“Wages, Alex,” Maria Scanlon said.
“Advance wages,” he corrected. “And why don’t you stay out of it.” He fished cigarettes from the bellyband of the bathing trunks. There were matches pushed under the cellophane covering of the package. He lighted a cigarette and said, “Jordan came aboard to do some work, repairs on the rigging, general cleaning up, painting. He worked for several days. Then he gave me such a wild story about his cracker father being in jail charged with illegal alligator hunting that I handed over a sizable advance.”
“You haven’t seen Jordan since?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
“Couple days ago.” Lessard grunted. “The sonofabitch.”
“Alex,” Maria said, “he’s no dog, really. He’s a human being, in great part the result of what society...”
“Maria, honey, please. If it hadn’t been for your do-gooding talk, I might not have let Jordan...”
“I think you’re blaming him prematurely, Alex. He may come back.”
Jawing at each other, they’d about forgot I was there. Then Lessard remembered. “How about letting me know if you find him, Rivers?”
“Any idea where he is?”
His face flared with impatience. “If I had, would I be trying to spend twenty bucks with you?”
“I guess not.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t.” He glanced toward the shore. “I wonder what’s keeping D. D.?”
“Department store downtown,” Maria Scanlon said. “Tell her I had to get back.”
“You’re going ashore?”
“Yes, if Mr. Rivers will give me a lift.”
“Sure,” I said.
We clambered into the flat-bottom. She was first, and she picked up the oars. There is only one way to handle the fanatical, smothering type of woman. I took the oars firmly from her, pushed her forward, and started grunting us landward.
“Really, Mr. Rivers, wouldn’t it make more sense for the most efficient...”
“I’ll row, lady,” I said.
When we docked the boat, she thanked me and started walking away.
“You live here at the camp?” I nodded toward the cottages drowsing fifty yards away under the tall pines.
“No, down the secondary road a couple of miles.”
“I’ll drop you off,” I said.
“Really, I...”
“It’s no bother. “I’m going that way.”
We got in my sturdy new car and I drove out of the camp and picked up the cracked asphalt.
She sneaked a glance at me. “Why do you want Bucks... But you can’t discuss that, can you?”
“Not very well.”
“Whatever he’s done, are you sure he’s to blame?”
I let it ride.
“People are prone to animal-like reactions, you know,” she persisted. “Sufficiently goaded, they are liable to snarl back.”
“People are also accountable,” I reminded her.
“Really?” she said, a disdainful quirk in her heavy brow.
I wondered what her background was. Her diction was good. Her clothes were cheap cotton, but she wore them casually, as if the cost of clothing as she was growing up had never been a major consideration.
I reduced her to little-girl size in my mind, and I had a picture of a kid who was overweight, eager, rebuffed. The one who got her pigtails pulled. The one who never was invited to a prom.
“When did you last see Bucks?” I asked.
“Let’s see... Four nights ago, I think it was. He was drinking heavily in a juke joint near here. I got him back to the boat. I can’t tell you anything about him, Mr. Rivers. Really. You turn here. There is the cottage.”
“If you want to help him,” I said, “let me know if you see him.”
She wasn’t paying attention. She was watching the cottage anxiously.
I thrust one of my cards in her hand. “Call this number. If I’m out, there’s a telephone answering service. If I get to Bucks in time, I might be able to save him serious trouble.”
She got a focus on the card. “All right,” she said. She thrust the card in her dress pocket. Again she looked toward the cottage. It was a cheap, frame affair with a screened porch across the front. A fairly recent model car was parked close to the cottage.
“I suppose Jack’s asleep,” she mused. “He’s my husband. He likes to nap until mid-morning.”
Mid-morning was two hours ago. She got out of the car and ran toward the cottage with eagerness. The tall, strapping outlines of a man appeared behind the porch screening; so I guessed Jack wasn’t asleep.
The screen door banged behind Maria Scanlon. The man grabbed her arm, jerked her around. He spoke to her, glancing toward the car. Then he shoved her inside, his grip on her arm bringing a small cry from her.
I put the car in gear. Bucks Jordan was my problem. Jack Scanlon was hers.
Chapter Four
It was a long, hot afternoon. I was doing it the hard way, Bucks wasn’t in the phone book or city directory. No gas or light bills had been issued to him. Without a lead in those directions, I called on a one-time carny owner I knew and got a list of six names. The third name was a skinny tattoo artist who gave me an address.
The gloomy old house was presided over by a landlady who smelled like soured suet. Bucks no longer lived there. But she told me of a bar where he used to hang out.
At the bar I got a second address, where I picked up the name of another bar. So it goes.
At the bar, it turned out I’d missed Bucks by less than an hour. The bartender said Bucks had been in a real funk, his face showing the results of a clobbering, the inner man seething with the memory of it. He’d been drinking. Not heavily. Just enough to keep a mean edge whetted. He’d made a statement about calling at a doll house.
“Whatever the hell that means,” the bartender said with a shrug. I thanked him, and he said, “Any time, Ed.”
I began to dig the doll house remark, and I wondered if Bucks was already out there. Thinking about it caused a prickle to chase over my skin.
The cottage was on a street off Nebraska Avenue. It sparkled with a coat of fresh, white paint. A modest frame house with green shutters and high-peaked gables, it was snug behind sheltering hedges and palms.
With my car half a block away, I walked past the cottage. The sun was spewing to a fiery death in the Gulf, with the twilight promising no relief from the heat. Several nearby houses showed lights. This one didn’t, but I hadn’t expected him to turn on a light, if he was in there.
I did a quick survey. The street was quiet. Ducking down the side yard, I went to the rear door of the cottage. I used the steel on my keyring and was inside in a few seconds. I closed the door gently.
The interior was silent, a vacuum of heat sucking at blood and brains.
In the hot gloom, I experienced the weird feeling of having magically become two or three times my normal size. The furnishings did it. The custom-made kitchen equipment was no higher than eighteen inches. In the dining room, I barked my knee on the corner of the table. It had a matching buffet, china closet, and tiny captain’s chairs to match. I couldn’t have wedged my bulk on the specially built couch and chairs in the living room. The TV screen looked outsized in a cabinet that snugged it and a hi-fi set close to the luxuriant carpet. The bedroom furniture had been modeled for a fairy princess.
There were low bookcases and tiny tables holding potted greenery, curtains as frothy as sea foam. I was a Gulliver on a modern travel, moving through the world a tiny woman had made for herself. This was Tina La Flor’s refuge, her sanctuary.
In the darkening hallway, I wiped my face and considered my next move. My throat was parched. The thought of a cold beer was torture. My guts growled for Cuban sausage and garbanzo soup. But my instincts gambled that Bucks Jordan hadn’t been here yet. There was no sign of his entry. It was still daylight.