Riptide

CHAPTER 15

Thursday already. The race two days away. Time to take inventory, Jake Lassiter thought, knowing he’d come up a few items short. No leads on the missing coupons. No word from the Miami Beach cops, what could you expect? And Lila on his mind, clouding the sky. A vague feeling of uneasiness. Paying too little attention to work. Thaddeus G. Whitney had been calling all day, and Lassiter had ducked him. A bunch of other phone messages piled up, but then Cindy buzzed.

“Your favorite policia on line dos, jefe.”

“G’day, Lassiter,” Sergeant Carraway announced cheerfully.

“Picture was clean, no prints. I’ll keep it in my wallet as a souvenir. Hey, the slut’s got some pair.”

The cop sounded so happy Lassiter wondered if he’d been drinking. No, he was probably a nasty drunk.

“Here’s something else might interest you, Counselor. Last night, me and my partner spot a couple greasers prying open a soda machine at Alton Road Texaco after hours. I don’t move so good anymore, but Georgy boy, excuse me, Whore-hay, he thinks he’s fast, runs on his toes like the girls are watching. Fact is, he’s muscle-bound and a meathead, would never have caught up except one of the punks is limping like a horse kicked him — shit, at first I thought he was crippled. Anyway, my partner grabs him halfway down the block, poor kid musta tripped ‘cause his collarbone seems to have fractured by the time he’s put in the blue-and-white which, by the way, is where I been waiting ‘cause I ain’t chasin’ no more greasers down alleys.”

What’s he getting at? The fat sergeant didn’t move fast and he sure as hell didn’t tell a story fast.

“Anyway, while Whore-hay is working up a sweat catching one out of two, I do what you might say is your basic police work.”

“Sergeant, spare me the details. What the hell’s this got to do with Sam Kazdoy’s coupons?”

“I’m getting there, Counselor. I look over at the soda machine, figure I might have me a diet Coke, ‘cause I’m watching my girlish figure, and of course, caffeine-free ‘cause I’d like to get some shut-eye. Well, what do I see on the ground but a little crowbar they were using to bust open the machine.

Wouldn’t have thought nothing about it, except we’re Mirandizing the kid and Whore-hay, he’s a stickler for the rules, tells the little prick he’s being charged with malicious mischief, attempted larceny, trespass, resisting arrest with violence, and possession of burglary tools, to wit, one crowbar. So the kid, who’s dumber than a lump of yeast, he says it’s not his crowbar, some guy gave it to him the other night. And where’d this guy give it to you, I ask real innocent. He says, in the alley behind the South Side Theater.”

Carraway paused, letting it hang there, basking in the silence. “You like this story, Counselor?”

“It’s getting better. He give you a description?”

“Not much a one. Short guy dressed like those assholes in the Everglades, you know, the ones throwing grenades at the snakes, training to overthrow Fidel?”

“Bay of Pigs Brigade,” Lassiter said.

“Right, a dark little guy in a camouflage jacket, probably Latino. This mystery man supposedly comes out the back door of the theater, has a… discussion with our two soda banditos, ends up giving them his crowbar as a gift.”

“What about the crowbar?” Lassiter asked. “Any prints, any scratches?”

“Good questions, Counselor. Very good. You could be a dick. Maybe you are a dick, eh?”

Let him have his fun, Lassiter thought. Making you drag it out of him. Still pissed at the way you rubbed his face in it at the theater.

“Only prints are the kid’s. Name’s Rodriguez, ain’t they all? Lassiter, you know how many pages of Rodriguezes in the Miami phone book. No? Take a guess. Okay, I’ll tell you, fifteen fuckin’ pages, a septic tank full of Rodriguezes.”

“Sergeant, what’s this got to do with — “

“You’re wondering how Phil Carraway knows this. ‘Cause Rodriguez is a juvenile and the old sarge gotta call the dipshit’s mother, only the kid’s got a bad memory for addresses and phone numbers.”

“Sergeant, what’s — “

“Now this Rodriguez ain’t even Cuban. He’s a Puerto Rican, musta got lost on his way to New York. Hey, Lassiter, how come there are so few Puerto Rican doctors?”

Lassiter was silent, knowing the burned-out cop would provide his own punch line.

” ‘Cause you can’t write prescriptions with spray paint.”

Lassiter had to wait for the sergeant to stop laughing at his own moronic joke. “Carraway, the Beach ought to enroll you in an ethnic awareness program.”

“Won’t do no good, ‘cause I hate everybody,” he said with obvious pride. “Now, where was I?”

“The prints! What else besides the prints?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, the lab says the brown paint from your client’s cabinet matches exactly a speck on the tip of the crowbar, plus some oxidized fragments from the bar turn up in the scratches on the cabinet. You like the story now?”

“Love it. Good work, what’s next?” The son of a bitch had been stringing him along.

“Getting the little fucker to tell us where the coupons are.”

“What! The kid doesn’t have them. He wouldn’t be breaking into a Coke machine if he knocked off one-point-six million the night before.”

“He might if he didn’t know what he had. I’m not buying the shit about getting the crowbar in the alley, little guy in a camouflage outfit, come on.”

“Carraway, I don’t believe you. Rodriguez is a lead to the burglar, not the burglar. The guy who broke in had help from inside, a taped-over latch. The Rodriguez kid would’ve busted a window.”

“Not if he had help from somebody who knew what was there.”

“Like who?”

“How should I know? Maybe you and the blonde with the big maracas gave him a new skateboard for bringing out the old man’s coupons, so he still has to steal quarters.”

“You’ve lost it, Carraway. They should’ve put you out to pasture years ago.”

“Don’t worry. I ain’t writing you two up. Too much work. Far as I’m concerned, the kid broke in on his own. By the way, I asked him about the photo, swore on his virgin sister he never saw it. I figure he picked it up in the old man’s office, was gonna jerk off later, maybe he did in the alley. You didn’t see any pecker tracks out there, didja?”

“Carraway, you’re a disgrace. You’re shutting down the investigation.”

“Not so. Just shifting it. When the kid gets a public defender appointed, we’ll offer a deal. Return the coupons, he can plead to trespass, get ten days in Youth Hall, spends more time there than home anyway.”

Lassiter gritted his teeth. “There can’t be a deal! The kid doesn’t have the bonds, anybody can see that. He probably saw the burglar come out of the theater, maybe toss the crowbar into a dumpster. We have to find the guy he saw. And what about Violet Belfrey? You should put her under surveillance. Who does she hang out with? Does she have a rap sheet? I’ll bet you never even checked her record…”

“Wrong. Couple liquor code violations when she tended bar in North Carolina. Soliciting for prostitution fifteen years ago in Jax, same thing in Daytona Beach and Fort Pierce — musta worked her way down the coast on her back — all penny-ante stuff. Not a felony charge in the bunch, no break-ins, no grand larceny. Just an over-the-hill piece who’s got your client seeing stars. With his money you’d think he could do better.”

The sergeant laughed and hung up. It was useless. Carraway just didn’t want to work it. I should talk to the kid, Lassiter thought, get a better description of the guy with the crowbar. Maybe hire Tubby Tubberville to tail Violet Belfrey. Wonder if a bearded 260 pounder on a Harley can be inconspicuous. Could go over Carraway’s head in the department, but it takes time… and Cindy buzzing again.

“Now what?” he asked.

“A very important message, which I have taken the liberty of putting into my own words.”

“People have been arrested for using some of your words. Shoot.”

” If you don’t get your two-hundred-fifty-dollar-an-hour ass to the bank, pronto, they’ll find a lawyer who will.’”

“Okay, I get it, Thad called.”

“Actually, I toned it down. He wasn’t as polite.”

Lassiter dialed Whitney’s direct number. Just as the bank counsel answered with a gruff “Yeah,” Cindy popped in the door, looking frazzled. “Another gendarme, line deux.”

“Miami Beach?”

“No, mon patron, Metro.”

Lassiter frowned and disconnected Whitney, a violation of the managing partner’s Ten Commandments concerning the care and stroking of clients.

“Lassiter, this is Officer Joaquin Morales. We’d like you to come down to Matheson Hammock, you know where that is?” A faint Hispanic accent, a very polite tone, one of the new breed of county cops trained in human relations and interpersonal communication.

“Sure, the last bit of nature not paved over or built on. What’s up, Officer?”

“A body, sir.”

“A dead body?”

“That’s the usual kind,” the officer said, without a hint of humor. “We need to talk to you.”

“Why me? Whose body?”

“The subject is not identified, or rather, I am not to identify the subject to you, sir.”

The subject. Damn police lingo.

“Can you come right away?” Morales asked, pleasantly but firmly.

“Sure, but I still don’t get it. What am I supposed to know?”

“Sorry, sir, not supposed to say anything else. You could bring a lawyer if you want.”

“You know any good ones, Officer?”

“No, sir. They’re all sleazebags, sir.”