Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle (21 page)

Or, like Whitney, to Daytona. The brother was dead right on that one. This was a very stressful time for the girls, the end of the season. But Leo couldn’t feel too sorry for them. The ones going back to Eugene, or Akron, or Wichita, they’d be back for another crack next year, or they wouldn’t. Whose problem was that? Anyway, his question didn’t apply to Valentina. There were big things ahead for her.

Chi-Chi said something to Paulo, but he wasn’t about to let the subject change.

“Will you please?” Valentina said. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Paulo took a poke at his sister in Italian, and she fired right back, prompting a comment from Chi-Chi, and then nobody was listening and everybody was jabbering at once.

“Hello?” Gregory said. “Family Feud? This is not why we came here.”

“Paulo can’t get over the fact I’m determined to live my own life,” Valentina said, getting in the last word.

Chi-Chi did her best to re-set the tone, getting quiet and tucking into her pasta. “Eat,” she said to Gregory in English, “eat,” like somebody’s grandma.

If there was one thing Leo couldn’t deal with while he was getting his groove on, it was conflict. Gregory and Valentina stared at their plates, and Paulo, his chin jutting, beamed his glare across the table. High tension. Leo didn’t dig it.

Sometimes he wished he could play the
Mister Wizard
game he used to play when he was a kid.
Mister Wizard
was a cartoon named after some wise old creature of the forest that had the power to grant wishes. His steadiest customer was a turtle, whose name Leo forgot, an ambitious turtle with big dreams that Mister Wizard would fulfill on a weekly basis.

One time the turtle wanted to be a baseball player, a pitcher just like Leo. So Mister Wizard transported him to some cartoon league where he was facing a team called the Giants, who turn out to be real giants, smacking overmatched turtle ass all over the diamond. It was like Giants 72, Turtle nothing, before the turtle decided he had enough.

At the end of the story, the turtle would go, “Help, Mister Wizard, I don’t wanna be a baseball player” — or astronaut, or private eye or whatever he’d wanted to be that week — “anymore.” And Mister Wizard would rescue him with the incantation, “Drizzle drazzle, drozzle, drome/ Time for this one to come home,” and bring him back to the forest.

What Leo used to do, he was his own Mister Wizard. He would just say to himself, Help, Mister Wizard, I don’t wanna be in the principal’s office — or church, or at Aunt Helen’s — and then, working his own magic, bang, he wasn’t there anymore. He would travel so deep into himself that everything around him became non-existent. He did this right up till the time he was eleven or twelve and told Duane Measler about his game and Duane Measler said Leo was weird. He quit it after that.

A real-deal Mister Wizard situation, this. He was an afterthought, a fifth wheel at the table of the breathtaking Valentina, whose jealous brother was on the verge of undoing a season’s worth of hard work. With a frizzhaired frump who couldn’t hold up her end of the conversation, if there even was a conversation to hold up. And Gregory. Gregory wasn’t even that bad, as far as these guys went. But Leo kept anticipating he’d come up with something witty or even stupid to say to break up the glacier creeping over this scene, and Gregory stayed mute, twirling linguine on his fork.

“I must have a bladder the size of a peanut,” Leo announced. “When you spot that waiter, could you order me another margarita? I’ll be right back.”

He went straight into that stall and snorted two big blasts up both nostrils. There.

Stopping for another quick pop at the bar was a strong temptation, only Paulo was at the bar waiting for him. He said, “Having a good time?”

Leo said, “Uh, yeah?” He wasn’t sure which way he was supposed to answer.

“I’m sorry you had to sit through that. My sister is very beautiful, but she is not very mature. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I was out of line, and I apologize.”

“That’s nothing,” Leo said. “Let’s go back and sit down.”

“All the same, I wouldn’t want you to get any ideas about her.”

Leo said, “Ideas?”

“Come on, Leo. We’re men. We both know why you’re here. You weren’t expecting Chi-Chi and you weren’t expecting me. You might’ve been braced for the queer, but you’re not interested in him. You’re a lot of cheap things, but you aren’t homosexual.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Leo’s nose dripped cocaine runoff. He sucked it in and wiped what escaped on the back of his hand. Wow, did he need a drink. What happened to that bartender, the short one in the little red vest?

“Valentina is a rare jewel. If you think my parents raised her to be trifled with by a third-rate, cocainesniffing hoodlum, you’re dead wrong, my friend. I suspect you realize she’s out of your class, but I’m here to reinforce your fears.”

Did this guinea have any idea who Leo was? That he’d straight-up wasted a psycho killer? He started to say, “You don’t know me at all.”

“You’re wrong there, too.” Paulo turned up the wattage on a bright, sinister smile Leo didn’t care for the looks of, not one bit. “You don’t think I know you, but I know you. And I’m warning you. I’m threatening you. Stay away from my sister.”

Paulo turned and walked back to the table, slow, cocky, chest out, just about daring Leo to follow him.

Leo wasn’t biting. After he found the bartender, he hammered down a double, and, feeling more together, took his time with the return trip outside. He left a twenty under the plate he didn’t touch, and said goodnight, giving them three lies where one would’ve been plenty. In the future, a point of form: Never tell three consecutive lies.

Valentina shot her brother a dead eyed-look. Standing to shake Leo’s hand, Paulo pumped that smile for all the malevolence it was worth.

Leo walked the length of Lincoln Road. Turning left on Lennox, then right on 15th to Alton, he covered the last couple blocks to Kilkenny’s, where he should’ve gone in the first place. Leo was grateful, though not at all surprised, to find Jo Ann wearing a pleated mini-skirt and red suede boxing shoes, carrying three Bud Longnecks high on a tray.

Leo had one eye open on a vicious hangover that started at his temples and wrapped around his head like a turban. His lungs ached up through his chest. His nostrils were crusted shut. Opening his other eye, he felt twice as bad. The few clothes Jo Ann had been wearing were in a heap on the floor, and it hurt to look at her red suede boots.

Right. Jo Ann. Jo Ann was snoring directly into his ear, and no matter how long he planned on playing dead, who ever was ringing the doorbell was not going to stop. The sunlight honking in through the staircase window seemed to have a sound to it, all mixed up with blasts on the bell, and now, some extra-rude knocks.

Leo opened the door on a pretty, athletic brunette wearing a beige suit and shades. There were braces on her teeth and she was holding a badge. It took him a few seconds to register this, shirtless, shoeless, the top button on his Levi’s unfastened. This cute brunette, who was on the young side, but way too old for trips to the orthodontist, was a fucking cop, and she was at his house. The cops were at his house.

They must have identified JP Beaumond’s body. Though Leo had his JP story all together, and though he’d been waiting for this since the afternoon Stuart A. Homes- Leighton mentioned they’d carted Beaumond’s corpse out of the Glades, a knot of acid churned in his gut.

He said, “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon. Leo Hannah?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Acevedo from the Miami Beach Police.” She put the wallet with the detective shield in her pocket and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were the same green as Leo’s, and she was very fair-skinned for a Cuban chick. Maybe her mother was white.

Leo snuck a peek at the coffee table in front of the television, at the plate with the remnants of last night’s blow-fest. He stepped outside and closed the door. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“On the night of March fifth, a Dutch tourist was murdered in his hotel room on Ocean Drive. You probably heard about it.”

Okay, curveball. She wanted to talk about Manfred instead of JP, and she had to know that Leo knew him, or she wouldn’t be standing here.

“Awful,” Leo said. “Terrible. You know, I knew that guy.”

“Manfred Pfiser. How did you know him?”

“Let’s see, how did I know him? That’s a good question. I just sort of knew him from around, a familiar face from the Beach. You know, bars, restaurants, that sort of thing. Hey, how’re you guys making out with your investigation?”

“It’s coming along. Would you be able to recall the last time you saw him before he died?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I just woke up and I’m a little hazy. What did you wanna know?”

“I was wondering about the last time you saw him. Alive.”

That was a low blow. It was supposed to imply that Leo had seen Manfred dead, which he had not. “I think it was a couple days before he died. But I’m not sure, that was what, two months ago, and my memory isn’t the best, you know what I’m saying?”

Posing in the brightness without a shirt, all waxed up like he was about to shoot a print ad, Leo felt he could use a pair of shades out here, the new Armanis.

But the cop was pin-spotting the Jag, and now she had her notebook out. “Where do you work, Mr. Hannah?”

“I don’t. I mean I’m not right now. I’ve been doing some modeling jobs. That is, I’ve been testing a lot, but I don’t have adequate representation at the moment. What you need in my line of work is a good agent.”

“Do you own this house?”

“I rented it for the season. Which reminds me. The lease is about to expire. I’m gonna be looking for a new place to live.”

“Are you married?”

“Nope. Single all the way, baby.” Shit, error on Leo. She might be cute as hell, but she was still a cop.

“Kind of a big place for one person, isn’t it?”

“Let me tell you something. For a long time I lived in two rooms on Meridian Avenue. I promised myself that when I moved, it was gonna be into a house. But now look at me. I’ve gotta move again. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Bullshit. How could she not understand what he meant? What was he speaking, Swahili? She was pulling his chain, but that was okay, because he could pull right back.

“Making plans,” Leo said. “You make plans, they jump up and bite you on the ass. Like in your mind, you expect things to go one way so you chart your course accordingly, but reality turns out to be something totally different.”

He wasn’t having such a bad time talking to the cop. But if she was going to be much longer, he needed to get himself squared away with some cigarettes and a pair of shades. Coffee’d be great, too.

“Would you excuse me a moment? I’d like to go put on a shirt.”

He didn’t ask her in, and she didn’t ask to come in, which was good. If only there was a way to get this chick to tip her hand, let him find out what she knew. Although it’d look bad for him, asking questions. Cops didn’t answer questions, anyway. Finally, he thought, fuck it, let her fire away. What could she do to him?

He took a piss in the upstairs toilet and let go of the fart that had been looming out on the steps. The flushing toilet stirred Jo Ann just enough for her to roll over and ask him what time it was. From the way the sun was blaring, Leo figured it had to be around noon, but Jo Ann went back to sleep before he could give her an answer.

The Armanis weren’t on the dresser where he swore he’d seen them last, and he wasn’t crazy about the way the Black Flys looked with this haircut. Not to mention they were the same frames everybody on South Beach was rocking the last couple seasons. But they beat staring into the glare of a South Florida afternoon.

His Marlboros were on the coffee table next to the plate. There was a nice-sized rock left. He shoved the plate into the refrigerator for safekeeping.

The cop was nosing around the Jag and scribbling something into her notebook, the license and serial numbers, probably, but that wasn’t much of a worry, because the ride was totally legal. Except now the law had a line on it. He’d have to go talk to that dealer, see what he could do about bailing out of his lease.

Leo sat down on the steps, as relaxed as he could be with a throbbing headache roaring back at him. The first few Marlboro drags triggered a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. Better think about giving up the smokes one of these days. Make a note.

The cop headed back up the gravel and turned an ankle, but she hardly broke her stride. Her lap-lines were eye-level, and he was staring right at her pussy. Underneath the linen and whatever kind of underwear she had on, Leo bet that pussy was sweet. He never fucked a cop, but he was young still. He wouldn’t mind starting right here.

“What year is that car?” the cop wanted to know.

Dumb bitch. She could’ve got it off the serial number. He got to his feet. “That’s a ’97,” Leo said. “You know what the factory calls that color? British Racing Green. Don’t you love that? British Racing Green.”

“Now that’s a rental, am I right? What’d you do, get that for the season, too?”

“They won’t let you do that,” he said. “I got a two-year lease on it.”

She peered over his left shoulder, like she was considering what to ask next. Leo thought she might be trying to look into the living room, but the curtains were drawn like they always were, and there was nothing to see anyway, not with the plate in the fridge. “I understand you’re very fond of entertaining, Mr. Hannah. People come and go all hours of the night, loud music, naked women in the back yard. You’re a regular party boy, aren’t you, a real good-time Charlie, with your house and your Jaguar and your hot tub.”

Now who the fuck told her that? Was this the cop getting tough with him?

“At the beginning of the season, when I was excited about having the place, I wanted to share my good fortune with my friends. We did have a few late nights, but I felt they were abusing my hospitality. You invite people over, open your home to them, and what do they do?”