Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps (25 page)

Miami Beach. I was well fed, poorly rested, and ready to go to jail. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the driver was waking me up. "Rough night, huh?" he said. His Russian accent was as thick as herring in cream sauce. "Very rough," I told him. My face was hurting again, and I was thinking about having it amputated when I got the time. I handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. "I hope she is worth it," he said. "My friend, you look like hell." "People keep telling me that. I'm beginning to take it per- sonally. Was she worth it? Ask me in a month. I'll tell you then."

S ternfeld, the landlord, was standing on the front step when I hauled my body out of the cab. As usual, he was braced inside the chromium bay of his walker. He was near- sighted, and so I was almost in front him before he realized who it was. He squinted at me and frowned. "You look like the walking dead," he said. "Coming from you," I said, "that's hard to take." "Where the hell have you been? I saw you on television the other night. There's some people looking for you, kid." I put my foot on the first step and looked over my shoul- der. "It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything's okay now." I heard myself saying it, but I had trouble believing that it was true. It was as though some divine law were being violated, a law that says there must be a wake created by our actions that will surely wash back on us no matter how long it takes. I looked up at the cracked fa�e of the Lancaster Arms as if it were the Wailing Wall. It had taken a long, hard night to make the place look good to me, but then, like I said, every paradise is relative. 217

"You're late with the rent again," Sternfeld said. "Nothing new there." "Anybody come by to look for me recently?" I asked. "The cops, a few days ago. Suits with badges. I told them you had skipped. They didn't seem that disappointed." "They search my room?" I asked. I was thinking about the fifty grand under the kitchen sink. That might be hard to explain. "They searched the one I showed them--204," Stern- feld said, smiling slyly. "Right next door to yours. Vacant, though." He shrugged. "What can I tell you? I guess maybe I got the Alzheimer's." "Why'd you do that for? You might get yourself in trouble." "I did it because I liked them even less than I like you." "Anyone else besides the cops stop by?" I asked. Sternfeld surged forward in his walker so that the back legs came off the ground like those of a horse about to buck its rider. "Do I look like some kind of goddamn concierge to you or something? And you ignored me when I said you were late with your rent. Don't think I didn't notice that, Mr. Wise Guy." "Come on, Sternfeld," I said. "Us New Yorkers have to stick together, right? Just tell me. You'll get your money." "All right, asshole. A couple of days ago, a big guy stopped by asking for you, but I didn't like the look of him, so I told him you had moved out. Looked like a fucking Nazi. He a pal of yours?" "Not even close." I gazed at Sternfeld. He was two years older than water and had every disease this side of leprosy, but time was still having a hard time pinning him to the ground. He'd been a cabdriver in New York and had saved enough money over 218

the years to buy first his own cab and then nine more. He'd bought the Lancaster Arms and retired to Florida after his wife died ten years ago. He'd been in North Africa during World War II and had the shrapnel in his right shoulder to prove it, and if you think he was gruff with me, you should only hear how he spoke to people he didn't like. "What the hell are you looking at?" he asked. "Nothing. How are you feeling these days?" He spit into the hedges to his right. "Swell. My youngest daughter just called to tell me she's a lesbian now, but at my age I could give a flying fuck. Besides which, I got enough grandchildren anyway--every single goddamn one a half- wit. Other than that, though, everything's jake." "Look," I told him, "I'm just going upstairs and sleep for a week or two. After that maybe you and I will take the red- eye out to Las Vegas and hit the buffets and the blackjack tables. You must be tired of playing bingo by now." Sternfeld perked up. "That sounds pretty good. Hey," he said with a grin, "wouldn't it be a riot if anybody I used to know in Vegas was still alive? And hey, by the way, you prick, your rent is due." "I heard you. Tomorrow, okay? I just need to sleep." "So sleep. See if I care. Just don't die before you pay me." With that he wheeled his walker around and tap-tap-tapped away. I found the spare key I kept under the air-conditioning unit and opened the door to 206. It looked the same, and I was glad to be there, glad really to be anywhere. The books on the shelves looked down at me like the old friends they were: Montaigne and Dante and Shakespeare and Mickey Spillane--all the classics. I walked into the tiny kitchen and stared benignly at the dirty dishes in the sink. They were a welcome sight for some strange reason, a sign of human business left undone but still within reach of completion. I 219

found a six-pack of beer in the fridge, and it seemed to me that I had indeed reached my own personal promised land, even if it was going to be a very brief oasis. I went back into the living room, unplugged the phone, and closed the blinds. I turned on the A/C and set the ceiling fan on a light, breezy spin that swirled the air around like a straw swirling cold lemonade in a glass. I sat on the sofa, opened a beer, and waited for the room to get comfortable. I felt good. The whole trick was in not thinking too much. I put Williams's gun under the sofa cushion and sat back and waited for something to shatter my peace. Let them come, I thought, not really caring whether they came or not, but holding out the hope that it would not be today or tomorrow, that I could finish this beer and possibly the next. I wasn't ready for any more trouble yet, but the hell with that. The long, crazy summer was over, and I was too weary to care. Let them come. I stayed fairly drunk for a day and a half and ordered take- out over the phone. I must have still looked a little crazy, because none of the delivery people would meet my eyes after their first sight of me, and one of them ran off without his tip. That's what happens when you get behind in your shaving. Then, on Tuesday night, I came down with a bad case of cabin fever and realized I had to get out, so I put on my Nikes and a pair of shorts and opened the back door. The air had dried out, and there was an unexpectedly cool breeze blowing down from the north. It was nine o'clock, and the southbound traffic was light. I stepped through the door and waited for someone to shoot me. When no one did, I went for a run. Usually I ran on the beach, but I'd had enough of running in the sand for a while. Besides that, it was pretty dark down by the water's edge, and there was no sense in pushing my luck. Susan called me at seven o'clock the next morning. Her 220

voice had nothing in it to hold on to, just words strung to- gether in formation without emotion or excitement. She said she'd be there to pick me up at eight-thirty, and that was about it. You would not have believed she knew me at all. Maybe she didn't. I took a shower and got my only suit out of the closet. It was a khaki number I'd worn only once, and it looked a bit wrinkled, but it wasn't like I was going on a job interview, so I put it on over a light blue shirt and wrapped up the package with a black tie located only after the great- est of difficulties. Susan's car was already there when I went outside. It was cloudy, and the streets were wet. She didn't say anything when I got in beside her, and from this alone I knew it was not going to be a jubilant morning. I wasn't exactly unhappy with the silence, as I was contemplating dark thoughts of going to the slammer, something I'd told my mother I would always try to avoid. That wasn't the only area where I'd disappointed her. She had told me once that I should try to make a new friend every day, but a cursory review of the recent past revealed that I had fallen a bit behind schedule on that mission, too. "What do you think is on today's agenda?" I asked. "Your ass, what else?" A few minutes later, we were in a conference room on the sixth floor of the federal building in a room with an Arthurian-style round table, floor-to-ceiling windows, worn gray carpeting, and about ten cops of all persuasions, none of whom looked particularly glad to see me. Hackbart was there, too. He was standing by the window drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. He saw me come in and gave me his best scowl, perhaps the first of the day. Over his shoulder I watched a squadron of turkey buzzards flying lazy circles around the Freedom Tower to the north and hoped it wasn't an omen. 221

Hackbart smiled at Susan and handed her a cup of coffee. I got my own. Then we all sat down around the table. The atmosphere in the room was thick with solemnity and, from my side, fear. We were introduced. There were CIA, FBI, DEA, Customs, coast guard, cops from the city of Miami, and cops from Miami Beach. There were cops of every make and model, and I knew at that moment without a doubt that I was the safest man in the world. I didn't see anybody from the Justice League of America, however, but for all I knew, Batman was under the table with a tape recorder. The murmur of voices died down all at once, and every eye turned toward the head of the table, where the district attorney sat. He was a tall, lean black man in his midfifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. His name was Lloyd Caldwell, and his somber face was locked into the deliberate expres- sion of someone who puts people in jail for a living. Caldwell coughed into his fist and pushed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore farther up the bridge of his nose. He studied me for a long moment and nodded. There was a crimson folder in front of him and next to it a yellow envelope. He opened the folder and scanned quickly through the contents, all the while drumming softly on the table with the longest set of fingers I'd ever seen. They were fingers for Chopin. After a few seconds, he closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. "For those of you who don't know me," he said, "my name is Lloyd Caldwell, and I'm the district attorney who's been asked to preside over this meeting. I want to remind every- one here that what's said in this room this morning does not go beyond the door." He looked at me, then at Susan. "Does Mr. Vaughn understand that, Miss Andrews?" "He does." "Good," Caldwell said. "Clarity is very important, espe- cially in such delicate matters, matters which if they became 222

known to the public could further compromise an already seriously compromised investigation." "I understand completely," I assured him. Caldwell held up one of those square white envelopes used to protect CDs. "Your attorney was kind enough to provide us with some information you sent her a few days ago. The information came from the computer files of a man cur- rently under investigation, a former client of yours, Colonel Andrew Patterson." Caldwell never took his eyes off mine, but I just gave him the cold, blank stare of a confirmed idiot and didn't say any- thing. The best thing to do when the cops are quizzing you and the stakes are high is not to give them anything they don't already know, unless you know that what you tell them can't hurt you. "We've had the Colonel's house under surveillance for some time now. You were seen there last week. What was the nature of your visit?" "He asked me to come out to see him," I said. "He was looking for his daughter. Her name is Vivian. We used to date about a year ago. He wanted me to help find her." "There was a white yacht anchored a few hundred yards out from the Colonel's mansion. He mention anything about that?" Caldwell asked. "Not that I can recall," I said. "But you do remember seeing it?" "Yeah, I saw it. Is it important?" He slid a photograph over to me. "This was taken from a plane the night before your visit to the Colonel," Caldwell said. I picked up the photo and examined it more thoroughly than I needed to. It was an aerial shot of The Carrousel. "Is this the yacht you were talking about?" I asked in- nocently enough. 223

He slid another photo over to me, and I examined that, too. There was not much to see, just a shot of open water. "This was taken at the same location two nights later. As you may notice," Caldwell said, "the yacht is nowhere to be seen." "Where'd it go?" I asked. My pulse had picked up consid- erably, and I could feel Hackbart staring at me from his side of the desk. "We were hoping you might shed some light on that for us, Mr. Vaughn," Caldwell said. "Call me Jack," I said. "Sorry. I have no idea what hap- pened to it. Whose was it?" Caldwell seemed to be getting impatient. "It belonged to Randy Matson, another client of yours. Funny thing though," he said, "it's registered in the name of a phony corporation in the Cayman Islands." "I know Randy," I said. "He made porno movies. He didn't have the money for a boat like that, not even close." "Someone he knew did. Tell me this: Did you know a man named Harry Duncan?" "Never heard of him," I said. "Oh, wait a minute. Agent Hackbart mentioned his name the other night when I was at Ms. Andrew's place. Wasn't that his name, Agent Hackbart?" "Cut the crap, Vaughn," Hackbart snarled. "Everything leads back to you. What the hell did you do with that boat?" "I sold it on eBay, what else? Now, listen to me. If you can't find the boat you're looking for, then I'm sorry. But I have no idea what happened to it." "Bullshit!" Hackbart barked. "Please, gentlemen," Susan said. "Let's keep it civil." "You were pulled out of the Atlantic Ocean a few days ago by the crew of a coast guard cutter after a man in a speed- 224

boat was spotted firing at you with what appeared to be a rifle," Caldwell said. "You claim to have no idea who it was doing the shooting. Is that correct, Mr. Vaughn?" "That's right," I said. "Just another psycho. You get them all the time." "And you stand by that story now?" Caldwell asked. "That's right." "What about this? The Edgewater police found the body of a Sergeant Rudolph Williams on the beach a few days ago. He was an assistant to Colonel Patterson. I suppose you knew him." "Rudy? Sure, I knew him," I said. "Nice guy, quiet type. Never said very much. What happened to him?" "He had a broken neck," Hackbart said testily. "As if you didn't already know that." "My client is prepared to cooperate with you, Mr. Hack- bart. You don't have to try to intimidate him." "Intimidate him?" Hackbart said. "Lady, you haven't seen anything yet." "Mr. Caldwell," Susan said, "the smuggling charge against my client won't stick. He's no more of a smuggler than you or I. Aside from that, are you prepared at this time to charge Mr. Vaughn with any other offense?" Caldwell didn't answer her directly. He was back to look- ing at me again, and it was obvious from his expression that he wasn't too thrilled with what he was seeing. After a moment of serious staring, he held up the envelope with the CD again. "How did you come by this information, Mr. Vaughn?" he asked. "Vivian gave it to me." "The Colonel's daughter?" "That's right." "Why would she hand this over to you?" 225