Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bob Dylan said, “You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

I sat at my desk and stared into space. Although Linderman had left an hour ago, his presence hung like an odorless cloud. I thought about the timing of his appearance and the fact that our meeting had ended with a warning about my safety. It could mean only one thing: he knew something I didn't.

But what? Before paying me a visit, Linderman had met with Bobby Russo and the DA and shared the same information that he gave me. I had worked with the FBI enough times to know that this sharing didn't come without a price. Linderman got something in return, and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to determine what it was.

Buster crawled out from beneath my desk and stuck his head in my crotch, a cue that he wanted his ears scratched. I obliged him, and when I was done, he wagged his butt, then went to the door and whined. It was the same routine every day. Nap, scratch, pee. If only my own life were so simple.

I put my elbows on my desk and rested my head in my hands. I'd never been good for sitting in one place for very long pondering life's impossibilities. I was better on my feet and moving around. But this situation deserved serious thought, and I played back Linderman's warning.

If Skell walks, he'll come after you.

It wasn't the kind of thing someone in law enforcement would say to a brother-in-arms. Skell was in prison for first-degree murder, and for him to be set free, certain legal steps had to be followed, like his attorney petitioning the court, the judge finding the space on his docket to listen, and then the judge taking the new evidence and weighing it against the evidence presented at trial. The wheels of the legal system moved notoriously slow, and it might be weeks or even months before Skell was released, if the judge decided to swing that way.

So why did Linderman warn me? What disaster was on the horizon that warranted his seeking me out and telling me that Skell might be knocking on my door?

Five minutes later, it hit me.

It wasn't if Skell would be released from jail, it was when. Russo must have told Linderman that the body in Julie Lopez's backyard had been positively identified as Carmella's and that he was going to take the unusual step of asking the judge to release Skell so his department could save face. Learning this, Linderman had sought me out, hoping I might have uncovered additional evidence to keep Skell behind bars. And when he discovered I had none, he warned me.

I got on 595 and became a prisoner of late-afternoon traffic. Buster sat at stiff attention in the passenger seat, tuned in to my apprehension. Only one thought was running through my mind, and that was to provide safe haven for Melinda. I got her into this, and it was my responsibility to make sure nothing happened to her. My own safety was not important to me. I'd already had one confrontation with Skell and come out on the winning end. Until we tangoed again, I was alpha dog.

But Melinda was a different story. Despite her tough exterior, she was no fighter. She'd be easy prey for Skell once he was released from prison. I needed to track her down, and I called Cheever on my cell.

“Claude, it's Jack,” I said. “You looking at naked women?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Cheever replied.

“Which club?”

“Church of the Sacred Body Shot.”

“Is Melinda Peters working there now?”

“Yes, if you call making guys horny working.”

“I'm coming over. Wait for me, okay?”

“Sure,” Cheever said. “This is two days in a row. Want me to get you a membership card?”

“No, but thanks for asking.”

Hanging up, I retrieved Dennis Vasquez's business card from my wallet and called his cell phone. He answered, and I heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony playing loudly in the background and the joyful sounds of a woman's laughter.

“Mr. Vasquez?” I said.

“Who's calling?” he asked suspiciously.

“This is Jack Carpenter.”

“Jack, Jack! How are you?”

“Just great,” I said.

“Your ears must be burning. My wife and I were just talking about you. Hold on for a second, will you?” Taking his mouth away from the receiver, Vasquez said, “Honey, Jack Carpenter's on the line.”

The phone was passed to a woman with a breathless voice and a slight Spanish accent. “Oh, Mr. Carpenter, it's so wonderful you called. We brought Isabella home this afternoon, and we were sitting here, thanking God that you appeared when you did.”

“She's a beautiful child,” I said. “I hope you and your husband make more of them.”

She squealed with delight and invited me to dinner Saturday night. Their address was in Key Biscayne. I envisioned them living in an estate home on the water, and knew I wouldn't fit in with my ratty clothes and aging car, even for a few hours. I asked for a rain check and got one. Her husband came back on the line.

“I need a favor, Mr. Vasquez.”

“Anything, Jack. Anything at all,” he said.

“I know this is presumptuous of me to ask, but do you own a second home?”

“We have two. A weekend place in Key West, and a four-bedroom house in Aspen. Either one is at your disposal.”

“Does your house in Aspen have security?”

“The best money can buy,” he said. “Besides the security system, the house is inside a walled community with a guard at the front gate, and another guard that patrols the grounds at night. Since my wife and I don't plan to use it for a while, you can have it for as long as you like.”

“It's not for me,” I said.

“A friend?”

“She's a witness in a case. I need to get her out of the state, let her lie low for a while. You're sure this won't be any trouble?”

“Consider it done. Just give me the dates she'll be arriving, and I'll arrange everything. She'll be very safe there, Jack.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez. I really appreciate this.”

“There's no need to thank me, Jack,” he said. “No need at all.”

The sky was a dying amber when I arrived at the Body Shot. Parking in a strip center across the street, I told Buster to mind the fort.

The club was packed, and I elbowed my way through a mob of working-class guys leering at naked women dancing on the elevated stage. Being unemployed had its drawbacks, one of which was that I could easily lose track of the days. It was Thursday, which in south Florida was the official beginning to the weekend.

Cheever hailed me from the bar. A cold beer awaited me when I reached him.

“Sorry I split last night, but I got an emergency call,” he said, clinking his bottle against mine. “How did it go with Melinda?”

“She had me tossed,” I shouted in his ear.

“And you came back for more?”

“I need to talk with her. They're going to let Simon Skell out of prison.”

His bottle hit the bar. “Fucking what did you say?”

“You heard me. I found out from the FBI. I need to get Melinda someplace safe.”

Cheever gave me a thoughtful look. Even in the club's crummy neon I could see he was way drunk. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it.

“That's my Jack.”

“I'm going to the VIP lounge. When you see Melinda, ask her to join me. She'll listen to you.”

“Sure, man. Anything to help.”

“And make sure the bouncer doesn't come looking for me.”

I started to leave. Cheever got a fresh beer from the bartender and forced it into my hands.

“You deserve it,” he told me.

The VIP lounge was normally reserved for friction dances and, if you were not careful, a five-hundred-dollar bottle of pink champagne. I settled onto a couch as the perennial strip club favorite, “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band, blasted over the speakers. KC was a Miami band, and you could not spend any serious time in a south Florida bar without hearing at least one of their songs.

The set ended and the house lights flickered. Three new dancers came out and peeled off their clothes. I sucked on my beer, thinking of Skell. One of his victims was a stripper, one worked in a massage parlor, and the rest were prostitutes employed by escort services. Yet, except for the phone call Skell had made to Carmella Lopez, no evidence existed of him ever being inside a strip club or massage parlor, or using an escort service. He did not know his victims either personally or professionally, even though they all fit the same profile. It was another piece of the puzzle with a question mark hanging over it.

I had a theory about this, which along with eight bucks would buy me another beer. It went like this. We all walk around in life with different odds. Some people have good odds; some have bad. Your odds are determined by your upbringing, your luck, and the strength of your desires. My guess was that everyone in this club had bad odds, myself included.

Skell's victims all had bad odds. They had chosen their professions out of necessity, and lived on the edge of despair. They'd been thrown away not only by their families but by society and were struggling not to fall into the abyss. Somehow, Skell knew this about his victims, which was why he chose them. Someday, I was going to find out how he knew.

Melinda entered the VIP lounge with a glazed look in her eyes. She was every hot-blooded male's dream: white toga, six-inch stiletto heels, her hair in a single braid resting on her shoulder. Sitting beside me, she pulled at a knot in her garment. It parted, revealing nothing but a G-string. Her reaction to danger was to snort coke, and I could tell she was higher than a kite.

“Oh, it's my knight in shining armor,” she said.

Her breasts gently swayed as she spoke. She had never gotten implants, and her natural beauty set her apart from every other woman in the club.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Her face turned dreamy.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

I hesitated. Taking my head in her hands, she kissed me on the lips.

“You do love me,” she said.

I gazed into her eyes. It was hard to tell how far gone she was.

“I have a solution to the problem,” I said.

“You want to run away with me?”

“Listen to me. I have a solution to the problem.”

“What problem is that, Jack?”

“The one we talked about last night. Simon Skell.”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“We have to talk about him.”

Her face turned dark. Then tears rolled down her cheeks, and she started to crack. I sensed another presence in the lounge and looked up. The bouncer from last night was back. I offered no resistance as he lifted me off the couch.

“I told you to stay out of here,” he said.

Melinda held her head in her hands. I spotted Cheever at the bar and waved. He came running and pulled the bouncer off me. The bouncer cocked his fist, and Cheever showed him his badge.

“Fucking shit,” the bouncer said.

Cheever made him empty his pockets. The bouncer was carrying several fat joints and enough nose candy for the Mexican Army. Cheever read him his rights. I returned to the couch and pulled Melinda's toga together.

“I don't want to die,” she sobbed. “I don't want to die.”

“You're not going to die,” I said.

“Yes, I am. Skell's going to kill me.”

“No, you're not,” I told her. “You're not going to die.”

I fed Melinda pigs in a blanket at the local IHOP, and the life came back to her cheeks. She tried to talk, but I wouldn't let her. She was still messed up. Drugs mixed with fear produces something akin to insanity. She desperately needed to get straight.

“What's going to happen to Ray?” she asked after her third cup of coffee.

I assumed Ray was the bouncer and said, “He'll cop a plea, maybe do a couple of months, probably just house arrest or probation.”

She twirled her coffee with the tip of her pinky. She'd cried away her makeup, and beneath the estaurant's harsh neon she looked like a kid. I assumed Ray's coke was the carrot that kept her coming back to the club and saw her shrug indifferently.

“So what's your solution?” she asked.

I told her about rescuing the Vasquez baby and how it had led to my getting the house in Aspen.

“Ever been to Aspen?” I asked.

“I've never been out of Florida,” she said.

“I want you to go there and lie low for a while.”

“Let me think about it, okay?”

Melinda didn't own a car and relied on the largesse of other dancers for rides. I drove her to a sprawling apartment complex near Weston and parked outside her unit. A giant palmetto bug smacked into the windshield, making us both jump.

“Oh, Jesus, I hate those things,” Melinda said. “Make it go away.”

I cleaned the bug's remains off the glass and got back in.

“Will you do it?” I asked.

She looked away. “Leave Florida? I don't know.”

“You need to get out of here for a few weeks,” I said. “I'll buy the airline ticket, send you money for food.”

She placed her hand on my thigh. “Will that make me your kept woman?”

I got out, came around to her side, and opened her door. I was all business walking her up the path to her ground-floor unit. She caught my drift, but at the door she embraced me anyway.

“One day, Jack. One day.”

“Will you do it?”

“You sound like a recorded message. I hate that.”

“I'm sorry. Will you?”

Her key ring came out, and she unlocked her door.

“Let me sleep on it,” and she was gone before I could reply.

During the drive home I remembered Jessie's basketball game. It was late and she was probably asleep in her dorm room, but I called her anyway. Her voice was groggy when she answered.

“I'm sorry I woke you,” I said. “How was the game?”

“We won,” my daughter said. “Your dream was right. I shot eight for twelve from the three-point line and hit 80 percent of my free throws.”

“You're a star.”

My daughter giggled. “Thanks for calling. How was your day?”

“Couldn't of been better.”

“Good. Good night, Daddy. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I ended the call. Talking to Jessie gave purpose to my day, and I looked out my window at the shimmering lights from hundreds of houses visible from the interstate. It wasn't that long ago that I'd lived in one of those neighborhoods, with a wife and a child and a big backyard, where I'd hoped to put a swimming pool. Back then, my life had been filled with headaches and dreams, and I was always wishing for things I didn't own. It had never occurred to me how good things really were and that I should have been content with what I'd had. Now, I knew. And I wanted that life back, and all the problems that went with it. Somehow I didn't think that was too much to ask for.