Cinnamon Skin (4 page)

"I don't want to hold you up."

"I was just going to the drugstore is all."

"What I'm calling about, a dear friend of mine owned that little cruiser."

"I heard he was out of town when it happened."

"That's right. And the pictures he had of his boat and of his niece all were blown up with the boat. We saw the one you took they used in the paper…"

"That was a terrible job they did! My goodness. They paid me twenty-five dollars for the right to use it. I wish they hadn't said who took it, even. I take much better pictures than that!"

"I would think so."

"What I did, you see, I took two. It was an uggo little old boat and so I wouldn't have taken any at all except that Sim and I, we collect weird boat names, and you need a picture to prove it. I guess our, or at least my, favorite this cruise was a Miami motor sailer we saw in Nassau called Estoy Perdido. Meaning, I Am Lost. Well, I took two because it looked to me, looking through the little finder, that a wave slopped up and maybe hid part of the name on the transom just as I clicked it. But it turned out they both came out with good shots of that fancy gold lettering. You mean that poor man would like a picture of his boat and his niece?"

"He would indeed."

"I got them back in the mail day before yesterday, and I took them right down to the camera shop and ordered an eight-by-ten of the best one, the one that was nearest when I took it. That usually takes forever, but I do have the small prints the newspaper made up, or had made up. Maybe you think it's a little creepy, me ordering the enlargement, but nothing like that ever happened to me before, never in my life. I have no need for these two prints, so I'd just as soon put them in the mail to you when I go to the drugstore, okay?"

"You're very kind." I waited while she got a pencil, then gave her the address.

"Aboard the Busted Flush?" she said. "Maybe I should come over and take a picture of that! What is it?"

"Kind of an old barge-type houseboat. Fifty-two foot, two diesels. It'll go six knots if the wind isn't against it."

"It sounds quaint. The name is really odd. Does it mean… some kind of broken toilet?"

"No. A poker hand. That's when-"

"I know poker. I know about a flush and a straight flush. And I know how, like in stud, a hand can get busted."

"I had a black card face down and four hearts showing."

"You mean you won the whole houseboat on-"

"No, I won a pretty fair pot on that bluff and kind of by accident let the hole card show after I'd pulled the pot in and everybody else had folded. From then on they kept staying in, to keep me honest. And I had a lot of good hands."

Her voice dipped a half octave. "You sound really kind of adventurous, Mr. Travis McGee. Maybe you could sort of whip over here and pick up the prints in person? I'm getting a little stir crazy with Sim away at one of those weird conferences about setting up trusts in Liechtenstein."

"It certainly sounds like an attractive idea, Mrs. Davis, and I would really take you up on it like a shot, but on Monday I'm being fitted for a new prosthesis."

"Uh. Well, maybe some other time," she said briskly.

"The other one never hurts at all," I said.

"How nice for you. I'll put these in the mail right away. Nice to talk to you. Good-by Mr. McGee."

Meyer flew to Houston on Sunday and phoned me at four o'clock on Monday afternoon, the twelfth. His voice sounded tired.

"A progress report. Or a no-progress report. The traffic in this city is monstrous. They are maniacal. I've checked out of the hotel and moved into Norma's apartment. Want to write this down?" After he gave me the address and phone number, he said, "It's quite nice. It's a rental, in what they call a garden complex, nothing over two stories, jammed in close but angled very cleverly to give the illusion of privacy. All her stuff is here, so I thought it would be easier to work if her lawyer set it up for me to move in. She left a will, leaving everything to me. It's dated soon after Glenna died. She was probably going to change it again in favor of Evan. They were married on a Saturday, the seventeenth of April. He may have moved in here with her before then. Probably did. I've started going through her papers. Her lawyer is pleasant enough. It's a small firm. He handled her tax matters and apparently advised her on investments. Windham, his name is. Roger Windham. Did I say he seems pleasant? I'm probably repeating myself. I find I seem to get tired easily. There's a lot to do. Windham thinks she had some things in a storage warehouse somewhere. And a lockbox at the bank where she did her checking. He'll have to arrange with the tax people about opening the safety deposit box with them present."

"Want me over there yet?"

"Not yet. I'll get the chores done, and if anything comes to light that might be a hint as to anybody wanting to kill her, then, if it wouldn't be too much trouble…"

"Come off it! That Mrs: Davis is mailing me one print each of the two pictures she took. She took them because of the name. They collect boat names."

"It still seems like a bad dream. There's a picture of her parents standing with me somewhere in front of a lot of trees. It's in a silver frame on her dressing table. I haven't any memory of its ever being taken. I usually remember things like that."

"Meyer. Get some sleep tonight."

"Did I tell you about my mail?"

"I forged your name on the change of address card. It's coming here. Today you got a fat publication from the Federation of Concerned Economists, a bill from American Express, a catalogue from the Vermont Country Store, and a bank statement. Also, I talked to Irv. There's a thirty-one-foot Rawson made in Panama City, Florida, moored over at B-Eighty. Apple-pie shape. They went out of business a few years ago because they made them too good. GE diesels, air, recording fathometer. The old couple that lived aboard, he went into the hospital in March, and then into a nursing home, and he died last week, and she is looking to sell privately before she puts it in the hands of a broker. She wants thirty days to move out and go back to South Dakota. She's talking fifty-eight five. Walter says you'll get thirty-nine or forty out of the insurance."

"I don't want to think about it yet."

"It's a good price and a roomy hull."

"When I do get another boat, I'll have to think of a name. I couldn't call it the same thing."

"Well… stay in touch."

So I walked over to B-80 and met the old lady from South Dakota. She showed me the boat. She was proud of it. She said she knew one of them would have to die, sooner or later, and they had each hoped it would be themself instead of the other one. "But George won, I guess," she said. "Tell your friend how nice it is, how nice we kept it."

I glanced at the two prints just long enough to see the transom and the name and the stubby vessel tilting under a lead-colored sky, white crests rolling on a dishwater sea.

When I was back aboard the Flush I looked at them more carefully in bright sunlight. The first print showed the Keynes at fifty or sixty feet, going away, and the second at about a hundred feet. Assuming an average six knots on each vessel, they were diverging at about fifteen miles an hour, or a little better than twenty feet per second. So about ten seconds after the second picture was taken, the three people were blown to bits: the tall slender woman with the brand-new tan and the vivid orange string bikini, standing at the starboard side near the rail, one hand braced against the bulkhead, waving arid smiling, teeth white, black hair snapping in the wind; the burly figure of Hacksaw Jenkins at the sheltered wheel, in silhouette against the sea beyond the windshield, Greek captain's hat on the back of his head; and Evan Lawrence, bent over so far in the cockpit, working on a line, that in the first picture only his back and denimed rump showed, then caught in the second picture beginning to straighten up, beginning to turn.

I accepted it as Evan Lawrence, the man with whom I had broken bread, drunk wine, told the tales. And suddenly it was not Evan Lawrence. In the act of starting to straighten up, starting to turn, it became a different person, younger, not as broad, with skin that took a better tan, hair longer, tangled, sun-streaked. Once it became someone else, I could not by any exercise of imagination or will turn it back into Evan Lawrence. But it did turn into somebody I knew from somewhere. I looked at the line of the brow, and the slant of the jaw as seen from the back, from off to the left side. The print was sharp. There was a glint of something on the left wrist, a watch or a bracelet. I found the magnifying glass in the drawer, but I couldn't make it out. I looked at the hand, then, and I could make out something very specific. The pinky and the ring finger of that left hand were stubs little better than a half finger long.

And then I knew who it was. Along Charterboat Row he was known universally as Pogo, God only knows why. Maybe because he was as cheerful as that immortal possum. Meyer had once pointed him out to me as an example of the perfectly happy fellow. He had a functioning IQ, Meyer guessed, of seventy-five. He loved the sea. He grew terribly excited when fish were being caught. His body seemed to thrive on cola and junk food. He could sew bait, rig lines, net little fish, gaff big fish, wash down the boat, clean up the mess, serve the Coke and beer, swarm up to the tuna tower to search the sea for fish sign. He was cheerful, smiling, quick in his motions, polite to everyone. His face had a fat bland look at odds with his tough body. He had a little thin high voice. He filled in when any one of the captains needed a hand for a day or a week. They paid him off in cash. He had some learning defect which kept him from ever being able to read and write.

I walked down to Charterboat Row and found the Key Kitty with her cockpit hatches open, Captain Ned Rhine staring gloomily down at an electrician working in there.

Ned gave me a beer and we sat on the side of the dock and talked about the memorial service with the wreaths, and how Gloria was bearing up, and how his wife said Gloria would probably get married again someday. Nobody would ever guess she had those three hulking sons.

"Seen Pogo around?" I asked casually.

"Come to think of it, no. Maybe not for a week. Got something for him to do?"

"If he's available. Where does he stay anyway?"

"Here and there. Here and there. After Roy got hisself all busted up that time last year when the kid ran into his truck, Pogo slept aboard the Honeydoo and worked mate while Stub was taking the contracts Roy had set up. For a while there I think he bunked in the supply room at Castle Marine until it got sold. Pogo is okay. He does a better job of work than some brighter people around here I could name. And he isn't ever grouchy."

I changed the subject, and a little later I unchained my bicycle and rode over to Pier 66 and walked out to the gas dock. I don't buy fuel there, so I don't know the attendants. There were two on duty, a narrow-faced redheaded man in the office and a young Cuban with a shaved head filling the tanks of a Prowler from Georgia. The redhead had been on duty the morning of the fifth.

They remembered gassing The John Maynard Keynes only because it had blown up soon afterward, and the police had questioned them after somebody reported having seen the Keynes at their gas dock at about ten that morning.

They had noticed the woman in the string bikini but not much else. There were three people on the boat. Or maybe four. It had been a busy morning. The woman had paid cash. She had gone below to get her purse. Ninety-five gallons of regular. A hundred and twenty-nine dollars and twenty cents. She'd asked for a receipt.

"Sure, I've seen Hack Jenkins around," the redhead said. "I remember wondering what he was doing with that boat instead of his own."

Neither of them knew anybody called Pogo who worked around the docks over at Bahia Mar. As all the charterboat captains would customarily buy fuel at Bahia Mar, that wasn't unexpected. Every large marina seems to acquire its own village of regulars.

As I biked on back to Bahia Mar, I kept tugging at the minor improbabilities, hoping something would come loose. Norma Lawrence had not impressed me as the kind of take-charge lady who would jump up and pay the bills. It would be more likely she would get the money from her purse and give it to Evan to pay the bill with. And why had Evan stayed below when they went out past the sea buoy into the chop building up from the offshore storm? That was when the customers were always on deck, holding on, peering into the wind like dogs leaning out of car windows.

I carried the bike aboard and locked it to the ring I had bolted to the aft bulkhead, under the overhang, unlocked the Flush, and went into the lounge, into the air-conditioned coolness that chilled the sweat the ten-speed generated.

So what if Evan Lawrence wasn't aboard for the big bang?

It was an idea that offended my emotional set. A very likable guy with a good grin, a man of warmth, of funny stories, a newly wedded man in love with his wife. And if he hadn't been aboard, and hadn't made known the fact of his survival, then it was a possibility he had engineered the explosion and made the anonymous call to deflect any possible suspicion.

So if he was that sort of man, he would have left a special scent along his back trail. I did not know enough about him, and neither did Meyer. Dinner aboard is not an excuse for an inquisition. He had seemed open about himself, but I could recall no talk of family. Funny stories of things which had happened to him here and there along the way. How they had met. How he had pursued her. Strange jobs he had held. Nothing more than that. They were in love. And there was that physical attraction so strong it was tangible, a musk in the air.

In the evening I went over to Charterboat Row during the interval after the customers have had their pictures taken with their fish, that time when the boats are cleaned up, the gear put back in shape, the salt hosed off. I had some heavy work I wanted done, and I was looking for Pogo.

Finally Dan List, skipper of the Nancy Mae III, told me I might try the construction shack over behind that big sign I had seen which said SHORE VIEW TOWERS, 200 Elegant Condominium Apartments, $165,000-$325,000, Ready For Occupancy Soon. Model ready for viewing. Phone so-and-so for appointment. But the construction cranes had stopped when the structure was about four stories high. They stood silent against the sky, like huge dead bugs. Somebody had run out of something essential: money or time or life. One of those things.

There was an old man in a blue uniform living in the construction shack. In the fading daylight I could see the cot in there, neatly made up. The old man had a big belly, and a badge, and a revolver in a black holster.

"You see that half-wit Pogo, friend, you tell him the only reason he should come back here is to get his stuff. It's in a suitcase and a cardboard box. What clothes he owns and those filthy dirty picture books. I'm only filling in until they can get somebody for next to nothing, like they paid Pogo. I'm a licensed security guard, and my old lady is nervous alone at night in the apartment while I'm here in this stinking heat to keep vagrants and Haitians and trash from sneaking into that there building and messing up. You tell him he doesn't show up soon, I'm putting his stuff out in the weather. There's no agreement we got to store it for him. You tell him that."

"Is there anything of value?"

"There's a gray metal lockbox. It's locked and there's no key I could find around here. And the little television set I'm using, to keep from going nuts. The picture starts rolling and there's no way to stop it. You just have to wait until it stops. Feels like it would pull your eyes out on sticks."

He kept slapping the black leather holster. It was shiny from being slapped ten thousand times. It was a habit that could get him killed. I said if I saw Pogo, I'd tell him.

Even when a missing person is reported, nothing much happens. Local police forces have higher priorities. Nobody would report Pogo, and I saw no reason why I should. There would be a lot of interviews, a lot of forms to fill out. Transients flow back and forth across the country, and up and down the coasts. They are of little moment. They become the unidentified bones in abandoned orchards. Dumb, dreary, runaway girls are hustled into the dark woods, and their dental-work pictures go into the files. As the years do their work, shallow graves become deep graves, and very few of the thousands upon thousands are ever discovered. Burial without the box, without the marker, hasty dirt packed down onto the ghastliness of the ultimate grin. Old Fatso would eventually pry open the box, take anything of value, and destroy the rest. The trash truck would pick up the suitcase and the cardboard box, sodden with rainwater. And years down the road somebody would say, "Hey, remember that Pogo that used to work around here? Kind of a dimwit but a good worker?"

And somebody else would say, "Guess that was before my time."

Nobody remembers very long any more. Like the half owner of the Nancy Mae III, which Dan List skippers. Three seasons ago, as a defensive lineman for the Dolphins, he made thirteen sacks in the regular season before they smashed his knee. And now I can't remember his name. Six-five, about two fifty-five, quick as a weasel. And I can't remember any part of his name.

Intimations of mortality often make me lonesome. I went back to the Flush and stretched out and called Annie Renzetti on the new private line that rings in her office and in her beach bungalow over there in Naples. Four rings and hang up. If she was alone she could catch it on four rings. If not alone, she could call me back. If she wasn't in, nobody else would answer that line. It was known to be private.

I tried again at nine fifteen, and she answered from the bungalow. "How's with you, Annie?" I asked her.

"This day has just about flattened me, love. They start arriving tomorrow before lunch."

"Who?"

"My convention, dummy. Did you forget? Fifty-three specialists and their wives, or husbands, or special close friends. Proctologists."

"I forgot it was this week."

"By Monday afternoon when they all leave, my smile is going to feel as if it was nailed on my face. Tomorrow, early, some computerized little snit from company headquarters will be here to double-check my arrangements. This group doesn't strike bargains. They want it nice. They'll get it nice. Management wants them back here every year. What I have paid out for beef you wouldn't believe. Lobsters and clams are coming by air express. Orchids for the ladies. A really good trio in the lounge. And by the time they arrive I will have personally inspected every room, every suite, every bath towel, tested every light bulb. The thing I resent, Trav, is their thinking they have to send somebody down to backstop me. I've proved I'm a damn good manager here. I get the printouts from the whole chain every month. I'm always in the top ten on the ratio of gross profit to gross sales, percentage occupancy, personnel turnover. They hired me to manage so they should let me manage, right?"

"Right!"

"My, my, my, how I do go on. Why should I take it out on you?"

"I'm your friend. Remember?"

"But if you were thinking of driving over about now…"

"Forget it?"

"Yes. Look me up after the convention. I fought it, you know. I don't think we should have conventions here, even in the slack season, even at top rates. I've had to turn away reservations good old customers wanted to make, just to accommodate these… these…"

"Careful."

"Are you okay, love? You sound kind of down."

"Lonesome, sort of. Meyer phoned from Houston. He got permission to stay in her apartment while he takes care of the details. He sounded depressed, but he seems to be coping. But I know something he doesn't know, and I don't know whether I should tell him. I'm going over there soon. Maybe tomorrow."

"Whether you should tell him what?"

"I won't go into how I found out, but if only three people were blown to bits on Meyer's boat, one was his niece, one was Hacksaw Jenkins, and one was a local retard, an itinerant worker everybody called Pogo, actual name unknown."