“What about Erin?” Rita asked. There was no answer from Daytona Beach. “Darrell? Whoa hey, little brother, wake up!”
But he was out cold, sapped on the skull by a hooker swinging a staple gun. They made off with the cash, the drugs, the dagger, and of course the van. They did not take Darrell Grant’s dirty socks, which were the first things he tasted when he regained consciousness four hours later.
17
On the morning of September twenty-eighth, Sgt. Al García drove through a light drizzle to the Flightpath Motel, two hundred yards due west of the main commercial runway of Fort Lauderdale—Hollywood International Airport. The motel manager, an amiable Greek named Miklos, led the detective to Room 233. As Miklos fit the key in the door, García said, “I bet the carpet is brown.”
“How you know that?”
“It came to me in a dream,” García said. Miklos opened the door and pointed gleefully at the carpet, which was a cocoa-brown shag.
The detective said, “Sometimes I scare myself.” The Mineral County coroner had found three brown carpet fibers under Jerry Killian’s left thumbnail.
“What else you dream?” Miklos asked.
“A man named Killian was murdered in this room.”
“Oh no,” Miklos said. “Don’t tell me.” He said the maid found Killian’s checkbook beneath the bed.
“He probably threw it there on purpose,” García said, “so the bad guys wouldn’t get it.” People did weird things on the verge of dying.
Miklos said, “I send it back right away, next day.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Who called the police?”
“Nobody,” Al García said. “I opened Mr. Killian’s mail. There was the checkbook, and your note.”
Miklos frowned. “Is that OK? To open his letters?”
“Oh sure. I’m an officer of the law.” García got on his knees and crawled under the bed. His fingers probed the ratty shag in search of other clues. All he found was a petrified pizza crust and a nickel. García got up and brushed the fuzz off his trousers.
Miklos said, “Since I work here, seven people die. It is very sad. Seven in seven months.”
“Guests?”
“Yes, sir. Drugs, guns, stabs, problems with the heart. The police come many times. Always we are replacing carpets and sheets.”
“Maybe it’s the location,” García said, his voice rising over the roar of an incoming jet. The place was ideal for customers wishing not to be overheard. He took out a photograph of Jerry Killian.
“I never see him before,” Miklos said. “You say this man was a murder?”
“Yeah. In the tub is my guess.”
“The bathrooms we clean three times a week.”
“Wow,” García said. “Your Lysol bill must be outta sight. Can I have a look?”
Miklos sat on the bed and waited. He heard the detective fiddling with the faucets in the bathtub. “Mr. Miklos, what happened to the hot-water knob?”
“Somebody broke.”
“How?”
“I dunno. Maybe two weeks ago.”
The detective came out, drying his hands on a towel. Another jet howled overhead. García said, “Looks like somebody kicked that fixture right off the wall.” The drowning Jerry Killian had put up a pretty good fight.
Miklos said, “You say murder but the maid didn’t find no dead body.”
“That’s because the killer drove the dead body to Montana and dumped it in a river.”
“Why?”
“To mess up my vacation,” Al García said. “Can I see the guest register?”
Miklos took him back to the office, which wasn’t much larger than the bathroom. Killian’s name did not appear on the check-in sheets; García would’ve been shocked if it had. He made notes on everyone who’d rented Room 233 during the previous two weeks. One name showed up five times.
“He’s a local,” Miklos said.
“Local what?”
“Businessman. He entertains.”
“Oh,” said García. “You mean he’s a pimp.”
Miklos squirmed. “Boy, I dunno.”
The detective asked if any of the other guests in 233 had made an impression. Miklos said yes, one man checked in with a bag of live gerbils and a video camera.
“And you find that unusual?” García smiled. “Go on.”
“Another night was three Jamaicans. I tell them there’s only one bed but they say it’s OK, mon. Three big guys in that room—you saw how small it is.”
García tapped the guest register. Miklos found the name: “John Riley.” Conveniently generic. The address was a post-office box in Belle Glade, of all places. Lake Okeechobee.
“Big strong guys,” Miklos reported. “They check out before midnight.”
“Paid cash, I’m sure.”
“We don’t see many credit cards,” Miklos said.
“Remember what they were driving? Was there anybody else in the car?”
“Boy, I dunno.”
“What else?” García asked. “You said they stood out.”
“They all have scars. Very bad scars.”
“On the face?”
“Legs.”
“Do tell,” García said.
“They were in short pants. Red, green, I dunno, but was very bright colors.”
“Gym shorts,” the detective said.
“That’s how I saw the scars.” He reached down and patted his shins. “All down here.”
“You’ve been a big help, Mr. Miklos.”
The friendly motel manager offered to show Al García the other rooms where guests occasionally died. The detective said no thanks, maybe another time.
“So maybe it was Jamaicans who killed the man who lost his checkbook.”
“It’s a thought,” García said.
Miklos winked. “Maybe your dreams will tell you who did it.”
The detective laughed. “I deserve that.”
The motel manager accompanied him to the car. Miklos said he’d applied to be night clerk at a Ramada near the beach. He said the waiting list was two pages long.
“But I got more experience than most.”
“You’re not kidding,” García said. “Good luck with that job.”
“Thank you,” said Miklos. “Good luck with your murder.”
Erin got to the trailer park at seven. Rita was already out in the backyard, yelling at the wolf dogs. It was Alberto Alonso who opened the front door. He’d just returned from the nuclear plant, and still wore his gabardine security-guard uniform. Erin was shocked that he was allowed to carry a gun.
“Coffee?” Alberto said. He unbuckled his holster and casually hung it over the back of a chair. Erin felt sick to her stomach; she had a flashing image of her daughter picking up Alberto’s pistol, thinking it was a toy.
“Where’s Angela?” she said tensely.
“Asleep, I think.”
Erin checked both bedrooms, which were empty. She returned to the kitchen, where Alberto was tending the coffee maker.
“Where is my daughter?” Erin said. “Better touch base with Rita.”
“No, I want an answer from you.” She felt her arms shaking with anger. “Alberto, it’s visitation day.”
He poured a cup of coffee at the dinette. “I remember last time you stopped over. Took off without even saying so long.”
Erin said, “I didn’t feel so well.”
“Rita sure was pissed about the mail.”
“I sent it all back.”
Alberto Alonso eyed her over the rim of the coffee cup. “You look good in blue jeans,” he said. “How’s the job? I hear they changed the name of the place.”
Erin felt short of breath. What had these two cretins done with her daughter? She said, “OK, I’ll go ask Sheena of the Jungle.”
“Hold on there.” Alberto snickered nervously. “Maybe we can work something out, just the two of us.”
They heard Rita shouting curses outside. It soun
ded as if she was being dragged through the shrubbery. “Lupa don’t take to the leash,” Alberto explained.
Erin steadied herself; outmaneuvering Alberto shouldn’t be hard. He moved to a window and peeked through the blinds. “Rita’s got her hands full,” he reported in a furtive voice. He hustled back to the kitchen, and swept the dishes and silver off the table.
“How about a little show?” he whispered to Erin. “Just like you do at the club, only private.”
She thought of that final night, dancing on the table at Jerry Killian’s apartment—he’d been so sweet and shy about it. Alberto Alonso was a different story.
He said, “One little number, OK? Then I’ll show you where Angie’s at.” He sat on a stool, and excitedly motioned for Erin to climb on the dinette.
“Music would be helpful,” she said.
“Just pretend,” said Alberto. “Rita hears the stereo, she’ll want to know what’s up.”
Erin wasn’t sure she could dance just then, with or without her songs; all she could think about was finding Angela. Darrell Grant must’ve called and warned Rita to hide the child. If he knew that the judge was dead, then surely he knew Erin’s plan. That he would disregard an emergency injunction, or any court order, was a foregone conclusion. The man would skip the country before surrendering custody of his daughter. To Darrell, it wasn’t an issue of rightful parenthood, it was competition—a game of keep-away, with Angela as the prize. Erin knew she had to strike fast, before her ex-husband got back to town.
Stepping up on the table, she almost bumped her head on the drop-ceiling of the trailer. She began humming “Brown-Eyed Girl,” slowly moving her hips, waiting for Alberto’s inevitable grope.
“Faster,” he said.
Erin put on her stage smile. As she danced, her sneakers skated on the Formica. After a minute or so, she started to hear the music, clear and tender, in her head. Alberto’s coffee-stained leer seemed far away and harmless. She didn’t flinch when he clamped his hands around her ankles.
“Go faster,” he said again.
Erin thought: Everything will be all right. Softly she sang the first verse.
“Not too loud,” said Alberto, glancing toward the screen door.
“It’s such a great song,” Erin said, to no one. Alberto dropped his voice. “How about some titties?” Erin raised her eyebrows.
“Just a peek,” he said. “Maybe take off your top.”
Still smiling, Erin undid the top two buttons. Then she said, “You do the rest, OK?”
A blissful glow came to Alberto Alonso’s face. He rose off the stool and reached for her, his fingers wriggling like night crawlers. Erin knew that Alberto would never locate, much less master, the tiny buttons of her blouse; in such extreme states of desire, men tended to lose their fine-motor skills. Alberto’s paws ultimately settled upon Erin’s chest, and began to massage in rhythmic circles. His coarse touch gave her an ugly chill, but Erin kept dancing like a pro. Alberto’s groans intensified with the pace of his fondling; the tip of his tongue emerged between his teeth, a sluglike sentinel of arousal.
Erin’s next move was to tousle Alberto’s hair, which was more than he could stand. He got a clumsy grip on her breasts and tried to pull her down, toward his waiting mouth. It presented Erin with an irresistible target. She brought her right knee up, majorette-style, high and hard against the point of Albertos unshaven chin. The crack was like a rifle shot.
Suddenly Alberto lay flat on his back, gargling blood. Erin stood over him. The stage smile was gone. Her blouse was fully buttoned. In one hand she held the coffeepot; Alberto could see steam curling off the sides.
“I intend to pour this on your balls,” Erin said.
Alberto attempted to speak, but the words came out in bubbles.
“I’m not sure this’ll kill you,” Erin said, taking aim, “but you’ll wish it had.”
A squeal rose from Alberto: “Neth doe! She neth doe!”
“Next door?”
He nodded hysterically. Erin put down the coffeepot and dashed out of the trailer. Alberto began gagging on the severed chunk of his tongue. Rita burst in the screen door; at her heels stood Lupa, ears pricked.
“Aiyeeee!” cried Alberto, shielding himself with both arms. But the wolf dog had already picked up the primal scent of the freshly wounded.
Erin held Angelas hand the whole way back to Fort Lauderdale.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked.
“I’m just glad to see you, baby.” It had been fourteen months since she and her daughter had been alone, without Darrell Grant hovering nearby—the worst year of Erin’s life. She wondered what had been lost.
Angela said, “Mrs. Bickel has an aquarium. She let me feed her eels.”
Mrs. Bickel was the elderly next-door neighbor of Rita and Alberto Alonso. She had been microwaving glazed donuts for Angela’s breakfast when Erin arrived to collect her daughter.
“I didn’t notice an aquarium,” Erin said.
“It’s in the bedroom near the TV. The eels are green and they ate all her pretty fish.”
“I see,” said Erin. It sounded like Mrs. Bickel fit perfectly in the demographic strata of the trailer park.
Angela said, “Are we going to your house now?”
“We sure are. Our house.”
“For all day?”
“Better than that,” Erin said.
Angela looked worried. Erin’s heart sank at the thought that her daughter might rather be with Darrell, or Rita, or the old lady with the eels. It was Erin’s most dreadful nightmare, a year’s worth of nightmares. Now she felt paralyzed, afraid to say something that might prompt a lacerating burst of candor from Angie. I want Daddy! Erin couldn’t have endured it.
The little girl broke the silence with one word: “Pajamas.”
She was wearing her favorites, starring Big Bird and the Cookie Monster. “But they’re dirty,” Angela said. She pinched a sleeve to show her mother. “All my clothes are at Daddy’s. And what about clean underpants!”
Erin said, “We’re going to buy you some new clothes.”
“Good!”
“You like to shop?”
“I don’t know. Daddy only takes me to hospitals.”
“Right. To ride in the wheelchairs.” Erin thought: How will I ever explain that man to his daughter? At what age is a child capable of understanding that her father is irredeemable scum?
Angela said, “One time I saw a boy riding a wheelchair.”
“At a hospital?”
“Yep. Daddy said the little boy was very sick, so we couldn’t race.
“Your daddy was right,” said Erin.
“When they put the boy back in his room, Daddy got the wheelchair and took it home.”
“Oh?”
“To fix it,” Angela said proudly. “It needed a new brake.”
“Is that what Daddy said?”
“And new wheels. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
Erin sighed. “Angie, I’m glad you called last night.”
“Me, too.”
To Mordecai, the term “blackmail” was a melodramatic way to describe what he was doing to Congressman David Lane Dilbeck. Playing hardball is what it was. Strip away the tedious formalities of a lawsuit and the essence was no different: give me money—or else. In or out of court, the seminal element of negotiation was the threat. It was an art, the core of Mordecai’s chosen livelihood.
Man falls in supermarket, hires attorney; supermarket settles for six figures. Happens all the time and nobody calls it blackmail. Here an innocent man gets mauled by a drunken congressman, hires an attorney—and they’re calling it a shakedown! Mordecai was amused by the double standard.
The attack on Paul Guber was vicious and indefensible; any personal-injury lawyer would’ve jumped at the case. Of course, most lawyers wouldn’t have arranged a secret settlement against their client’s wishes, or devised to keep the bulk of the money for themselves. It wasn’t Mordecai’s proudest mo
ment as a member of the Bar, but these days a fellow did what he must. In fifteen years of practice, youthful fantasies of immense personal wealth had evaporated in disappointment. The Delicato cockroach fiasco was a prime example of his recurring foul luck. Now, the horny congressman loomed as Mordecai’s first realistic chance at collecting a seven-figure lump. He proceeded on the assumption that it would be his only shot.
In the early 1970s, Mordecai was among the hundreds of idealistic young law-school graduates who rushed to South Florida with the dream of defending drug smugglers for astronomical cash fees. He’d even studied Castilian Spanish in anticipation of his Colombian clientele! But Mordecai arrived in Miami to discover a depressingly small number of imprisoned South American drug barons; defense lawyers seemed to outnumber the defendants. An attorney of modest talents stood little chance of landing a billionaire narcotrafficker as a client; Mordecai was lucky to get the occasional mule or offloader. Before long, he moved to Fort Lauderdale and opened a personal-injury practice.
The strategy had seemed sound: Broward County was growing much faster than Dade County, and most of the new arrivals were elderly. The elderly tended to fall down more often than younger people, Mordecai noticed, and their injuries usually were more complicated. Better still, there was an inexhaustible supply of old folks, thousands upon thousands, with more on the way each winter. Condos sprouted from the beach to the edge of the Everglades—high-rise bank vaults, in Mordecai’s view.
He set up shop and made plans to become absurdly rich. It didn’t happen. Mordecai’s income was respectable but not profane. He got by on minor negligence cases, insurance litigation and probate, which he hated. He told his secretary that they could both retire to Bermuda if his clients spent half as much time falling down as they did drawing up new wills.
Still, Mordecai was in no position to be picky. South Florida was swarming with young lawyers who prowled the courthouses in a feral hunger, scrabbling like jackals for the tiniest morsel. Competition in all specialties was savage because there wasn’t enough work to go around. Desperation was manifested in an epidemic of oily late-night advertising. Once the exclusive province of negligence lawyers, television now attracted all fields of the profession: immigration, divorce, adoption, even traffic violations. One of Mordecai’s former classmates had become famous touting himself as “Doctor D.U.I.” It was survival of the slickest.