Night vision

CHAPTER 17

The explosive crack of a rifle shot.

The squeaking of sneakered feet on concrete. Murmurs in Spanish, a low whistle, then applause mixed with groans.

A haze of cigarette fog hung over the jai alai fronton. Wednesday night and the place half-empty. Some of the regulars slouched in their cushioned seats studying the program, trying to build two bucks into a hundred with a lucky trifecta.

Henry Travers, aka Harry Hardwick, leaned over the rail at the end of the court near the front wall. He held a stubby pencil and was scribbling in the margins of his program. His stomach ballooned from under a bright aloha shirt. His pants were low slung and drooped over brown loafers with worn heels. His face was creased, his dishwater hair uncombed, and he looked at life through thick, rimless glasses. He appeared to be a man who spent much of his time alone.

Two new players took the court as I sidled next to Travers at the rail. I studied him close up. He hadn't shaved this morning, and if he had showered, he should return his deodorant soap for a refund. His taproom pallor was beyond pale; I had seen better suntans on death row.

At the first crack of pelota against the wall, Travers looked up from his program and toward the court. The player in the red jersey cleanly handled the rebound and, in that peculiar whipping motion, hurled the pelota high against the front wall. The second crack was louder, and there was nothing but a white blur as the player in blue climbed the sidewall, reached high with his cesta, and made the catch. In one motion he pivoted and whirled, rocketing a low screamer toward the front wall. The man in blue tried to short-hop the bounce like Ozzie Smith on a double-play ball, but there's only one Ozzie Smith, and the pelota dribbled off his cesta into the protective screen.

"Goddamn Guernica," Henry Travers muttered.

"It's only one point," I advised.

He turned toward me. It was just another bettor in a Dolphins jersey. Except mine was real. Travers said, "His confidence goes to shit after he loses the first point. Here, look."

He shoved his crumpled program at me. There were handwritten numbers on it. They didn't mean anything to me.

"Guernica finishes in the money forty-six percent of the time when he wins the first point, twenty-one percent when he doesn't."

"Like getting on the board first in football," I said.

"Same principle. I took Guernica, Maya, and Chucho in the trifecta, then wheeled Guernica in both the quiniela and perfecta."

"Good luck."

He snorted. "Should just burn my money, be faster."

Guernica had already lost the second and third points when I asked Travers if he cared for a beer. He said no thanks and then I opened my wallet and showed him my official, laminated, gold-starred, special-assistant-state-attorney badge signed by the Honorable Nicholas G. Fox. A beer would be just fine, Henry Travers allowed.

We sat at a dirty plastic table sipping watery American beer from Styrofoam cups. At the next table a couple of retirees in baseball caps nodded to Travers.

"I couldn't help noticing you have a slight limp," I said. "Your right foot drags a bit."

"Disc problem. Total disability from the postal service."

"Funny how the heels on your shoes are worn evenly. You'd think the left one would deteriorate faster from carrying more weight."

Behind the thick glasses, his eyes narrowed. "What're you trying to prove?"

"Earlier tonight, when you came out of the head, you were practically skipping so you wouldn't miss a point. You could have been the drum major for the A-and-M marching band. After I said hello, you were hobbling like a cornerback with a pulled hamstring."

He took a long pull on the beer. "Just started acting up. Sometimes it hurts more than others."

"I'll bet. When anybody who smells like government begins asking questions, it must hurt like hell."

He got loud. "You trying to fuck with my pension? Look, I walked these streets for twenty-three years. Pavement so hot your shoes stick to the asphalt. Wearing those goddamn knee socks and striped shorts. Little Havana, Overtown, Cables Estates-you name it, I worked there. Don't know what's worse, the jungle bunnies in Overtown or the rich bitches in the Gables in their two-hundred-dollar bathrobes, asking me to carry their trash to the curb. Do I look like the sanitation department?"

"No, you look like a two-bit grifter who plays the angles and loses three out of four."

He had the expression of a mutt who'd just been kicked. Sometimes you charm a witness into talking. Other times you hit him over the head with a two-by-four. I went for the whole tree.

"Travers, you look like a guy who used to have a buddy clock in when you wanted to goof off, if you had a buddy at all. You look like a guy who can't wait to get rear-ended so you can soak the insurance company for a new paint job and take a month off at full pay 'cause your neck hurts. You look like a guy who'll pick up the silverware from the diner and jiggle the pay phone till a quarter comes out. In short, Travers, you look like a small-time sack of shit."

He licked his lips and his watery eyes darted back and forth. Other bettors were starting to stare. Maybe I was embarrassing him in front of his cronies.

"I don't have to take this," he said. "I put my time in. Now I got sciatic neuralgia."

"You don't say."

He leaned close and let me get a whiff of his sour breath. "Yeah, and I got affidavits from two chiropractors and an osteopath to prove it.

"I don't give a shit about your pension. I want to know where you were on the night of July two."

He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. When he put them back on, they were no cleaner. "Like I told the detective, I was right here. Ten o'clock, maybe a little after, I headed home."

"What about proof? Who saw you?"

"Everybody. Sal the beer guy, Dave the Deuce who works the two-dollar window, but they don't know one day from the next."

"You have any tickets from that night?"

He laughed. "I don't keep 'em as souvenirs. I cash 'em if I win, toss 'em if I lose."

"And when you got home, you went online with Flying Bird, right?"

"What if I did? I live alone, okay? I bought this computer. I play some games on it. I got a program that handicaps the horses, another that balances my checkbook. I see an ad for this Compu-Mate. Meet your life mate, right? I never been married."

I nodded, and he quickly added, "Hey, don't think I'm one of those. When I was in the army, I got my share when you could still get it for five bucks and a carton of Luckies. And a guy doesn't deliver the mail all those years without getting invitations for a cold drink or two, if you catch my drift."

I nodded again to let him know we were both a couple of regular guys.

"I mean, times have changed," he said. "Ten years ago, who'd have thought Henry Travers would be richer than John Connally, holier than Jim Bakker, and get more pussy than Rock Hudson?"

"Or be more full of shit than Virginia Key."

"Hey, what gives? I talked to a few women on the machine. I went out with four or five. Older ones, you know. Divorcees, widows, hungry for a man. A lot of lonely women out there."

"And Flying Bird."

"We chatted online. Just a kid. She wanted one of those young lawyers or bankers."

"Did you resent that?"

"What?"

"That she thought you were too old for her. Not upscale enough."

"You think I killed the girl because she wouldn't go out with me?"

Behind us, the crowd applauded a winning point. "So that's what happened," I said. "Old Harry Hardwick got shot down. A bitter guy on disability, a guy who lives in one room with a leaky window air conditioner-"

"I got central air!"

"— A guy who gets pissed off. Who does she think she is? Like those rich bitches in the Gables who think you're the garbage man. Maybe get even with them, too."

"You're out of your mind!" He started to get up, but I grabbed his forearm and yanked him back into his seat.

"Maybe she shot you down real good that night, huh? Maybe old Hardwick shoulda changed his name to Droopy. And maybe she'd already given out her address after the invisible man described himself as looking like Tom Selleck, but she found out otherwise. Is that what happened, Travers? You slip over there to teach the bitch a lesson?"

"Friggin' crazy! I'm a taxpayer and I'm gonna complain to my congressman. If Claude Pepper was still alive-"

"She really made you angry, didn't she?"

"She wasn't even my type."

That stopped me cold. "How do you know? You'd never seen her. Did you fantasize about her, follow her around? Beats watching TV, staring at the computer all day."

"Hey, I don't even know where she lived."

"Right, lived. Most people, they'd say, lives. "

"What's the big deal? Your cop friend told me she was dead. I'm sorry for the girl, but I had nothing to do with it."

With that, Henry Travers hoisted himself up and looked toward the scoreboard. Valdez won, Alonso placed, and Ecenarro showed. I watched Travers's hands as he tore a thick batch of quiniela, perfecta, and trifecta tickets down the middle. Strong hands. He showered me with the confetti, then hustled back to his post at the rail. His sciatic neuralgia must not have been acting up.

I had a second watery beer, then headed for the exit when I heard the voice boom behind me.

"Repent! Make peace with the children."

I turned, expecting one of the Jesus freaks, pamphlets in one hand, tin cup in the other. But I found Gerald Prince, tie at half-mast, gray cardigan unbuttoned. Hardwick and Prince, what a quiniela.

"Do you remember the scene in the restaurant?" he asked.

"What are you talking-"

" Death of a Salesman. Willy in the restaurant with his sons in the second act, remember?"

"Vaguely," I said.

"Willie tells his boys he's been fired, and he's looking for some good news to tell the missus."

"If that was my cue, I missed it. I can't remember Biff's lines."

"Don't worry, we'll rehearse."

"Are you telling me the college fired you?"

"Of course not, I've got tenure. They can only discharge me for committing bestiality in the quadrangle at high noon, and then only after arbitration. It's in our contracts."

He was holding a bag of nachos covered with melted cheese and salsa. He gestured with the gooey mess, offering to share the bounty, but I declined. "So what are you doing?"

"It's called acting," he said.

"I mean doing here. I didn't know you followed jai alai."

"Moronic game. Never been here before in my life. I called your office. I was informed of your whereabouts by your delightful secretary."

"Cindy must have been replaced."

"Jai alai, she told me. And I always thought that was some form of Japanese poetry."

We walked together toward the parking lot. He was saying something, but a 747 taking off from Miami International drowned him out. When we reached my old convertible, he put a hand on my shoulder. "And that's all there is to it. Flying Bird, yes, TV Gal, no."

"Are you confessing?"

"To being a fool, Mr. Lassiter. When you suggested I spoke to both of those unfortunate young women on the nights they were killed, well, naturally, I assumed you were right. You are an authority figure.

In a play I'd cast you as a man of character with strength, but with doubts nonetheless, a man's man who appeals to women, but is-"

"Could you get on with it?"

"Of course. Well, after our meeting, I belatedly realized where I was the night of June twenty-five."

"Talking on the computer with TV Gal. I've got the printout."

"So you said before. But that was the night I passed out in the library, and not the only time. I never would have remembered, but I have the books stamped on that day. An anthology of British drama plus several studies of erotica, including a most provocative one with selected writings by women authors."

"I'm not following you."

"Sometime that evening, in the college library, I sat down with the books and Jack Daniel's."

"Who is not, I assume, the dean."

Prince patted the pocket of his cardigan and produced a silver flask. "Only a pint, really. As I say, I settled down to do some reading. The chairs are really far too comfortable. I must have nodded off around ten-thirty or so. They lock the place up at eleven, and I was stuck there until six a.m. when the cleaning crew arrived."

"So there'd be witnesses. Whoever let you out."

"Goodness no. I sneaked out, headed home and showered, and made my eight o'clock class, remedial English, if you can imagine. Do you think the Philistines appreciated my efforts?"

In an effortless motion Prince opened the flask, took a swig, and slid it back into his pocket. I unlocked the trunk of the 442, tossed aside a catcher's mask, a tennis racket with popped strings, a snorkel and fins. Finally I uncovered my briefcase. I extracted a computer printout and handed it to the professor.

He squinted to read under the mercury vapor lights of the parking lot. "What's this, 'eight feet tall, green scaly skin…'?"

"That's you, Prince, the night of June twenty-five."

"The hell you say!"

He read aloud. "'What about your asshole? Is it nice and tight?' Surely, you don't think…"

"It's got your handle on it."

"But does it sound like me? With my command of the language, would I grovel in such sordid feculence?"

"I don't know, but you don't mind borrowing a line now and then, do you?"

I pointed at the bottom of the page. He continued reading silently, then shook his head. "You think I stole this…this pelvic-thrusting doggerel about too much love? Really, now."

"Peter Shaffer or Jerry Lee Lewis, what difference does it make?"

He arched his eyebrows so high the gesture would be visible from the balcony. "What difference! You compare the finest of contemporary theater with…with rock and roll!"

"Which do you find more insulting, being accused of murder or of stealing lyrics?"

"The latter, of course. With the world's great literature at my fingertips, I never would have stooped to that monosyllabic drivel. As for the stylites poem, I suppose you know it's by Tennyson."

"So I've been told. That's what links Marsha Diamond's green scaly monster to the Rosedahl murder scene."

Somewhere across the parking lot, a car alarm bleated. It held no interest for the security guards at the gate. Prince reached into his other pocket and pulled out a worn paperback. "A gift for you, my thespianic barrister."

While I riffled through a book of poetry, Prince started professoring. "Tennyson was having a bit of fun with religious fanatics, ridiculing the ancient ascetics who mortified the flesh by living atop pillars. I doubt, however, that the poor soul who communicated with Miss Diamond understands the poet's sarcasm."

A muffled roar came from inside the fronton.

"But you do."

He raised his fine chin and did his best to look offended. "Meaning what?"

I tossed the book into the trunk of my car and looked him dead in the eye. "Meaning you know a lot about Tennyson, and for all I know, you collect rock 'n' roll classics, too."

"Let me see if I follow you. I have a passing acquaintance with the work of an illustrious poet. A killer quotes the same poet. Therefore, I am the killer. Gracious, lad, did you ever take a course in logic?"

"The evidence-"

"The evidence is what you fellows call circumstantial, is it not?"

"I believe it was Henry David Thoreau," I said, trying to lecture the lecturer, "who said that circumstantial evidence can be very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk."

Maybe it was the mention of milk that made Prince blanch, or maybe he didn't expect the literary reference from a guy in a faded football jersey, or maybe it was a look of guilt. Whichever, he recovered quickly enough. "Oh, come now! As you simply refuse to hear, I spent the entire night in the library…"

"Where's the proof?"

"I have the books stamped on the twenty-fifth."

"You could have checked them out at noon. You have no proof."

He seemed to straighten and his voice rumbled from deep within. "There is my honor!"

I didn't laugh. I didn't even sneer. He might have been serious. Or he might have been playing some long-forgotten role.

He looked toward the airport, showing me his sagging profile. "Tout est perdu fors l'honneur."

"And when honor is lost, you'll have nothing."

"Precisely."

"According to the computer, Passion Prince talked to TV Gal around eleven p.m. on the night of June twenty-five. Two hours later, TV Gal was dead."

"The computer is wrong."

"You admit being Passion Prince?"

"With all that melancholy sobriquet implies."

"And prior to that night, you chatted with TV Gal?"

"But of course."

"And you admit talking with Flying Bird, Mary Rosedahl, on the night of July two shortly before she-"

"Yes, yes. We've been over all that. You have my flagrant plagiarism from Equus. "

"So why do you deny what the computer says is true?"

He smiled a sad smile. "Come now, Mr. Lassiter. Does a computer know truth from illusion? How can it, when those who feed it are just as blind? What is a computer anyway but the mechanical mind of a man, a man stripped of emotion? Can a computer feel passion? Does it have a soul? Does it know the freedom of the human spirit?"

"You lost me somewhere between illusion and passion."

"My dear boy, welcome to my class. You played football, didn't you, just like Biff? Your darling secretary told me you were a professional gladiator."

"Not very well and not very long."

"Surely you recollect Willy's speech at the end of Act One, the wistful remembrance of Biff's last football game, the celebration of lost youth and promise."

"Vaguely, something about a star never fading away."

"Yes, yes. But what does it mean?"

Give them tenure and two courses a semester, and they wallow in their little world, playing their little games. He looked at me, the demanding teacher, awaiting a response.

"Okay," I said. "Willy was lost in his illusions. His son once played a game, but there was no substance to it. Not when the rest of his life was built on lies."

"Precisely."

"Precisely what?"

"Shall I put it in terms you can understand?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"In Act Two, Willy's out in the garden at night and Biff tells him he's going to leave home and not come back."

"Yeah."

"Remember Willy's lines?"

It was there somewhere, buried in the attic trunk of memories. "Willie was planting carrots, putting some seeds down."

"Yes, very good. And what did he say about Biff's leaving, about his son's failure as a man?"

I was still rooting around for it. "Something about not taking the rap for him?"

"Right. We each bear responsibility for our own actions, but that's all."

I stared blankly at him. He reached into his pocket for the silver flask and, with the same hand, unscrewed the cap, letting it dangle on a chain. He took a healthy slug, and in an instant the flask was back in the pocket, two ounces lighter. Practice, the coach always said, makes perfect.

Professor Gerald Prince smiled and looked at me through watery eyes. "What I'm telling you, my dear Biff, is quite simple. I was framed."