Chapter 7
That evening we went back to Crab Heaven for a schooner of Yuengling and one of those soft- shell crab sandwiches I’d eyed the last time we were here. The place was crowded, but we spotted a couple of stools at the bar and squeezed in between two hefty gents who were each inhaling massive burgers with cheese oozing out of fat Kaiser rolls. I was beginning to like this place more and more. Jack Johnson was on the sound system at a volume that still allowed for conversation.
The bartender was a burly guy with a snow white beard and a friendly smile. He offered us menus, but we told him we were ready to order. The beer was icy and satisfying. I looked around. This seemed to be the kind of place where everyone was enjoying himself. Lots of grinning and laughter, and conspicuous consumption of mountains of seafood and fat French fries.
There was a 39 inch Vizio in front of us, tuned into the local news. The sound was off, but the captions rolled at the bottom of the screen. The mid-term elections were only a week away and the mayor of Norfolk had declined to run again. His deputy, eager to take the helm of the city, could have been a life-sized Barbie doll except for what they used to call a “Roman nose”, a nice way to say she looked like a hawk. Alison Bondura filled the screen spouting the usual platitudes. Jobs, justice, equal opportunity for all. I was sure she was older than she looked, but right now she looked pretty damned good, even with the schnoz. Long, silky blond hair, just the right amount of eye shadow and mascara framing sparkling blue eyes just a little too close together. She was smartly dressed in a navy business suit, minimal jewelry except for an American flag pin in the lapel. Her faithful husband, Bret, was standing behind her, just to the left. The two of them could easily have been poster children for the W.A.S.P. Couple of the Month. The results of a recent poll had her leading her opponent by a good 10%. I was new in town and didn’t know enough to care. At least for now.
Sunny patted my thigh with a gentle hand. She left it there and a warm spot suddenly surfaced.
“Okay, Ghostcatcher. You’ve met my helpless victim. You told her you’d ‘get into it.’ Exactly how do you intend to do that, Sir Galahad?”
“You can drop the Ghostcatcher shit any time . . . like yesterday,” I said gruffly. She feigned a look of shame.
“Hey Buddy, if you got it, flaunt it.”
“Well, I like the kid. And she and Shorty have a groove that damned near drives me nuts. The Janis Joplin was maybe the best I’ve heard since my idol went to her last reward. We really don’t know much. I need some people I can trust . . . people that are wired into networks that can provide information and, God forbid, backup. This mob thing worries me. We are not equipped to take on the local Mafia. I’m not shooting anyone . . . or getting shot over a damned recording contract . . . And by the way, you aren’t either. Don’t forget. When all is said and done, we are simply humble educators . . . in my case ex. Not Eve Dallas and Roarke from some J.D. Robb novel.”
“Okay, Hotshot. But you told her you are going to look into it . . . and I ever remain your faithful Indian companion.”
“Okay, Tonto. The Lone Ranger says we eat.”
The soft shell was sweet and crunchy and the fries cooked to perfection. It was almost like a celebration and that called for another pitcher. We wolfed down the sandwiches and slogged the Yuengling like a couple of barbarians at the gate.
“Bill,” she said, “Bill O’Mara. I think you can trust him. You’ll have to figure that out, but I’m sure he will meet with you. His wife and I are friends and I’m still sure he likes my boobs. I’ll get the number and you can work your magic.”
“Magic, my ass. But I will call him. I have nothing to lose but time, and I’ve got plenty of that.”
“Okay Sam Spade, I know a pathetic psychology professor who loves you.”
“Yeah . . . well you damned well better.”
The next morning I decided to call the detective. After all, what did I have to lose? At first he was polite, if distant and professional. When I told him I was Sunny’s significant other, he warmed up quite a bit. We agreed to meet for lunch at Paleo’s, a pizza joint favored by the cops and the local gentry. When I told him I was biking, he offered to pick me up in his unmarked. Sure enough, he was in the parking lot at 12:30. I got in the passenger seat and we shook hands. He wore a gray suit, a bit wrinkled, with a red club tie and a white cotton shirt. Tassel loafers with black socks completed the ensemble. Even sitting, I could tell he was tucked into the seat like a stuffed sausage. Probably forty pounds overweight, graying at the temples, but with a shock of black-brown hair as thick as a horse’s mane.
He parked in a fire lane and we got out just a few feet from the front door. The smells coming out of the kitchen attacked my nose and demanded surrender. It was going to be an Italian feast. We ordered a sixteen inch Paleo’s Special: pepperoni, sausage, onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and some other stuff I couldn’t identify. I tried, but I couldn’t resist a bottle of cold Moretti. He had sweet iced tea . . . on duty, I guess.
As he eased into the booth, I noticed that the extra forty pounds hidden beneath worn gray suit coat contained a hell of a lot of muscle. He was simply a big man. After the requisite small talk, I filled him in on the mission that Sunny had so insistently assigned to me.
“Look, T.K., you got no business messing with this. You’re not even a cop.”
“I understand, Bill, but try to tell that to Sunny. I’ve been a paid police consultant on several cases in Key West. You can call their office, ask for Detective Frank Beamon. He’ll vouch for me. I won’t interfere with anything the department is involved in. I just need to please the lady.”
He grinned and joked about his wife, Sara, and the stuff of legend, the ever-present honey-do list. We both laughed. Dutiful husbands know all about that shit.
“Okay. Yeah, I’ve seen the girl . . . gotta soft spot for the old rock’n’roll. You understand this is strictly graveyard talk. I can’t officially give you access to information restricted by the department. Officially, Paul Wallace is under investigation, but the truth is they’re waiting. He’s a junkie. He’ll screw up sooner or later. We know he’s pushing, but the drug guys are hoping they can nail his supplier and it will lead to even bigger fish. Patience is virtue, my friend.”
“His sister, Pam, is worried. Thinks the bad guys might use him to make her do something that is not good for her.”
“Well, she’s his sister. I’m sure she loves him, doesn’t want to admit some things that are seriously ugly. But he’s using and selling. That’s a scary combination. Things happen to guys like that. The people they get in bed with are not very nice.”
It sounded harsh, but not many cops escape the cynicism, and by all counts, they’re entitled to it. It’s got to be a self-defense mechanism for anyone who spends endless lifetimes dealing with the evil and the crass lack of humanity of the dregs of society. He devoured the last slice of the supreme and finished his tea.
“Okay, T.K. I’ll go back over the reports. See if there’s something that might be useful. But don’t get your hopes us. His kind disappear all too regular. I’ll call you if anything turns up, but remember . . . this is all on the Q.T.”
I thanked Bill and wished he left that last slice of pizza. He dropped me off at Tidal Refuge. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t all that hungry.