“Jesus, T.K. Do you think you could go at least a month or two without getting up to your ass in quicksand? You, old friend, definitely have a death wish.”
We traded some lighter conversation and she told me to hug Sunny and her dad.
“Okay, keep me posted and call if I can help. Things are a little slow now. Ev and I are just in the right mood for some pro bono work, especially if it will help nail Chris’s killer.”
I thanked her and hung up. I drank a second cup of coffee and tried to think. Frank had promised to send one of his boys up the coast to try to find the Whaler. But I knew the Key West PD had its own agenda. The tourists were thick right now. That meant plenty of booze and probably women, loose and otherwise, were greasing the skids for a boom in “Drunk and Disorderlies”, drug abuse, and the petty crime that accompanied it. Patience, I told myself. One among many other virtues totally missing from my repertoire.
Sunny is usually a fount of ideas, a lot of them reasonable. She believed in a plan, and sometimes it was hard to move her without one. But this time we kept coming up empty.
“There’s one thing we can be sure of, T.K. He tried to kill you once. He’ll do it again. He thinks it’s the only way he can be completely safe . . . and he’s probably right. We need to get off our asses before he succeeds.”
I stood up.
“Okay, I’m off my ass. Now what?”
She was getting that gleam in her eye. Sometimes that was a good thing, but you can never be sure.
“How about a pre-emptive strike? Let’s pay Mr. Foreman a visit. We know where he is. We may still have the element of surprise. You never know . . . maybe we can catch the sonovabitch with his pants down. What do you think, my passionate Ghostcatcher?”
There was nothing I liked about her idea, but sitting and waiting is not my strong suit. In my mind, I ran through a host of clichés, “strike while the iron is hot, nail them when they’re unaware, don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.” None of them worked, but I still had the pounding headache, the bandage on the back of my neck, and Chris was still dead. One more cliché . . . time to roll the dice. The cops had confiscated my Taurus for evidence, but Sunny still had the little Ruger .22 I had given her months back for protection. It was basically a target pistol, but it would have to do.
“Okay, my Darling, take the top off.”
Sunny looked at me quizzically. I could tell she didn’t think this was the right time for a round of “you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” Then she smiled and nodded. I removed the small recorder and microphone from the plastic baggie I kept it in to protect it from moisture. I checked the lithium battery just to be safe and pulled out the surgical tape. I placed it just beneath her right breast and secured it. I ran the wire up under her arm and just inside the folds in her top. Unless he frisked us, and I didn’t think he would, it would remain invisible. It was a long shot, but we got in the Miata and headed north. I figured we’d make Palm Beach around three. Hopefully, he’d still be into the Mimosas.
We pulled up under the portico of the Ocean Towers and the smartly uniformed attendant gave the old Miata a disdainful, if not down right distasteful, look.
“May I help you, sir,” he sneered. I stepped out of the car and got very close to man. My 6’2’ 190 lbs. did what was intended. He started to cower, but rolled his shoulders and thought better of it. I turned on the haughtiest voice I could muster and frowned prodigiously.
“We are here to see Mr. Foreman. He is expecting us.”
“I will announce your arrival. Your name, sir?”
“My good man. As I previously stated, he is expecting us. Please do not be pedantic. Just park the car.”
I handed him a twenty. He eyed it, smiled, nodded, and opened the door for Sunny. His attention was instantly diverted by one very tight pair of jeans and a top that plunged to an enticing level. He melted. She handed him the keys. I saw him grinning as he pulled away. I ignored the concierge even though his uniform looked like an Italian Generalissimo. We pranced to the elevator and pushed twenty-four for the penthouse. I put my hand below Sunny’s breast and shook the tape recorder.
“Dirty old man,” she snarled and slapped my hand with mock viciousness.
I rang the bell and waited. No response. I was just about to hit it again when I heard the knob turning. Mercer Foreman stood in the frame, starched khakis and a pink Izod, a pair of tan Sperry Gold Cups on his feet. He was actually better looking close up and in person. A haircut that probably cost a hundred and fifty bucks, and a large diamond set in gold on his ring finger. He held a crystal glass monogramed with MGF. A lime green liquid spilled over a few cubes of ice and nearly ran over the rim.
“I’m not sure how you got by Howard. He is customarily very efficient. Nevertheless, it is a distinct pleasure to see you, Dr. Fleming, and your charming associate. I must admit, I am somewhat surprised, but please do come in. May I offer you a cocktail? It is a bit early, but to coin a well-worn phrase, it’s always five o’clock somewhere.”
We declined. Sunny and I sat on an overstuffed leather sectional. He elegantly slid into a tapestried bamboo chair across from us and crossed his legs. Thin lips plied the edges of the glass. He took a sip, and placed it on a small brass table. I wondered if the expression on his face always said, “Something definitely smells spoiled.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I think you know, Mercer. I’m sure your memory is not that bad. The last time we met, you were in a small Whaler pointing a .45 at my head. When I woke from the icepick that barely missed my brain, there was a dead woman on my cockpit with a slug in the middle of her forehead . . . a slug that came from my gun.”
“Well, Dr. Fleming. These things happen. Sometimes necessity dictates that we take extreme actions. I actually liked Miriam a great deal. We even had a dalliance or two. She was quite useful and quite satisfactory. But let me be brief, if I may. I have deciphered the intent of your unexpected arrival.”
“And what is that, Mercer?”
“As you may know, I have recently come into a rather large sum of money.”
“About fifty million, I’d guess.”
“Well, let’s not quibble over numbers. I have definitely had to get my hands dirty, as the plebeians might say. Trust me . . . I don’t care for it. Frankly, it interferes with a lifestyle with which I have become enamored . . . one I would like to continue to indulge in. I would certainly not be opposed to providing a healthy stipend to one whose silence could allow me that courtesy. The figure $50,000 comes to mind immediately, but I am a reasonable man and always open to negotiations. The murder charge against you will never reach fruition. With some financing, I expect you could be quite comfortable.”
Sunny had been silent. I rubbed my hands together and feigned serious consideration.
“You know, Mercer. I don’t question your generosity, but I am much more comfortable with six figures . . . say one hundred thousand? I wouldn’t want you to give up those pleasures you’ve become accustomed to.”
I felt like we had enough on tape. Sunny nodded at me and I tilted my head to let her know we were leaving shortly.
“Well, I would certainly like to settle this now. I assure you my check is good. A moment, please.”
He got up and sauntered towards the bedroom. A check with his signature would be the final nail in his coffin. When the door opened, he didn’t come out.
A small redhead appeared. She wore a pair of tight-fitting black slacks and a green tank top stretched across a set that would have suited a porn star. She was barefoot and she held what was probably the .45 I’d seen at Newfound Harbor. I didn’t like the expression on her face or the way the thick barrel pointed.
“Bullshit,” she snarled. “You think you’re going to walk out of here with a hundred thousand dollars of our hard-earned money. It took too much to get it. Your stupid friend . . . Chris . . . Miriam . . . all our planning. It’s do
ne, and you will be, too. I’ll think of you when I’m on the Riviera sipping drinks with Mercer and some of our devoted friends.”
She shook her head and the fiery curls danced like demons waiting for the kill.
Mercer came out behind her. “Estelle . . . this is not the time, not the place. Too much noise and too much blood. That carpet cost twenty thousand dollars.”
“Tough shit, Mercer. I’ll handle it. You’ll just fuck it up like you always do. The rug makes a nice shroud. Order a new one. Don’t let your guts go soft when we’ve got the chance to end this once and for all.”
He looked at me, then at Sunny, seeming to consider her words. He was trying hard for aloof, but I could detect fear running through his body. There was a bead of sweat on his brow and his lip quivered slightly. Estelle held the .45 like she’d been born with in her hand. I had no doubt she’d splatter my brains without any hesitation.
Sunny stepped away from my side. I felt the Ruger pressing into my back, but I knew I’d be dead before I could get to it, much less take aim.
“I do respect all of the time and trouble you’ve gone through, Dr. Fleming. As a gesture, I’ll permit you to choose. Do you want me to kill you now, so you won’t have to witness the death of your companion, or shall I just shoot her first? Either way is perfectly acceptable to me.”
Sunny took another step backwards. The redhead turned the pistol toward her.
“Understand, you bleached bitch. I am very good at the pistol range and moving targets are a specialty. Be still, and I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
I slowly raised my hand like a timid first grader asking for permission to go to the bathroom. Estelle looked at me and put her other hand on the gun. Sunny took my cue and dove over the couch like an Olympic high jumper. Estelle fired two rounds into the soft leather. It sounded like cannons going off in succession. I dropped to one knee and found the Ruger. My first shot hit her in the shoulder. She looked at the tiny hole made by the .22 and smiled. She pointed the .45 at my chest. My second shot hit her above her left eyebrow. She staggered.
“You bastard,” she spit, and slumped to the floor. Blood gurgled from her mouth and merged into the ruby threads of Persian carpet. I approached the body and kicked the .45 away from her outstretched arm. I couldn’t tell whether she was breathing or not. Sunny’s head popped out from behind the cushions. She was shaking, but she bit her lip, looked at me, and nodded an okay.
Mercer had watched it all. He collapsed into a chair like a puppet whose strings had been sliced with a razor. Then he began to whimper softly.
I called 911. Then I called Frank.
Epilogue
The Palm Beach cops were quick and efficient. This is the kind of publicity they like to avoid in the land of milk and honey. Frank had made a couple of calls vouching for us and identifying me as an official consultant of the Key West PD. It helped. They confiscated the tape we’d made and both the weapons. Sunny and I weren’t at the police station nearly as long as I would have exspected. By eleven that night we were back on the road to Key West. It was a quiet ride . . . no Springsteen . . . no conversation . . . just glad to be alive.
When the cops got him to the interrogation room, Mercer melted like butter on a hot stove. It was Estelle . . . at least that’s what he told them. She was the mastermind. Sure . . . he’d done some bad things, but she had threatened him. He was scared . . . thought he was next, and she was just plain crazy. Meanwhile, Frank had found the guy who rented him the Whaler. Positive ID, and Mercer was stupid enough to pay with a VISA card. The time and date were stamped on the receipt. There’s one thing in life you can always rely on . . . dumb crooks.
Estelle lived. I was glad. I never liked killing anyone, much less a woman.The bullet had grazed the brain and missed most of the bones. The lead hadn’t exploded and made the inside of her head a tossed salad, although later she might wish it had. She was in the Broward County jail with no bail. The DA, even though he wasn’t sure our tape would be admissible, felt confident the Black Widow would be spending the rest of her life in lock-up wearing those fashionable gray jammies with the numbers on them. Frank had the charges against me dropped.
There were still some shady areas . . . some things I didn’t know. I thought Holly had killed Bert. The lady definitely had a way with an icepick. Malcom was her triggerman, but the case was still open. Where would the money go? I didn’t know. But Sunny was safe; I was safe, and we got Chris’s killers. I guess that was all that mattered. The cops could do the rest.
We sat at the Green Parrot . . . another illustrious meeting of Buffett’s Roundtable . . . all of the reprobates in their appointed places. We raised one last toast to a blood that would never be replaced. It was followed by a few tears and bated moments of silence. Then the grief cleared. The laughter was muted, but it had begun all over again. Chris wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
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