept of like and dislike of food, lodging, or clothes. It exists and I wander.”
“Come on,” I said.
He followed me to my office door and pointed to it.
“There is where he posted his conceits,” he said.
“You have a name?” I asked, opening the door.
“I had one,” he said. “Now I am known as The Digger.”
“Why?”
“Who,” he said, putting a not clean palm on my shoulder, “the hell knows? But it seems to fit me.”
“Wait here,” I said, leaving him in the doorway. I retrieved the two cartons of food and my plastic fork and brought it to him.
“Thai, you say?”
“Yes,” I said.
“It would probably settle nicely with a root beer,” he said, cradling the two cartons.
I fished a dollar out of my pocket and handed it to him.
“I’ll accept this food and dollar if you’ll accept my thanks,” he said.
“I accept, and thanks especially for telling me about Martin Luther’s visit.”
“Are you a Lutheran?” he asked.
The phone began to ring.
“Lapsed Episcopalian,” I said.
“Odd for an Italian,” The Digger said.
The phone kept ringing.
“Root beer,” I said.
He took the hint and wandered away. I closed the door behind him and went for the phone.
“Fonesca,” I said.
“Ed Viviase,” the caller said.
Ed Viviase was a detective in the Sarasota Police Department. I liked him. He tolerated me. Considering the fact that I was a depressed process server who basically wanted to be left alone in my room, our paths had crossed more times than chance would account for. Sarasota is not a big city, but I doubted if many other noncriminals who lived and visited here were known by Ed Viviase and the rest of the force.
“We have to talk,” he said.
“Let’s talk,” I said.
“In my office,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I agreed.
He hung up. Sarasota Police Headquarters is little more than a block away, north on 301, cross the street to the right, and there it is less than half a block away. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time to walk to his office and wonder why he wanted to see me.
I put on clean slacks and a clean white short-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. One of the collar buttons was slightly cracked. When it went, I’d probably just throw the shirt in the garbage can and pick up another one at the Women’s Resource Center.
The Digger was sitting at one of the canopied metal tables in front of the DQ eating his Thai food and drinking what I assumed was a large root beer. I nodded to him and he nodded back as I stopped at the open window of the DQ. Dave was there. Dave, leather-worn by the sun, the face of an adventurer. He reminded me of Sterling Hayden.
“What do you have ready I can eat while I walk?” I asked.
Dave looked back.
“Double burger with cheese,” he said.
“I’ll take it.”
“You got it.”
I paid and said, “How’s the sailing?”
“I’m thinking of taking her around the world,” he said. “Sell this place and go. A year. Maybe more. You can come. I mean it. You don’t talk much. You’re a good listener. I could teach you enough so you could help and I’d supply provisions.”
“I get seasick,” I said, accepting the double burger and handing him two dollar bills.
“You’d get over it,” Dave said.
“Can you play tapes on your ship?”
“Songs?”
“Videos,” I said. “If I go, Joan Crawford goes.”
“Fonesca, you’re saying no to a dream here.”