Travis McGee (a famous beach bum created by John D. MacDonald) comes to Jesus? With a world-class bad guy? Yeah. I think that kind of says it.
Corky, our protagonist, is a bounty hunter. He’s a good man but doesn’t know it. Barbara (the real heroine of the piece) is his girlfriend. And then there’s Preacher: a street preacher, a classic Uncle Tom - but with [redacted for this venue lest we spoil the surprise - WG]. He teaches what it means and what it takes to turn the other cheek. It is Preacher (with Barbara’s help) who prepares Corky for the time when he must, inevitably, come to God and Christ and to the Holy Spirit.
And Bozo? Well. There you go. Bozo. What can you say? We ought all to thank our God that this is just a book.
Set in Tampa, steeped in local color. Action? Humor? Romance? Fun? Suspense? And could you call it quirky? Yeah, pretty much. A bunch of each.
And it’s even got a tattooed dog...
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Herewith the comments of a publisher’s “First Reader":
"Normally I would ask for a revision of this synopsis to make it a little shorter and a little less wink-of-the-eye, but I can't deny that it's involving reading that exactly gets the tone and scope of the novel across, which is exactly what your synopsis should be doing. Similarly, some parts of the outline tend to evade specificity in favor of style, but it gives us enough--who lives, who dies, what the treasure is--that it makes the details that aren't there seem unimportant for the time being. If your manuscript itself hadn't been a good read, I probably would have asked for revisions of both of these things. But since I think they each convey the tone you're going for so well, and since the manuscript itself chugs along with energy, a sense of freshness, and a pulpy sensibility perfect for the genre, I think you've really stuck the landing here. The most important aspect of any submission is that each part makes you want to read more, and that's exactly what you've accomplished here. It's rare that such a fully developed world and strong voice come across my desk..."
And here begins the book:
Precious Metal
Copyright 2006
By William C. Gibson
Chapter One - In which stuff happens:
Corcoran walked into the tavern. Straight back to the bar. Leaning politely forward, he spoke to the bartender, “Restroom?” The bartender, washing glasses in the sink behind the bar, looked up and pointed with his head, back and to his left, Corcoran's right, down past the far end of the bar.
“Thanks.” Corcoran started in that direction. As he neared the end of the bar where a middle-aged man sat quietly sipping what looked to be a double whiskey and thinking into the mirror, minding nothing but his thoughts, Corcoran's foot appeared to slip on something on the floor. “Ahh.” He reached and grabbed the man's far shoulder with his left hand - obviously for support to keep from going down.
The man, startled, swiveled to his right, halfway around, stool and all, anger on his face. “What the…”
Everyone saw it. Nobody else could hear but all of them could plainly see. They saw the face and posture of a man apologizing, saying “Sorry. I slipped on something. Didn't mean to grab you like that.” Any of them would testify to hearing the apology.
But, appearances to the contrary, that wasn't what he said. His face said it. His body said it. But his mouth, and his cold and steady stare, said “Bobby Reams sent me. You want it here or you want it outside?”
The man kept swiveling till he was squarely face-to-face with Corcoran. Lifting off the stool he slipped the right foot down and back, now standing in a fighter's stance, left hand moving up to guard, right hand swinging wide: a hard right-cross.
“I'll kill you, you son of a b…”
Corcoran, waiting, simply slipped his head a little to the right and back while coiling his body in the same direction. The other's fist slid past his cheek. He felt the movement of the air. Then he unwound.
Back to his left, right foot pushing, his entire body creating a momentum culminating at the point of his right fist. Low, coming up, below the other's now-exposed right ribs, right into the center of the side, aiming at a point six inches above, eight inches further in than his fist would initially strike. A fighter's punch, the same follow-through used in golf, driving with the legs and hips.
Not a grunt, not a groan - a quiet little squeal and down to the floor in agony.
Corcoran, over his shoulder to the barman, “Call nine-one-one, I think he's really hurt.” Then, as he turned back and leaned over, obviously to help the man he had been forced to hurt in self-defense, he seemed again to slip on that self-same something and, apparently unable to catch himself, he fell, his entire weight landing on one buttock squarely on the other fellows outstretched forearm.
Everybody heard the crunch. And everybody heard the scream. And everybody heard Corcoran, “Oh man, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Somebody hurry, get an ambulance. Oh man. I'm so sorry.” But only the sobbing man, writhing on the floor, heard the whispered, “Bobby wants his money and he wants it now, this week. Or I do it all again.”
And, to the crowd, “I think I'm gonna to be sick; need air.”
Corcoran rose, unsteady, making his way to the front door and out - and gone.
~ ~ ~ ~
He reached into his pocket, came out with a set of keys, one of them pre-selected by his fingers as he brought them out. He put it into the lock, turned key and knob together, stepped through the door.
“Corky? Is that you?”
He shut the door.
And there she was, stepping from the bedroom into the hallway, deeply tanned, lean and muscled, sleek, like a young doe deer, wearing a tee shirt and men's boxers, drying black and shining hair down past her shoulders with an oversized towel. That magic smile lighting up her face, the hallway, the apartment and his heart.
At eighteen she'd been half his age. Now, at twenty, she was closing the gap.
“I've still got to get ready for church but I'll make you some kind of breakfast if you like. A sausage and egg sandwich maybe?”
The smile again.
An aching in his chest and groin. Just the smile; that's all it ever took.
“No thanks, you go ahead to church. I stopped at the diner.”
She went back into the bedroom. Corcoran unloaded his pockets, sat on the couch, took off his boots, turned and grabbed a throw-pillow putting it under his head against the arm of the couch as he lay back, lifting his feet up and onto the other arm of the couch. He slowed his breathing, in through the nose, all the way down, hold, hold, hold, out through the mouth. In through the nose…
She came out of the bedroom, dressed in a tailored suit, navy with a bright red satin blouse, reached down and took one of his socked feet, massaged it from the ankle through the heel, the instep through the toes. And then she did the other.
“I'll be back right after church,” she said. “Be ready. Be very, very ready.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning Corky took his time. Slept late. Long breakfast. Then he headed to the office, got parked, got out, headed toward the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Give it a rest old man. Jesus don't love me. He don't love you. He don't love nobody. The man's been dead two-thousand years if he ever even lived at all.”
Preacher sat on the bench in front of the ratty storefront church, sweat beading on his forehead, the drops like diamonds on the deep brown of his forehead. Reaching slowly into the inner pocket of his faded coat he took out a blue bandana, wiped his forehead. The diamonds were back in seconds.
“Mistah Corky, you been knowing me long enough you knows I cain't jus' let that pass. If I was to say that, it would be a awful sin. You can say it though and ain't no problem 'cause you don't know no better. But you'll come to know one day, Mistah Corky. You'll come to know and you'll remember and you'll be embarrassed and ashamed. I'm gonna try to keep that off you but one old wore-out nigger preacher can't do but just so much. You go read in the book of Luke, the twenty-third chapter, the thirty-fourth verse. See what I'm talkin' 'bout.”
“You go to hell old man.” Corcoran spit on the sidewalk, turned, stalked back to the car, forgetting why he’d come.
“I'm sorry Mistah Corky but him and me still loves you whether you likes it or don't.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Yeah?”
“Corcoran? Reams.”
“Yeah?”
“That boy you visited down in Parrish? The one got his arm broke in that bar?”
“Yeah?”
“He ain't paid me yet. Ain't even called. It’s been two weeks.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five grand.”
“Okay. Couple days.”
Corcoran set the phone down on the table, started working on a plan.
~ ~ ~ ~
The man heard the scratching on the door. “Okay, okay, I'm coming.” He opened the cabinet with his good hand, the one not in a cast, took out a can of dog-food. Using the good hand, and the fingers of the bad one, he worked the can into the opener, pressed the top and held it as the can rotated. The lid popped loose. “Damn dog.”
He held the can in his bad hand, the weight of it supported by the sling, turned the knob and opened the back door. Shouldered open the screened door, stepped out onto the stoop.
“Damn dog. Where'd you go?”
“I told you I'd come back.”
The man jumped like he'd been shot, dropped the can of dog food, spun and tried to snatch the screened door open. Tried and missed and tried again.
Corcoran stepped out of the blackness next to the stoop, reached out and grasped the man's good wrist as he was pulling on the door, a twist around and down and up behind the fellow's back. Up against the wall, face-first, next to the door.
“No please. I don't have it. I don't have it. Please. I don't have it.”
“We're just talking is all. Sorry about the other day. All a big misunderstanding. I slipped, you misunderstood, I had to keep you from hitting me - and then I slipped again. Sorry man.”
“Sorry? Misunderstanding? Slipped? You bast… Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay. Okay. Ease up.”
“What you want this time? The bad arm again or this one?”
“No man, please. I ain't got it.”
“Get it. Now. I ain't here to argue.”
“Man I can't get it right now, tonight. I'll do what I can tomorrow but I can't make no promises. Ow. Ow.”
“Mister. Are you completely stupid? Three choices. That bad arm ain't even started to grow together yet. Break it again right now and they might as well just take it off at the elbow. Or the good one. Then where you gonna be? Both arms broke? Twin casts? Use some imagination man. Or you cough up the cash. Door number one, door number two or door number three? Choose one or two, I'll just be back in another week.”
“But I ain't got it.”
“Mister, I ain't your daddy. It ain't my job to think for you. You got a boat, right? Free and clear? Worth at least one-fifty? You get on the phone, somebody will cough up twenty-five tonight in cash. I hate it for you but that's the way it is. I know you don't think I'm foolin' with you. I know you understand we ain't playing games here. Now you got to make your choice… or I'll have to make it for you.”
“What'd you do to my dog man? What'd you do to my dog?”
“I ain't hurt your dog. He's over yonder under the oleander eating biscuits. Okay? Now what's it going to be? One, two or three?”
“Okay. Okay. Just let me go inside and make some calls.”
“All right. I'm fixin' to ease off this arm and we're going inside. We're going to the phone and you're gonna sit down and make your calls. If you need something you'll let me know and we'll work it out. If you cross me the whole deal will have been a waste of time and you will hurt like nothing you ever imagined in your life. Whatever it is don't try it. It won't work out for you. Mister, this is what I do. I've done it for years and I'm good at it. Don't even think about it.”
Corcoran put his left hand on the man's left shoulder, let go of the wrist.
“Easy now. Slow and easy. We'll just walk inside, you'll do your job, and then I'll go away.
~ ~ ~ ~
Breakfast at the diner, then to the office. Corcoran pulled up to the curb, parked, got out, started to the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Jesus don't give a rat's ass about me old man. Or you either.”
And through the door, the buzzer going off as long as the door was open. He walked towards the desk.
“Hey, I gotta go. Got a man comin' in. Call you later.” Reams looked directly into Corcoran's eyes, hung up the phone. Neither man blinked, neither man smiled, neither nodded. Corcoran's eyes were hard, empty, devoid of emotion. And dark. So dark most folks would think of them as black. Arresting eyes - but empty. Reams' eyes were ugly. The color of greed, the color of just don't give a damn. If asked, you couldn't say were those eyes brown or blue or green or gray. Not mean. Not nice. Just ugly.
Corcoran dropped the sack on the desk. Reams dug in it, took out twenty-five-hundred and handed it to Corcoran. “Thanks.”
Corcoran put the money in his wallet. “No problem. Anything else?”
“Not right now. I'll call you if I need you.”
Corcoran turned, walked to the door and out.
The morning was cool. End of summer, not yet fall. It would be hot this afternoon but now it wasn't quite so bad. The old man sat there on his bench.
“You read that scripture I gave you?”
“What?”
“The scripture? From the Bible? Luke 23:34?”
“Old man, you know I don't read no bibles. I know you got your life all tangled up amongst it - but that's you, not me.”
“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.”
“Mistah Corky, he was all tore up, beat so bad the meat was hanging off him. Nailed to a tree and fixin' to die. And what do he say?”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Nigger, I've just about got all that crap I want. You hear?”
“Jesus loves you son. And so do I.”
Corcoran threw down his cigarette, stalked to the car, got in, started the engine and squealed the tires pulling into the traffic, causing a city bus to slam his brakes.
Corcoran steamed and drove. Furious at the old man for pushin' that stuff on him. Furious with himself for his reaction.
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Yeah, right.” Corcoran had hurt a lot of men - and seen a lot of others hurt. Hadn't none of them said nuthin even remotely like that. They cursed, they cried, they threatened and they begged, but what they did the most of all was not say nuthin 'bout forgivin'.
Stupid, stupid old man.
And then there was Barbara.
He knew the girl loved him. But he didn't know why. It didn't make a lick of sense. He'd asked her and she'd said something about a thing called “Grace” but he just couldn't get a handle on it.
But that church thing? Every Sunday morning. Every Sunday night. And Wednesday nights too. What did she call it? “Prayer meeting?”
No, she didn't push it on him. Didn't aggravate him with it the way that Preacher did. Not a word unless he asked. And he had a few times. She would quietly and calmly try her best to answer - but she'd hush the instant that she saw he'd got enough.
Damn that old man.
He turned onto Twenty-second Street Causeway at the estuary, headed for the Sea Breeze. Pulled into the gravel parking lot. Went in and got a sack of deviled crabs, a bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce and an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then out. He walked through the sand and sand-spurs, through the dappled shade beneath the Australian pines and over to the seawall. Sat down, dangling his feet over the side. Ate his deviled crabs and drank his beer while staring at the oily sheen on the dark scud-covered water of the ships' channel. He thought about the ships. Tramp steamers from ports around the world. Japanese cargo ships, their names all ending with Maru. Small ships from Honduras bringing fresh bananas, tarantulas and the occasional boa constrictor. Coal ships, from one of them yankee states up north, to fuel the power company's boilers.
He sat and ate the crabs and thought. Barbara. Preacher. All that Jesus talk. The job that he'd just done. The next one, whatever it might be. He ate the crabs and thought.
“If you don't know that it's a sin, it ain't.”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
No more crabs. He washed the crabs and hot sauce from his palette with the beer, no longer cold but not yet warm. He stood up from the seawall, walked up the slope to the back of the restaurant, disposed of his trash, went back to the car and headed home, the anger abated, just looking forward now to bed and then to Barbara's return once she got the shop shut down.
Copyright 2006
By William C. Gibson
Chapter One - In which stuff happens:
Corcoran walked into the tavern. Straight back to the bar. Leaning politely forward, he spoke to the bartender, “Restroom?” The bartender, washing glasses in the sink behind the bar, looked up and pointed with his head, back and to his left, Corcoran's right, down past the far end of the bar.
“Thanks.” Corcoran started in that direction. As he neared the end of the bar where a middle-aged man sat quietly sipping what looked to be a double whiskey and thinking into the mirror, minding nothing but his thoughts, Corcoran's foot appeared to slip on something on the floor. “Ahh.” He reached and grabbed the man's far shoulder with his left hand - obviously for support to keep from going down.
The man, startled, swiveled to his right, halfway around, stool and all, anger on his face. “What the…”
Everyone saw it. Nobody else could hear but all of them could plainly see. They saw the face and posture of a man apologizing, saying “Sorry. I slipped on something. Didn't mean to grab you like that.” Any of them would testify to hearing the apology.
But, appearances to the contrary, that wasn't what he said. His face said it. His body said it. But his mouth, and his cold and steady stare, said “Bobby Reams sent me. You want it here or you want it outside?”
The man kept swiveling till he was squarely face-to-face with Corcoran. Lifting off the stool he slipped the right foot down and back, now standing in a fighter's stance, left hand moving up to guard, right hand swinging wide: a hard right-cross.
“I'll kill you, you son of a b…”
Corcoran, waiting, simply slipped his head a little to the right and back while coiling his body in the same direction. The other's fist slid past his cheek. He felt the movement of the air. Then he unwound.
Back to his left, right foot pushing, his entire body creating a momentum culminating at the point of his right fist. Low, coming up, below the other's now-exposed right ribs, right into the center of the side, aiming at a point six inches above, eight inches further in than his fist would initially strike. A fighter's punch, the same follow-through used in golf, driving with the legs and hips.
Not a grunt, not a groan - a quiet little squeal and down to the floor in agony.
Corcoran, over his shoulder to the barman, “Call nine-one-one, I think he's really hurt.” Then, as he turned back and leaned over, obviously to help the man he had been forced to hurt in self-defense, he seemed again to slip on that self-same something and, apparently unable to catch himself, he fell, his entire weight landing on one buttock squarely on the other fellows outstretched forearm.
Everybody heard the crunch. And everybody heard the scream. And everybody heard Corcoran, “Oh man, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Somebody hurry, get an ambulance. Oh man. I'm so sorry.” But only the sobbing man, writhing on the floor, heard the whispered, “Bobby wants his money and he wants it now, this week. Or I do it all again.”
And, to the crowd, “I think I'm gonna to be sick; need air.”
Corcoran rose, unsteady, making his way to the front door and out - and gone.
~ ~ ~ ~
He reached into his pocket, came out with a set of keys, one of them pre-selected by his fingers as he brought them out. He put it into the lock, turned key and knob together, stepped through the door.
“Corky? Is that you?”
He shut the door.
And there she was, stepping from the bedroom into the hallway, deeply tanned, lean and muscled, sleek, like a young doe deer, wearing a tee shirt and men's boxers, drying black and shining hair down past her shoulders with an oversized towel. That magic smile lighting up her face, the hallway, the apartment and his heart.
At eighteen she'd been half his age. Now, at twenty, she was closing the gap.
“I've still got to get ready for church but I'll make you some kind of breakfast if you like. A sausage and egg sandwich maybe?”
The smile again.
An aching in his chest and groin. Just the smile; that's all it ever took.
“No thanks, you go ahead to church. I stopped at the diner.”
She went back into the bedroom. Corcoran unloaded his pockets, sat on the couch, took off his boots, turned and grabbed a throw-pillow putting it under his head against the arm of the couch as he lay back, lifting his feet up and onto the other arm of the couch. He slowed his breathing, in through the nose, all the way down, hold, hold, hold, out through the mouth. In through the nose…
She came out of the bedroom, dressed in a tailored suit, navy with a bright red satin blouse, reached down and took one of his socked feet, massaged it from the ankle through the heel, the instep through the toes. And then she did the other.
“I'll be back right after church,” she said. “Be ready. Be very, very ready.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning Corky took his time. Slept late. Long breakfast. Then he headed to the office, got parked, got out, headed toward the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Give it a rest old man. Jesus don't love me. He don't love you. He don't love nobody. The man's been dead two-thousand years if he ever even lived at all.”
Preacher sat on the bench in front of the ratty storefront church, sweat beading on his forehead, the drops like diamonds on the deep brown of his forehead. Reaching slowly into the inner pocket of his faded coat he took out a blue bandana, wiped his forehead. The diamonds were back in seconds.
“Mistah Corky, you been knowing me long enough you knows I cain't jus' let that pass. If I was to say that, it would be a awful sin. You can say it though and ain't no problem 'cause you don't know no better. But you'll come to know one day, Mistah Corky. You'll come to know and you'll remember and you'll be embarrassed and ashamed. I'm gonna try to keep that off you but one old wore-out nigger preacher can't do but just so much. You go read in the book of Luke, the twenty-third chapter, the thirty-fourth verse. See what I'm talkin' 'bout.”
“You go to hell old man.” Corcoran spit on the sidewalk, turned, stalked back to the car, forgetting why he’d come.
“I'm sorry Mistah Corky but him and me still loves you whether you likes it or don't.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Yeah?”
“Corcoran? Reams.”
“Yeah?”
“That boy you visited down in Parrish? The one got his arm broke in that bar?”
“Yeah?”
“He ain't paid me yet. Ain't even called. It’s been two weeks.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five grand.”
“Okay. Couple days.”
Corcoran set the phone down on the table, started working on a plan.
~ ~ ~ ~
The man heard the scratching on the door. “Okay, okay, I'm coming.” He opened the cabinet with his good hand, the one not in a cast, took out a can of dog-food. Using the good hand, and the fingers of the bad one, he worked the can into the opener, pressed the top and held it as the can rotated. The lid popped loose. “Damn dog.”
He held the can in his bad hand, the weight of it supported by the sling, turned the knob and opened the back door. Shouldered open the screened door, stepped out onto the stoop.
“Damn dog. Where'd you go?”
“I told you I'd come back.”
The man jumped like he'd been shot, dropped the can of dog food, spun and tried to snatch the screened door open. Tried and missed and tried again.
Corcoran stepped out of the blackness next to the stoop, reached out and grasped the man's good wrist as he was pulling on the door, a twist around and down and up behind the fellow's back. Up against the wall, face-first, next to the door.
“No please. I don't have it. I don't have it. Please. I don't have it.”
“We're just talking is all. Sorry about the other day. All a big misunderstanding. I slipped, you misunderstood, I had to keep you from hitting me - and then I slipped again. Sorry man.”
“Sorry? Misunderstanding? Slipped? You bast… Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay. Okay. Ease up.”
“What you want this time? The bad arm again or this one?”
“No man, please. I ain't got it.”
“Get it. Now. I ain't here to argue.”
“Man I can't get it right now, tonight. I'll do what I can tomorrow but I can't make no promises. Ow. Ow.”
“Mister. Are you completely stupid? Three choices. That bad arm ain't even started to grow together yet. Break it again right now and they might as well just take it off at the elbow. Or the good one. Then where you gonna be? Both arms broke? Twin casts? Use some imagination man. Or you cough up the cash. Door number one, door number two or door number three? Choose one or two, I'll just be back in another week.”
“But I ain't got it.”
“Mister, I ain't your daddy. It ain't my job to think for you. You got a boat, right? Free and clear? Worth at least one-fifty? You get on the phone, somebody will cough up twenty-five tonight in cash. I hate it for you but that's the way it is. I know you don't think I'm foolin' with you. I know you understand we ain't playing games here. Now you got to make your choice… or I'll have to make it for you.”
“What'd you do to my dog man? What'd you do to my dog?”
“I ain't hurt your dog. He's over yonder under the oleander eating biscuits. Okay? Now what's it going to be? One, two or three?”
“Okay. Okay. Just let me go inside and make some calls.”
“All right. I'm fixin' to ease off this arm and we're going inside. We're going to the phone and you're gonna sit down and make your calls. If you need something you'll let me know and we'll work it out. If you cross me the whole deal will have been a waste of time and you will hurt like nothing you ever imagined in your life. Whatever it is don't try it. It won't work out for you. Mister, this is what I do. I've done it for years and I'm good at it. Don't even think about it.”
Corcoran put his left hand on the man's left shoulder, let go of the wrist.
“Easy now. Slow and easy. We'll just walk inside, you'll do your job, and then I'll go away.
~ ~ ~ ~
Breakfast at the diner, then to the office. Corcoran pulled up to the curb, parked, got out, started to the door.
“Jesus loves you Mistah Corky.”
“Jesus don't give a rat's ass about me old man. Or you either.”
And through the door, the buzzer going off as long as the door was open. He walked towards the desk.
“Hey, I gotta go. Got a man comin' in. Call you later.” Reams looked directly into Corcoran's eyes, hung up the phone. Neither man blinked, neither man smiled, neither nodded. Corcoran's eyes were hard, empty, devoid of emotion. And dark. So dark most folks would think of them as black. Arresting eyes - but empty. Reams' eyes were ugly. The color of greed, the color of just don't give a damn. If asked, you couldn't say were those eyes brown or blue or green or gray. Not mean. Not nice. Just ugly.
Corcoran dropped the sack on the desk. Reams dug in it, took out twenty-five-hundred and handed it to Corcoran. “Thanks.”
Corcoran put the money in his wallet. “No problem. Anything else?”
“Not right now. I'll call you if I need you.”
Corcoran turned, walked to the door and out.
The morning was cool. End of summer, not yet fall. It would be hot this afternoon but now it wasn't quite so bad. The old man sat there on his bench.
“You read that scripture I gave you?”
“What?”
“The scripture? From the Bible? Luke 23:34?”
“Old man, you know I don't read no bibles. I know you got your life all tangled up amongst it - but that's you, not me.”
“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.”
“Mistah Corky, he was all tore up, beat so bad the meat was hanging off him. Nailed to a tree and fixin' to die. And what do he say?”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Nigger, I've just about got all that crap I want. You hear?”
“Jesus loves you son. And so do I.”
Corcoran threw down his cigarette, stalked to the car, got in, started the engine and squealed the tires pulling into the traffic, causing a city bus to slam his brakes.
Corcoran steamed and drove. Furious at the old man for pushin' that stuff on him. Furious with himself for his reaction.
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
“Yeah, right.” Corcoran had hurt a lot of men - and seen a lot of others hurt. Hadn't none of them said nuthin even remotely like that. They cursed, they cried, they threatened and they begged, but what they did the most of all was not say nuthin 'bout forgivin'.
Stupid, stupid old man.
And then there was Barbara.
He knew the girl loved him. But he didn't know why. It didn't make a lick of sense. He'd asked her and she'd said something about a thing called “Grace” but he just couldn't get a handle on it.
But that church thing? Every Sunday morning. Every Sunday night. And Wednesday nights too. What did she call it? “Prayer meeting?”
No, she didn't push it on him. Didn't aggravate him with it the way that Preacher did. Not a word unless he asked. And he had a few times. She would quietly and calmly try her best to answer - but she'd hush the instant that she saw he'd got enough.
Damn that old man.
He turned onto Twenty-second Street Causeway at the estuary, headed for the Sea Breeze. Pulled into the gravel parking lot. Went in and got a sack of deviled crabs, a bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce and an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then out. He walked through the sand and sand-spurs, through the dappled shade beneath the Australian pines and over to the seawall. Sat down, dangling his feet over the side. Ate his deviled crabs and drank his beer while staring at the oily sheen on the dark scud-covered water of the ships' channel. He thought about the ships. Tramp steamers from ports around the world. Japanese cargo ships, their names all ending with Maru. Small ships from Honduras bringing fresh bananas, tarantulas and the occasional boa constrictor. Coal ships, from one of them yankee states up north, to fuel the power company's boilers.
He sat and ate the crabs and thought. Barbara. Preacher. All that Jesus talk. The job that he'd just done. The next one, whatever it might be. He ate the crabs and thought.
“If you don't know that it's a sin, it ain't.”
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
No more crabs. He washed the crabs and hot sauce from his palette with the beer, no longer cold but not yet warm. He stood up from the seawall, walked up the slope to the back of the restaurant, disposed of his trash, went back to the car and headed home, the anger abated, just looking forward now to bed and then to Barbara's return once she got the shop shut down.
Chapter Two - In which we meet a man, and a dog, and talk things over
Corcoran came awake at the first sound. Someone knocking on the door. A quick scan of the room - nothing remarkable. He picked his pants up off the bedpost, started putting them on.
“Be there in a minute.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“HANG ON - I'M COMING.”
Pant's on, he crossed the floor. A quick look through the peephole: middle-aged guy in a cheap suit. Friendly looking but, no way around it, a working cop. Corcoran unlocked the door, opened it wide.
“Come in” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
The man stepped through the door, scanned the room, turned and shut the door.
“No thanks but I wouldn't mind a glass of water.”
“Ice?”
“If it's not too much trouble. A big glass. Please?”
“Come in the kitchen and have a seat.”
The man came in, looked around, stuck a hand out towards Corcoran.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.”
Corcoran took his hand.
“Corky.”
Davis sat down at the table. Corcoran put a big glass of iced water in front of him, took a cup of coffee out of the microwave and sat down across from him.
“What brings you to Tampa, Detective?”
“Call me Jim.”
“Jim.”
“You seem to have had a little adventure down in Parrish a little while back. Let's just call it a misunderstanding.”
Corcoran didn't bat an eye. “Okay” he said.
“Wasn't the first misunderstanding you've ever had best I can tell, but it might be the first one where you and I crossed paths.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
Davis paused, took a deep drink of water and went on.
“Best I can see, that was also the first time you and Vernon Waters crossed paths. And the first time he ever had his arm broken.” He paused again, leaned back and sort of settled in.
The silence held. Davis sat quietly. Corcoran did the same. This detective, he thought, was no simple man. Nor was he one with whom to toy.
About a minute and Corcoran picked up his spoon. He stirred the coffee around a little bit, got up, put it back in the microwave and reheated it for a few seconds.
“So Jim, how do you and I cross paths? You work for Sarasota. Parrish is thirty miles north of you. And it's a whole nuther county.”
“Well, see, Vernon lived in Sarasota. And about a week ago somebody paid him a visit right there at his home. Late at night. It seems they may have helped him make some phone calls. And it seems that they were you”
“Me?”
“Yep. You. And it seems he woke up dead the next morning.”
“WHOA. Whoa. Wait a minute here. He's dead?”
“Dead as a hammer.”
“Dead how?”
“A double-barreled twelve-gauge with double-ought buck, square in the chest from two feet away. Blew his innards all to pieces, out his back and all over the kitchen.”
“Ow.”
“And, on top of that, the bastard reloaded, went back out on the porch and tried to shoot the dog.”
“No.”
“Yep. Old dog was too smart for him though. Looks like he took off and got under the neighbor's house. Only way we knew he'd been shot at was the buckshot tore up his bowl and the sand where he liked to stay out under a tree. One of those oleanders. The bad guy probably shot to kill him without realizing he was gone. The tracks look like the fellow just went nuts when he couldn't find the dog. He searched all over the place. Even crawled under the house. Dog was just too smart. Or maybe he just had a sixth-sense.”
“Good old dog. You get to meet him?”
“Oh yeah. Cocker Spaniel. Old, almost gray, near 'bout blind. Poor old tail just about plumb naked. Very polite.”
“What you reckon will happen to him?”
“No tellin'. I'll load him up and bring him to you if you like?”
“Hmmm… You know, you probably wouldn't say that if you figured on sending me up to Raiford on a murder charge?”
“Naah. You didn't kill him. I thought you might have but now I can see that’s not the case… Besides, the folks I talked to said that you might kill the man but you wouldn't kill the dog, even if he was chewing your leg off. You want me to load him up and bring him?”
“Man, I don't need no dog. Specially no wore out old dog. Specially no wore out old blind dog.”
Davis didn’t answer.
“So how’d you know I was there?”
“Old lady across the street. Spends her life in a wheelchair. Sees everything. Writes it all down. Including your tag number and a pretty good description. She also got a white Cadillac but couldn’t get the number. It came in after you and left ahead of you. Unfortunately you two were too much excitement for one night -- she went to bed right after you left.”
Keys in the door. The knob turned, the door swung inward. Barbara in the doorway, a bunch of plastic grocery bags hanging from her left arm and hand, more of the same on the floor to her right. She reached down and grabbed them by their tops, stepped inside, looked toward the kitchen, saw Corky and his guest.
“Ohh.”
She sat the bags down on the floor, took the keys out of the lock, shut the door, turned to the kitchen, smiled. “Hi. I'm Barbara.” She came towards them, right hand offered to the stranger.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.” He reached out, took her hand, gave it a firm but gentle shake. “You're beautiful.”
“Well thank you. But I'll bet you say that to all the girls.”
He laughed. “No Ma'am, I don't.”
Corcoran had already begun to collect the bags of groceries. He started sorting through the stuff - looking for things that needed refrigeration.
“Hey, come out of that. I'll get it.”
She shoved him aside, pointed towards his chair.
“You too Jim. Sit back down. Don't let me interfere with whatever you guys are up to. This won't take a minute and then I'll go in the bedroom and leave y'all alone.” She deftly distributed the groceries to their appointed places.
“Is that your old dog out in the car in front?”
Corcoran turned and stared at the detective. Davis kind of hung his head.
“Well, actually Ma'am, I kind of thought he might be yours and Corky’s.”
“What's his name?”
“I don't rightly know, ma’am.”
“I think it's Sam. I'll go give him a treat and some water. He's blind isn't he?”
“Yes ma'am.”
Corcoran stared at Davis, then at Barbara. Davis. Barbara. Almost there but not quite able to catch up.
“Hey.”
“Hush. I'm going to take care of your dog. You guys just go on with what you were doing.” She went out the door, some bologna and a bowl of water in her hands.
“Well.”
“Sorry. The folks I talked to said to bring him. Said you’d take him. I was kind of easing my way towards telling you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Listen, your girl has got the dog thing taken care of. You and I have got to talk.”
“Okay. You know I was there. And you've already said you don't think I did it. So where do we go from here? How can I help - other than the dog?”
“Well, here's the deal. I've been doing this detecting thing for almost thirty years. I know what that business in the bar was all about. And I know what the visit to the house was all about. And I know you didn't kill him. But…”
“But?”
“Well, like I said, I've been at this for a while - but my bosses haven't. A bunch of kids. More about political correctness, less about solving cases. As far as they're concerned, you're the guy and, if I wasn't entirely senile, I'd already have you in a cell in Sarasota. The truth though is that I don't need you in a cell, I need you here. I need you on the street.”
Corcoran waited.
“Waters lived in Sarasota. But, so far as I can tell, he had no ties there whatsoever. He spent his time right here in Tampa. He did his banking in Tampa. His mailing address was a post office box in Tampa. What work he did, he did right here. Looks like the only thing he did in Sarasota was to sleep and feed the dog -- and the dog thing appears to have been more of a habit than any kind of commitment. I can't find one neighbor that knew the man. No doctors, lawyers or accountants. No drug stores. Not even a dry cleaner. Couple of restaurants but none of them knew anything about him and none of them ever saw anybody with him. Whatever it is, it's here. But the case is there and I'm the guy they're looking to for a solution.”
Corky had listened closely. “Jim, it just don't make no sense. It's sixty miles from here to there. I mean Bobby knew the guy had business in Tampa and lived in Sarasota. But neither of us had a clue it was anything like you describe: no connection at all. That just don't make no sense.”
“You're right. It doesn't make a lot of sense.”
“And, if you're convinced I'm not your guy, what's it got to do with me?”
“Very simple. Not what you want to hear, but simple nonetheless. I know how to detect but I don't know Tampa like you do. You're a bail runner, you know how to find folks and bring them in, but I don't know how good you are at what I do: detecting. I have to clear this thing up; that's my job. You're the prime suspect; you need it cleared up or your life is going to get very very complicated… and expensive. You see where this is headed?”
“Oh yes. What you're sayin’, it's you and me -- whether I like it or not?”
“There you go.”
“I say no and I wind up paying for some lawyer's girlfriend's house?”
“You're gettin' there.”
Barbara came back through the door, snagged her purse. “Sam and I are going to the vet to get checked out. Love you.” She kissed him on the head.
“Nice meeting you Detective Jim Davis from Sarasota: an honest man with excellent tastes.”
Davis sat and stared at the place she'd been.
Corcoran watched Davis. He grinned. “I understand. No problem. She does that to people.”
Davis noted Corcoran's eyes. Empty when he'd first come in. Sparkling now. A different man. He thought about young Barbara's smile.
“Let's go get a sandwich. The City of Sarasota's buying.”
~ ~ ~ ~
They rode in Davis' car, Corcoran steering him to the Spanish Park Restaurant at the western edge of Ybor City. Shouts of welcome rang out as they came through the door. “Senor Corky.” Their host took them to the back, a table where they could be seen but not heard. A bustle of laughing talking waiters brought sweating ice-cold glasses of water and a basket of hot Cuban bread, crispy crust, soft as an angel's breath inside, straight from the next door bakery. Corcoran introduced Davis to their host as “Mi amigo.”
No question of ordering. The chef appeared with a cook and a helper carrying a vat of Sopa de' Garbanzo, sitting it on a plant stand next to the table. He ladled out a huge bowl for each of them, said “Enjoy” and shooed the help back into the kitchen.
Davis was impressed.
“These folks must really owe you something.”
“No. No. It's just that Barbara and I come here fairly often. It's not about me. They pretty much tolerate me 'cause she lets me hang out with her.”
“Cool. I understand. Hang on a second.”
Davis bowed his head, mumbled quietly for a minute. Corcoran couldn't hear exactly what he said but recognized it as a prayer. He heard him say “In Jesus' name, amen.”
Davis took a taste of the soup. That ended the conversation for a while. They ate the beans and ham and onion and chorizo, sopping the remaining broth with the bread.
As they finished their second bowls their host brought café con leche and a couple of panatelas. A cigar girl cut off the ends and lit the cigars, puffing gently to establish an even ash.
Both men sat back in their chairs. Corcoran loosened his belt. Davis did the same.
“So who starts?' Corcoran asked.
“You probably know more than I do. Why don't you start out?”
“Okay. Way I got involved was Bobby Reams told me the guy owed him some money. Didn't say how much. The deal here was that a bookie, Max. A real nice and honorable guy, a big contributor to charity and to down-and-out individuals, much-loved in the community, just up and died of a massive heart attack. Happened that he died at a bad time for his family – they had no access to any cash and were in a bind.
“They came to Bobby, showed him the books and asked if he might be willing to help out. Well, Bobby took the first significant entry, paid them cash for it, no discount, the full amount; this wasn’t business, it was helping some good folks out of a bind.
“He contacts the recently departed, tells him the situation and the guy tells him to get lost, he ain’t going to pay.
“Well, that’s where I come in.
“You know what I am. I’m a ‘Runner.’ That’s Florida’s version of a bounty hunter. Catch is that Florida doesn’t allow bounty hunters. If that’s what you want to do, you have to sign up as an employee of a bondsman. And you can only work for one bondsman. I work for Bobby. He keeps me pretty busy and I make a good living. What I do is on the up-and-up. One of Bobby’s people skips, I go get them.
“This case was not a part of that. This was personal. Bobby helped somebody and asked me if I would mind helping him. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. This thing is not on Bobby, it’s on me. Period.
“Bobby tells me this guy works in Tampa and lives in Sarasota. He gives me the addresses. He suggests that maybe it would be best to have our talk somewhere outside of Hillsborough County. He gives me a rundown on the guy's habits and interests. That's how I knew he had that boat. And that's how I knew he had a habit of stopping at that bar in Parrish. Quiet little place, just locals, nobody looking for trouble. That's probably why he stopped there and it's also why I picked the place. Shouldn't nobody interfere and shouldn't nobody know me from Adam's housecat.
“Okay, you know what happened. You know how it happened. You had probably already figured out what it was all about. I talked to him, gave him a week, told him don't make me come back. Figured it was over. Obviously I was wrong. And also seems obvious I was wrong about nobody knowing me. That's got to be how you come to know about it.”
Davis broke in, “The bartender. He skipped on a bond several years back. You brought him in. He got his face tore up later in a wreck. They fixed it but it left him looking different. That's probably why you didn't recognize him. But he recognized you. He also recognized the scam once it all started.
“It was just dumb-luck. I was canvassing, touching every base I could find. Parrish is about halfway between the guy's office and his house. I just stopped in on the off chance. Paydirt. A story and a name.”
Corcoran shook his head. “What are the odds?” He took a breath, collected his thoughts.
“Well, let's go on. A week went by, actually two. Bobby calls me. Tells me the guy hasn't come through. Tells me how much. I do a little checking. The guy's got a house but it would take a while to sell it and the whole thing could fall apart. Same thing with his car and it ain't worth all that much no-ways. He's got a bunch of other stuff but the main thing is that boat. Keeps it in Tampa there at Ballast Point. Worth at least one-fifty. Probably more. You got connections you can find somebody's got the cash and willing to deal right now for a quick return like that. Pay twenty-five tonight, turn it over for a hundred tomorrow. Hey? I'd do that.
“So I go to the house. Check it out. Come back after dark. I'm sure you got it figured out. We talk. I offer him a chance to make some calls. He gets a guy - sounds like somebody he's been involved with, like they'd been into something wouldn't do for me to know about. They talk like they're dealin' over the boat but they're not - it's about something else. I don't know what. Remember, I’m just getting one side of the conversation. Sounded to me like there might be a stash somewhere made twenty-five look like peanuts -- but our boy couldn't touch it for a while. Kinda sounded like he might be suggesting he’d have to get amongst that stash and that seemed to turn the whole thing 'round. The guy agreed to do it.
“Anyway, the guy drives down with the cash. I'm figuring it was a loan with a major payback. No paperwork. No bill of sale. Don't matter to me long as I get Bobby's money.
“Guy leaves. White Cadillac. Looked fairly new. Only name I got was Marco. We weren't introduced, but he did make it his business to look me over pretty good. I'd bet by now he knows at least as much about me as you do.
“Anyway, he's maybe five-six, maybe two-fifty, maybe forty-five years old. Dark complexion. Pockmarks. Still got his hair. Salt and pepper. I watched Vernon punch the numbers in the phone but I can't tell you now just what they were.
“That's it. The whole thing. Bobby gave me ten-percent and that's the last I thought of it till you showed up.”
Corcoran leaned back. Took a sip of water. Picked up his cup and signaled the waiter. Two fresh cups appeared at once, new spoons, new napkins, the old ones whisked away as though they never had existed.
“Accent?”
“Ohio. Indiana. He wanted a cold-drink, he'd ask for a soda or a pop.”
“How about Marco?”
“Jersey mob.”
“Vernon's general carriage?”
“Ordinary guy. Maybe a little rough stuff in the background. Not up to nuthin’ heavy.”
“Marco?”
“Connected. Matter-of-fact-cocky. Over-confidant.”
“Dress?'
“Vernon, ordinary. Marco expensive, open collar, gold.”
“Buddies?”
“Associates.”
“Where's Marco from?”
“Took about an hour and a half for him to get there. Tampa? Somewhere within that range.”
“Tattoos? Scars? Abnormalities?”
“Nothing.”
Davis summed it up. “Okay. So what we got is a forty-five year old guy, five-six, two-fifty, dark complexion, pockmarks, salt and pepper, expensive cloths, flashy, drives a new white Cadillac, Jersey accent, maybe mob connected or a wanna-be, reachable by phone within about a sixty-mile radius of Sarasota, keeps twenty-five large in cash somewhere where he can get it quick?”
“That's him.”
“Did he do the crime?”
“Hey, our boy has gone along for more than forty years without getting shot dead in his living room. Marco lets him hold twenty-five and he's dead before the sun comes up? He maybe didn't do it. I don't know. But, if it wasn't him, at least he knows who and why. Right?”
“You got it. So that's our next step? Marco?”
“Marco.”
“Back in a minute.” Davis pushed his chair back, rose, looked around, headed for the restroom.
When Davis got back Corcoran took his place. Davis didn't sit down. He looked around. Emilio, the host, appeared as though from out of nowhere. “Senor?”
Davis handed him a credit card.
“Gracias Senor.” Emilio was gone as fast as he had come.
Corcoran and Emilio arrived back at the table simultaneously. Emilio handed Davis the check and card. Davis leaned over, put the check on the table, wrote the tip on it and signed. He handed it to Emilio.
“Gracias Senor. Muchas Gracias. Please come back Senor. And, Senor Corky, you must come back too, and bring the lovely Senorita. We are not whole without her.”
“Neither am I Emilio. Neither am I. I'll bring her back in just a day or two.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Back to the car. And back to the apartment. They pulled up to the curb and parked. Davis stayed under the wheel, left the motor running.
“So,” said Corcoran, “you've got my side of it. What do you have that I left out?”
“Well, Vernon was a realtor. Had an office on Kennedy. About a block from Dale Mabry. Specialized in commercial leasing. Mom and Pop stuff. You want to open some kind of small shop, Vernon's the man to see. You want an office in an older building, he's the man. Been at it for six years. And doing fairly well. If he didn't have the upkeep on that boat he'd be doing better. That and football. He had to bet. Not enough to get in trouble but enough to keep him close to home. He'd get a dollar ahead, he had to bet it on a football game.”
Corcoran interrupted, “Who covered his action? Not Max, not on the football. Max didn’t do football. Maybe Marco?”
“No. A guy by the name of Johnny Two Toes. Don't ask - you'll be happier if you don't know. Could be some connection to Marco but it didn't jump out at me. Of course I didn't even know to look for a Marco when I was putting this together. If Marco is mobbed up it's likely that they knew each other, maybe did some kind of business together.
“I followed our boy Vernon back to before he came here, found out he really did come from Ohio. You were right about the accent. He was born there. Just outside of Dayton.
“One odd thing: he had a good business going there, and then, one day, he just packed up and left. Folks there remember him but they had no idea where he went or why.
“Came down here seven years ago. Took a year looking around the state and getting situated. Got a real estate license, started right off the bat in the commercial leasing line. And bought the house in Sarasota. We don't know why. Nobody seems to know why. There's got to be some reason but we, none of us, don't have a clue.
“Personal habits? Hey, outside of an occasional weekend on the boat with a lady, the stops in Parrish were about the only thing that wasn't work. And that was just a way to relax on the way home; he never talked to anyone, never brought anyone in, never took anyone out. And the ladies? Well, looks like the boat and the football weren't the only things that took his cash. No connections. One weekend. Maybe two. That's it. Different one most every time. Good lookers. Pros. Another possible link to Marco. These were high-class girls.
“Relatives? Parents dead. Natural causes. No siblings. An aunt in Kentucky but she hadn't seen him since before he left Ohio. Some cousins around the country. No contact for years and years. Friends? He had some but he dropped them when he moved. Kind of odd 'cause some of them had thought that they were close and then one day he's gone. Just gone.
“No will that we've been able to find. And nobody asking about him. For now we've got him in a cooler down in Sarasota. Nothing remarkable about the autopsy. Just what it looked like. Shotgun. No drugs, no medical problems. Nothing unusual except the way he died.
“I guess that's it. There's probably more but I just can't think of it right now. That food got to me. More of it than I'm used to in the middle of the day. And richer than I'm used to too. But good? Oh man.
“Guess I'd better head back to Sarasota for now. I'll try to do some more digging from down there. How about you seeing what you can come up with as far as Marco is concerned. The odds are he's from Tampa. Don't you think?”
“Oh yeah. He's from here all right. I'm on it. Ought to have him pretty much pinned down by this time tomorrow. Leave me a card, I'll call you.”
Davis handed him a business card. “If nobody’s there just leave a message on the machine - it will beep me as soon as you hang up. I'll find you.”
Corcoran got out of the car, started to go towards the door. Thought of something else. Leaned down to the window. “What about the dog? Where did he come from? And why would a guy like this even have a dog? Especially an old worn out dog? What about the dog?”
Davis slapped his forehead with his palm. “The dog. I knew there was something wasn't right. Knew it. Just couldn't put my finger on it. Trust me, by this time tomorrow I'll know what there is to know about your buddy, Sam.”
“Okay. Have a good one. Talk to you tomorrow. I'll take care of Marco; you take care of Sam.” Corcoran straightened up. Davis pulled out, headed down the street. Corcoran headed to the door.
Brake lights. Davis started backing up. Corcoran stopped, stooped down to the window again.
“The phone? I checked. No calls went out that night.”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. He had a perfectly good phone but he used a cell phone. I'll bet it was one of those pre-paid deals where there wouldn't be a record. You didn't find it at the house?”
“No. No cell phone. Hmmm.”
“Yeah. The killer took it with him.”
“Be there in a minute.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“HANG ON - I'M COMING.”
Pant's on, he crossed the floor. A quick look through the peephole: middle-aged guy in a cheap suit. Friendly looking but, no way around it, a working cop. Corcoran unlocked the door, opened it wide.
“Come in” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
The man stepped through the door, scanned the room, turned and shut the door.
“No thanks but I wouldn't mind a glass of water.”
“Ice?”
“If it's not too much trouble. A big glass. Please?”
“Come in the kitchen and have a seat.”
The man came in, looked around, stuck a hand out towards Corcoran.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.”
Corcoran took his hand.
“Corky.”
Davis sat down at the table. Corcoran put a big glass of iced water in front of him, took a cup of coffee out of the microwave and sat down across from him.
“What brings you to Tampa, Detective?”
“Call me Jim.”
“Jim.”
“You seem to have had a little adventure down in Parrish a little while back. Let's just call it a misunderstanding.”
Corcoran didn't bat an eye. “Okay” he said.
“Wasn't the first misunderstanding you've ever had best I can tell, but it might be the first one where you and I crossed paths.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
Davis paused, took a deep drink of water and went on.
“Best I can see, that was also the first time you and Vernon Waters crossed paths. And the first time he ever had his arm broken.” He paused again, leaned back and sort of settled in.
The silence held. Davis sat quietly. Corcoran did the same. This detective, he thought, was no simple man. Nor was he one with whom to toy.
About a minute and Corcoran picked up his spoon. He stirred the coffee around a little bit, got up, put it back in the microwave and reheated it for a few seconds.
“So Jim, how do you and I cross paths? You work for Sarasota. Parrish is thirty miles north of you. And it's a whole nuther county.”
“Well, see, Vernon lived in Sarasota. And about a week ago somebody paid him a visit right there at his home. Late at night. It seems they may have helped him make some phone calls. And it seems that they were you”
“Me?”
“Yep. You. And it seems he woke up dead the next morning.”
“WHOA. Whoa. Wait a minute here. He's dead?”
“Dead as a hammer.”
“Dead how?”
“A double-barreled twelve-gauge with double-ought buck, square in the chest from two feet away. Blew his innards all to pieces, out his back and all over the kitchen.”
“Ow.”
“And, on top of that, the bastard reloaded, went back out on the porch and tried to shoot the dog.”
“No.”
“Yep. Old dog was too smart for him though. Looks like he took off and got under the neighbor's house. Only way we knew he'd been shot at was the buckshot tore up his bowl and the sand where he liked to stay out under a tree. One of those oleanders. The bad guy probably shot to kill him without realizing he was gone. The tracks look like the fellow just went nuts when he couldn't find the dog. He searched all over the place. Even crawled under the house. Dog was just too smart. Or maybe he just had a sixth-sense.”
“Good old dog. You get to meet him?”
“Oh yeah. Cocker Spaniel. Old, almost gray, near 'bout blind. Poor old tail just about plumb naked. Very polite.”
“What you reckon will happen to him?”
“No tellin'. I'll load him up and bring him to you if you like?”
“Hmmm… You know, you probably wouldn't say that if you figured on sending me up to Raiford on a murder charge?”
“Naah. You didn't kill him. I thought you might have but now I can see that’s not the case… Besides, the folks I talked to said that you might kill the man but you wouldn't kill the dog, even if he was chewing your leg off. You want me to load him up and bring him?”
“Man, I don't need no dog. Specially no wore out old dog. Specially no wore out old blind dog.”
Davis didn’t answer.
“So how’d you know I was there?”
“Old lady across the street. Spends her life in a wheelchair. Sees everything. Writes it all down. Including your tag number and a pretty good description. She also got a white Cadillac but couldn’t get the number. It came in after you and left ahead of you. Unfortunately you two were too much excitement for one night -- she went to bed right after you left.”
Keys in the door. The knob turned, the door swung inward. Barbara in the doorway, a bunch of plastic grocery bags hanging from her left arm and hand, more of the same on the floor to her right. She reached down and grabbed them by their tops, stepped inside, looked toward the kitchen, saw Corky and his guest.
“Ohh.”
She sat the bags down on the floor, took the keys out of the lock, shut the door, turned to the kitchen, smiled. “Hi. I'm Barbara.” She came towards them, right hand offered to the stranger.
“Jim Davis, Detective, Sarasota Police.” He reached out, took her hand, gave it a firm but gentle shake. “You're beautiful.”
“Well thank you. But I'll bet you say that to all the girls.”
He laughed. “No Ma'am, I don't.”
Corcoran had already begun to collect the bags of groceries. He started sorting through the stuff - looking for things that needed refrigeration.
“Hey, come out of that. I'll get it.”
She shoved him aside, pointed towards his chair.
“You too Jim. Sit back down. Don't let me interfere with whatever you guys are up to. This won't take a minute and then I'll go in the bedroom and leave y'all alone.” She deftly distributed the groceries to their appointed places.
“Is that your old dog out in the car in front?”
Corcoran turned and stared at the detective. Davis kind of hung his head.
“Well, actually Ma'am, I kind of thought he might be yours and Corky’s.”
“What's his name?”
“I don't rightly know, ma’am.”
“I think it's Sam. I'll go give him a treat and some water. He's blind isn't he?”
“Yes ma'am.”
Corcoran stared at Davis, then at Barbara. Davis. Barbara. Almost there but not quite able to catch up.
“Hey.”
“Hush. I'm going to take care of your dog. You guys just go on with what you were doing.” She went out the door, some bologna and a bowl of water in her hands.
“Well.”
“Sorry. The folks I talked to said to bring him. Said you’d take him. I was kind of easing my way towards telling you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Listen, your girl has got the dog thing taken care of. You and I have got to talk.”
“Okay. You know I was there. And you've already said you don't think I did it. So where do we go from here? How can I help - other than the dog?”
“Well, here's the deal. I've been doing this detecting thing for almost thirty years. I know what that business in the bar was all about. And I know what the visit to the house was all about. And I know you didn't kill him. But…”
“But?”
“Well, like I said, I've been at this for a while - but my bosses haven't. A bunch of kids. More about political correctness, less about solving cases. As far as they're concerned, you're the guy and, if I wasn't entirely senile, I'd already have you in a cell in Sarasota. The truth though is that I don't need you in a cell, I need you here. I need you on the street.”
Corcoran waited.
“Waters lived in Sarasota. But, so far as I can tell, he had no ties there whatsoever. He spent his time right here in Tampa. He did his banking in Tampa. His mailing address was a post office box in Tampa. What work he did, he did right here. Looks like the only thing he did in Sarasota was to sleep and feed the dog -- and the dog thing appears to have been more of a habit than any kind of commitment. I can't find one neighbor that knew the man. No doctors, lawyers or accountants. No drug stores. Not even a dry cleaner. Couple of restaurants but none of them knew anything about him and none of them ever saw anybody with him. Whatever it is, it's here. But the case is there and I'm the guy they're looking to for a solution.”
Corky had listened closely. “Jim, it just don't make no sense. It's sixty miles from here to there. I mean Bobby knew the guy had business in Tampa and lived in Sarasota. But neither of us had a clue it was anything like you describe: no connection at all. That just don't make no sense.”
“You're right. It doesn't make a lot of sense.”
“And, if you're convinced I'm not your guy, what's it got to do with me?”
“Very simple. Not what you want to hear, but simple nonetheless. I know how to detect but I don't know Tampa like you do. You're a bail runner, you know how to find folks and bring them in, but I don't know how good you are at what I do: detecting. I have to clear this thing up; that's my job. You're the prime suspect; you need it cleared up or your life is going to get very very complicated… and expensive. You see where this is headed?”
“Oh yes. What you're sayin’, it's you and me -- whether I like it or not?”
“There you go.”
“I say no and I wind up paying for some lawyer's girlfriend's house?”
“You're gettin' there.”
Barbara came back through the door, snagged her purse. “Sam and I are going to the vet to get checked out. Love you.” She kissed him on the head.
“Nice meeting you Detective Jim Davis from Sarasota: an honest man with excellent tastes.”
Davis sat and stared at the place she'd been.
Corcoran watched Davis. He grinned. “I understand. No problem. She does that to people.”
Davis noted Corcoran's eyes. Empty when he'd first come in. Sparkling now. A different man. He thought about young Barbara's smile.
“Let's go get a sandwich. The City of Sarasota's buying.”
~ ~ ~ ~
They rode in Davis' car, Corcoran steering him to the Spanish Park Restaurant at the western edge of Ybor City. Shouts of welcome rang out as they came through the door. “Senor Corky.” Their host took them to the back, a table where they could be seen but not heard. A bustle of laughing talking waiters brought sweating ice-cold glasses of water and a basket of hot Cuban bread, crispy crust, soft as an angel's breath inside, straight from the next door bakery. Corcoran introduced Davis to their host as “Mi amigo.”
No question of ordering. The chef appeared with a cook and a helper carrying a vat of Sopa de' Garbanzo, sitting it on a plant stand next to the table. He ladled out a huge bowl for each of them, said “Enjoy” and shooed the help back into the kitchen.
Davis was impressed.
“These folks must really owe you something.”
“No. No. It's just that Barbara and I come here fairly often. It's not about me. They pretty much tolerate me 'cause she lets me hang out with her.”
“Cool. I understand. Hang on a second.”
Davis bowed his head, mumbled quietly for a minute. Corcoran couldn't hear exactly what he said but recognized it as a prayer. He heard him say “In Jesus' name, amen.”
Davis took a taste of the soup. That ended the conversation for a while. They ate the beans and ham and onion and chorizo, sopping the remaining broth with the bread.
As they finished their second bowls their host brought café con leche and a couple of panatelas. A cigar girl cut off the ends and lit the cigars, puffing gently to establish an even ash.
Both men sat back in their chairs. Corcoran loosened his belt. Davis did the same.
“So who starts?' Corcoran asked.
“You probably know more than I do. Why don't you start out?”
“Okay. Way I got involved was Bobby Reams told me the guy owed him some money. Didn't say how much. The deal here was that a bookie, Max. A real nice and honorable guy, a big contributor to charity and to down-and-out individuals, much-loved in the community, just up and died of a massive heart attack. Happened that he died at a bad time for his family – they had no access to any cash and were in a bind.
“They came to Bobby, showed him the books and asked if he might be willing to help out. Well, Bobby took the first significant entry, paid them cash for it, no discount, the full amount; this wasn’t business, it was helping some good folks out of a bind.
“He contacts the recently departed, tells him the situation and the guy tells him to get lost, he ain’t going to pay.
“Well, that’s where I come in.
“You know what I am. I’m a ‘Runner.’ That’s Florida’s version of a bounty hunter. Catch is that Florida doesn’t allow bounty hunters. If that’s what you want to do, you have to sign up as an employee of a bondsman. And you can only work for one bondsman. I work for Bobby. He keeps me pretty busy and I make a good living. What I do is on the up-and-up. One of Bobby’s people skips, I go get them.
“This case was not a part of that. This was personal. Bobby helped somebody and asked me if I would mind helping him. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. This thing is not on Bobby, it’s on me. Period.
“Bobby tells me this guy works in Tampa and lives in Sarasota. He gives me the addresses. He suggests that maybe it would be best to have our talk somewhere outside of Hillsborough County. He gives me a rundown on the guy's habits and interests. That's how I knew he had that boat. And that's how I knew he had a habit of stopping at that bar in Parrish. Quiet little place, just locals, nobody looking for trouble. That's probably why he stopped there and it's also why I picked the place. Shouldn't nobody interfere and shouldn't nobody know me from Adam's housecat.
“Okay, you know what happened. You know how it happened. You had probably already figured out what it was all about. I talked to him, gave him a week, told him don't make me come back. Figured it was over. Obviously I was wrong. And also seems obvious I was wrong about nobody knowing me. That's got to be how you come to know about it.”
Davis broke in, “The bartender. He skipped on a bond several years back. You brought him in. He got his face tore up later in a wreck. They fixed it but it left him looking different. That's probably why you didn't recognize him. But he recognized you. He also recognized the scam once it all started.
“It was just dumb-luck. I was canvassing, touching every base I could find. Parrish is about halfway between the guy's office and his house. I just stopped in on the off chance. Paydirt. A story and a name.”
Corcoran shook his head. “What are the odds?” He took a breath, collected his thoughts.
“Well, let's go on. A week went by, actually two. Bobby calls me. Tells me the guy hasn't come through. Tells me how much. I do a little checking. The guy's got a house but it would take a while to sell it and the whole thing could fall apart. Same thing with his car and it ain't worth all that much no-ways. He's got a bunch of other stuff but the main thing is that boat. Keeps it in Tampa there at Ballast Point. Worth at least one-fifty. Probably more. You got connections you can find somebody's got the cash and willing to deal right now for a quick return like that. Pay twenty-five tonight, turn it over for a hundred tomorrow. Hey? I'd do that.
“So I go to the house. Check it out. Come back after dark. I'm sure you got it figured out. We talk. I offer him a chance to make some calls. He gets a guy - sounds like somebody he's been involved with, like they'd been into something wouldn't do for me to know about. They talk like they're dealin' over the boat but they're not - it's about something else. I don't know what. Remember, I’m just getting one side of the conversation. Sounded to me like there might be a stash somewhere made twenty-five look like peanuts -- but our boy couldn't touch it for a while. Kinda sounded like he might be suggesting he’d have to get amongst that stash and that seemed to turn the whole thing 'round. The guy agreed to do it.
“Anyway, the guy drives down with the cash. I'm figuring it was a loan with a major payback. No paperwork. No bill of sale. Don't matter to me long as I get Bobby's money.
“Guy leaves. White Cadillac. Looked fairly new. Only name I got was Marco. We weren't introduced, but he did make it his business to look me over pretty good. I'd bet by now he knows at least as much about me as you do.
“Anyway, he's maybe five-six, maybe two-fifty, maybe forty-five years old. Dark complexion. Pockmarks. Still got his hair. Salt and pepper. I watched Vernon punch the numbers in the phone but I can't tell you now just what they were.
“That's it. The whole thing. Bobby gave me ten-percent and that's the last I thought of it till you showed up.”
Corcoran leaned back. Took a sip of water. Picked up his cup and signaled the waiter. Two fresh cups appeared at once, new spoons, new napkins, the old ones whisked away as though they never had existed.
“Accent?”
“Ohio. Indiana. He wanted a cold-drink, he'd ask for a soda or a pop.”
“How about Marco?”
“Jersey mob.”
“Vernon's general carriage?”
“Ordinary guy. Maybe a little rough stuff in the background. Not up to nuthin’ heavy.”
“Marco?”
“Connected. Matter-of-fact-cocky. Over-confidant.”
“Dress?'
“Vernon, ordinary. Marco expensive, open collar, gold.”
“Buddies?”
“Associates.”
“Where's Marco from?”
“Took about an hour and a half for him to get there. Tampa? Somewhere within that range.”
“Tattoos? Scars? Abnormalities?”
“Nothing.”
Davis summed it up. “Okay. So what we got is a forty-five year old guy, five-six, two-fifty, dark complexion, pockmarks, salt and pepper, expensive cloths, flashy, drives a new white Cadillac, Jersey accent, maybe mob connected or a wanna-be, reachable by phone within about a sixty-mile radius of Sarasota, keeps twenty-five large in cash somewhere where he can get it quick?”
“That's him.”
“Did he do the crime?”
“Hey, our boy has gone along for more than forty years without getting shot dead in his living room. Marco lets him hold twenty-five and he's dead before the sun comes up? He maybe didn't do it. I don't know. But, if it wasn't him, at least he knows who and why. Right?”
“You got it. So that's our next step? Marco?”
“Marco.”
“Back in a minute.” Davis pushed his chair back, rose, looked around, headed for the restroom.
When Davis got back Corcoran took his place. Davis didn't sit down. He looked around. Emilio, the host, appeared as though from out of nowhere. “Senor?”
Davis handed him a credit card.
“Gracias Senor.” Emilio was gone as fast as he had come.
Corcoran and Emilio arrived back at the table simultaneously. Emilio handed Davis the check and card. Davis leaned over, put the check on the table, wrote the tip on it and signed. He handed it to Emilio.
“Gracias Senor. Muchas Gracias. Please come back Senor. And, Senor Corky, you must come back too, and bring the lovely Senorita. We are not whole without her.”
“Neither am I Emilio. Neither am I. I'll bring her back in just a day or two.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Back to the car. And back to the apartment. They pulled up to the curb and parked. Davis stayed under the wheel, left the motor running.
“So,” said Corcoran, “you've got my side of it. What do you have that I left out?”
“Well, Vernon was a realtor. Had an office on Kennedy. About a block from Dale Mabry. Specialized in commercial leasing. Mom and Pop stuff. You want to open some kind of small shop, Vernon's the man to see. You want an office in an older building, he's the man. Been at it for six years. And doing fairly well. If he didn't have the upkeep on that boat he'd be doing better. That and football. He had to bet. Not enough to get in trouble but enough to keep him close to home. He'd get a dollar ahead, he had to bet it on a football game.”
Corcoran interrupted, “Who covered his action? Not Max, not on the football. Max didn’t do football. Maybe Marco?”
“No. A guy by the name of Johnny Two Toes. Don't ask - you'll be happier if you don't know. Could be some connection to Marco but it didn't jump out at me. Of course I didn't even know to look for a Marco when I was putting this together. If Marco is mobbed up it's likely that they knew each other, maybe did some kind of business together.
“I followed our boy Vernon back to before he came here, found out he really did come from Ohio. You were right about the accent. He was born there. Just outside of Dayton.
“One odd thing: he had a good business going there, and then, one day, he just packed up and left. Folks there remember him but they had no idea where he went or why.
“Came down here seven years ago. Took a year looking around the state and getting situated. Got a real estate license, started right off the bat in the commercial leasing line. And bought the house in Sarasota. We don't know why. Nobody seems to know why. There's got to be some reason but we, none of us, don't have a clue.
“Personal habits? Hey, outside of an occasional weekend on the boat with a lady, the stops in Parrish were about the only thing that wasn't work. And that was just a way to relax on the way home; he never talked to anyone, never brought anyone in, never took anyone out. And the ladies? Well, looks like the boat and the football weren't the only things that took his cash. No connections. One weekend. Maybe two. That's it. Different one most every time. Good lookers. Pros. Another possible link to Marco. These were high-class girls.
“Relatives? Parents dead. Natural causes. No siblings. An aunt in Kentucky but she hadn't seen him since before he left Ohio. Some cousins around the country. No contact for years and years. Friends? He had some but he dropped them when he moved. Kind of odd 'cause some of them had thought that they were close and then one day he's gone. Just gone.
“No will that we've been able to find. And nobody asking about him. For now we've got him in a cooler down in Sarasota. Nothing remarkable about the autopsy. Just what it looked like. Shotgun. No drugs, no medical problems. Nothing unusual except the way he died.
“I guess that's it. There's probably more but I just can't think of it right now. That food got to me. More of it than I'm used to in the middle of the day. And richer than I'm used to too. But good? Oh man.
“Guess I'd better head back to Sarasota for now. I'll try to do some more digging from down there. How about you seeing what you can come up with as far as Marco is concerned. The odds are he's from Tampa. Don't you think?”
“Oh yeah. He's from here all right. I'm on it. Ought to have him pretty much pinned down by this time tomorrow. Leave me a card, I'll call you.”
Davis handed him a business card. “If nobody’s there just leave a message on the machine - it will beep me as soon as you hang up. I'll find you.”
Corcoran got out of the car, started to go towards the door. Thought of something else. Leaned down to the window. “What about the dog? Where did he come from? And why would a guy like this even have a dog? Especially an old worn out dog? What about the dog?”
Davis slapped his forehead with his palm. “The dog. I knew there was something wasn't right. Knew it. Just couldn't put my finger on it. Trust me, by this time tomorrow I'll know what there is to know about your buddy, Sam.”
“Okay. Have a good one. Talk to you tomorrow. I'll take care of Marco; you take care of Sam.” Corcoran straightened up. Davis pulled out, headed down the street. Corcoran headed to the door.
Brake lights. Davis started backing up. Corcoran stopped, stooped down to the window again.
“The phone? I checked. No calls went out that night.”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. He had a perfectly good phone but he used a cell phone. I'll bet it was one of those pre-paid deals where there wouldn't be a record. You didn't find it at the house?”
“No. No cell phone. Hmmm.”
“Yeah. The killer took it with him.”
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