Flame

Chapter 23

Carver drove toward Orlando, stopping once at a roadside restaurant to wash the dust from his throat with iced tea and eat a club sandwich for lunch. The restaurant was called Citrus Charlie’s and featured orange juice drinks with every meal, some of them innovative. Fancied itself a family establishment, according to scrawled lettering on the orange-colored menu. Below “Desserts,” right under “Orange Dip Delite,” was written “Jesus Saves,” as if He were a regular customer and always ordered the special.

There were orange THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING signs all over the place, so after eating, Carver paid his check and limped outside. Glared up at the orange sun, and then stood in the shade of the souvenir shop built onto the side of the rough-cedar building and smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar. Watched the traffic on the highway. Lots of campers and motor homes out today. Northerners dumb enough to come to Florida in the summer.

Even in the shade, the sun got to be too much after about five minutes, so he flicked the cigar butt away and got back in the Olds.

It wasn’t much cooler in there. Carver started the car and got back on the sun-blanched highway. The Olds’s prehistoric engine didn’t mind the heat. Not like a little four-cylinder, flailing away at peak efficiency just to hold the speed limit.

He set the air conditioner on high, and after about twenty minutes he could touch the vinyl upholstery without burning himself.

Today it was marimba music. A syncopated song of lament throbbing like a strong but irregular heartbeat from the portable radio on the sill behind Desoto’s desk. Next to it the yellow ribbons tied to the air conditioner grill whipped from side to side like pennants in a sea breeze. Made the office look cool, anyway.

Desoto sat behind the desk thinking about what Carver had just told him. He had his white shirtsleeves rolled up in concession to the heat, but his ice-blue silk tie remained tightly knotted. He was even wearing a thin gold tie bar to keep the knot at a stylish angle.

When Carver was done talking, Desoto said, “Sometimes they’re like wolves, amigo. They just lie back and watch. Nothing happens till you run, then they give chase.”

“You saying I should leave Edwina in Del Moray?”

“Might be the best thing. You gonna tell her she’s been photographed and is being watched?”

“I don’t know yet how to play it,” Carver said, “I’m not sure I should tell her.”

“She’ll be pissed off if you don’t.”

“Pissed off if I do. And she might try something stupid, like confronting Butcher.” Jesus, earlobes!

Desoto leaned back in his chair. Laced his fingers behind his head carefully and lightly, so as not to muss his sleek dark hair. More a pose than a relaxed attitude. As if there might be some photographer sneaking around here, snapping shots for a most-eligible-bachelor calendar. He said, “I think you should bring McGregor into this. Let him assign somebody undercover to protect her.”

“I thought of that. Don’t like it but I might do it.”

“As it is, you got no choice but to play along with the Atlanta crowd. You’ll be spying on the DEA while the government knows about it. Spying on the Wesley operation all the time you’re doing that.” He shot Carver his matinee-idol smile. Handsome matador out of place and costume. “What’s that mean, I wonder; you’re a double agent? Triple?”

Carver said, “Means I’m in the middle.”

Desoto brought his arms around in front of him and sat forward. Folded his hands on the desk. The breeze from the air conditioner stirred the dark hair on his right forearm. The marimba band harmonized softly and earnestly in Spanish. “This citrus ranch with the deserted house,” Desoto said, “you think it’s nothing but a drug drop?”

“I don’t know. Seems to me it’s too dangerous to be used as that. More likely a place for small aircraft to land so they can shuttle people in and out of Florida without drawing attention. Speaking of which . . .”

“I checked as soon as you phoned from the restaurant,” Desoto said. “Vincent Butcher took a twelve-thirty commercial flight back to Atlanta. Looks like his job was to fly down early and set up a rental car, so Ogden and Courtney Romano could get here at their convenience and he could pick them up when they landed. Play the chauffeur.”

“These people,” Carver said, “they’ve got clout and balls. They know the DEA’s watching them and still they plan on operating.”

“Not balls,” Desoto said, “it’s the money. So much money they don’t have the balls to turn away from it. So they chance almost anything. Do almost anything to anybody. The profit’s the thing, so fuck the risk. It clouds their thinking, amigo. Gives the good guys the advantage in the war on drugs and creates the impression it’s a war that can be won.”

“You don’t think it can be?”

Desoto shook his head sadly. “Ever see the monthly statistics on drugs confiscated? Arrests made? Compare them to estimates of what’s flowing into the country from every place else in the world? Hell, it doesn’t even have to come from outside the country; people grow the shit in their basements under ultraviolet lights,”

“The DEA’s headache,” Carver said. “I don’t look at the stats or read about the drug epidemic. Enough bad news without that. Let the DEA do their thing. I only wish they could do it without me.”

“Yeah. Problem is, you can’t really trust the DEA. Not after the Renway deal.”

“There’s something wrong about all of it,” Carver said. “Jefferson. He doesn’t seem quite level. Not your usual DEA operative.”

“Seems not. Guy sounds like a zealot.”

“He is. And the dangerous kind that’s hard to recognize because he doesn’t foam at the mouth.”

“So he’s a rogue agent. It happens. Who’s gonna stop him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Palma?”

“I think he’s afraid of Jefferson.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I probably should be.”

Desoto said, “I can’t think of anybody involved in this who shouldn’t scare you. No-hey, wait. Except for your client. Because he’s dead.”

The marimba band swung into “La Cucaracha.” Made Carver wish he were Spanish. Wish he could dance.

He snatched up his cane and got out of there.