Done Deal (20 page)

Chapter 26

“Mo-ther-
fuck
-er,” Leon Straight said, wrenching his hand away from the pillow he’d been bearing down on. The sonofabitch had bitten him, right through the feathers and ticking, hard enough to draw blood. Leon was shaking his hand, trying to keep the guy pinned with his weight, but the old sonofabitch was a fighter. This had already taken more time than he’d counted on. Things he had to do, just to keep on Alcazar’s good side. Something he had to do, for the time being. But it was all going to work out to Leon’s advantage, and that was some consolation. Call it realtor’s work.

The old guy rolled aside and struggled off the couch, Leon going after him as quickly as his still-aching knee would allow.

The guy turned and swung at him with the bottle of Wild Turkey Leon had taken from him earlier. Leon ducked, and the bottle glanced off his shoulder, then went flying into the wall where it shattered, sending the stink of liquor all over the apartment. Too bad. Leon had had plans for the bottle, but that was all right. Given the look of the guy’s face, there’d be more hooch around.

There was a pistol across the room on a cabinet top, which was probably what the guy was headed for. Leon would just as soon he didn’t get hold of it and so ignored the protest in his knee as he brought the old guy down from behind. Before the guy could get up, Leon grabbed him by the belt, then hammered his fist into his kidney. This time the guy went down for good. While he was still stunned from the blow, Leon scrambled on up his back and got one arm levered across his throat, the other behind his head. Struggle all you want, motha, he thought, as he increased the pressure steadily. He could have popped the guy’s neck easily, but that wouldn’t look right.

When the guy was finally quiet, Leon got up and dragged him over to the couch, dumped him down on top of the soaked cushions, the shards of glass from the bottle. Couple of cuts, what would it matter. Leon shrugged.

Leon walked stiffly over to the cabinet, took a latex glove—that would be Alejandro’s idea, he’d have to give the sonofabitch that much—out of his pocket and put it on. He picked up the jack handle he’d brought up to the apartment, the one he’d taken from Deal’s piece-of-shit VW. He stared at the gun that was lying there, the same gun Leon had seen Deal playing with out on the patio. Probably had his prints all over it.

Always little things you didn’t expect, some good—like Leon spotting this guy and his silly-assed car the other day. Then some not so good, like Deal taking off, before they were ready.

Still, he thought, hefting the jack, it was always best to stick with your game plan close as you could. Inside one of the cabinets, he found a bottle of 151-proof rum. Nearly full, just what the doctor ordered. He left the gun where it was, poured the rum over the rug and furniture, and then, when he was finished with that, took the rest of his business to the couch.

Chapter 27

“He’s gone,” Alejandro said. He dabbed at a scratch on his face with a handkerchief, checking for blood. “Someone ought to cut the weeds around here.”

Penfield was pulling on a pair of suit pants. He’d donned a white shirt, but it was still unbuttoned, the sleeves loose at his wrist. The second thug stood by the doorway, his arms folded.

Penfield shot Alejandro an angry glance. “Well, the sonofabitch was here. He threatened to kill me, for Christ’s sake.” He pointed at the bat Deal had tossed aside.

Alejandro followed Penfield’s jabbing finger. He bent down and examined the baseball bat that had rolled underneath the corner of the bed. He glanced up at Penfield. “With this bat, he threatened you?”

Penfield’s face flushed as he straightened, snapping the button at his waistband. “You’re goddamn right with that bat—” he began, then broke off, his gaze fixed on Alejandro, who was wrapping a handkerchief carefully about his hand, picking up the bat, walking quickly his way.

“What the hell…” Penfield managed to get out.

Alejandro took a last step forward and swung backhanded, bringing his weight along with the blow. “It is not me, doing this,” he was saying. Penfield tried to turn, but there wasn’t a chance. The last thing he saw was a blur of wood, the trademark growing huge, then something warm, even searing, at his temple.

“…is Mr. Deal killing you.” The bat shattered down its length and a splash of blood flew to the ceiling. “The man betrayed, go on a rampage.”

Penfield tumbled backward over the chaise longue, his hands clawing at the miniblinds on a nearby window, bringing them down on him as he fell. Alejandro leaned over the chaise, waiting. The blinds rattled for a few moments, then went quiet. Alejandro bent to grasp Penfield’s wrist. He waited for a moment, then finally stood and nodded to his companion.

“Home run?” the companion said.

Alejandro smiled. “Beesbol been berry, berry good to me,” he said.

“
Que?
” his partner said, puzzled.

“Just an American joke,” Alejandro said, tossing the ruined bat to the floor. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 28

Homer Tibbets wheeled the big Lexus over the speed bump separating the preparation area from the ready line at about fifty, amazed at how well the sedan took it. The faster he hit the speed bumps, in fact, the less noticeable was the nudge under him. How in the hell had they done it? Next time, he’d try to get up to sixty.

He imagined himself starring in some television commercial, the car hurtling over a series of speed bumps, driven by no one apparently, then screeching to a halt, the door flying open and,
ta-da
, Homer steps out, wearing a tux or a cutaway: “Hey, it wasn’t always like that, folks.”

…and then a jump cut to a Caddy or a Lincoln pounding over the same speed bumps and Homer’s head flying up above the door sill again and again and again. He’d get it stopped, then stagger out of the car, loony as Bugs Bunny from all the bouncing, and the Lexus logo would come on—Christ, it’d
have
to sell cars. Well, maybe not nationwide, but at least down here. No, he corrected himself,
especially
down here.

Jesus, he thought, whisking the Lexus precisely into the front line, a foot and a half clearance on either side. The things your mind does, just trying to get you through the day.

He glanced up over the wheel as a guy who’d been pushing a shopping cart along the sidewalk shied out into the street at his approach. By the time Homer got out, the guy was bending over, picking up some aluminum cans that had spilled into the gutter. He glared at Homer, muttering something.

“Sorry, pardner,” Homer said, noticing that the man wore a tennis shoe on one foot, a rundown wing-tip on the other. One side of his face was fine, but the other half looked like somebody’d stomped it with track spikes, then filled the craters with roofing tar.

Homer shrugged, trying to be nice. Most of these guys were harmless, but a real cuckoo could always wait until it got dark, flutter down off his roost with the pigeons, come back, and fuck up one of the cars while the security cop was around back jacking off in his golf cart.

And
this
guy had definite possibilities: He was still muttering as Homer locked the Lexus and trudged around the shuttered parts-and-service bays to the wash-’n’-wax canopy. He heard a distant rumble of thunder and glanced up to see a dark bank of thunder-heads gathering in the south.

Great. The front’d whip up a stiff wind on its way in, cover every car on the line with sand and powdery dust, then the rain’d come in, streak everything to hell. Tomorrow he could come in and start all over again. He shrugged. He could handle it. He got paid by the hour, which, he noticed by the blinking clock on top of the bank tower down the block, was well past six in the
P.M.
Time to call it a day.

He rounded the back corner of the service bays and stopped short when he saw the strange car parked in front of his canopy. Homer was immediately indignant. One of the used-car salesmen trying to fuck him around, bringing some piece of shit back for detail work without clearing it first. Well, fuck that, he thought, leaning against the fender of the car to shuck his waders. No yellow ticket under the windshield wiper, no washee from Homer. Not unless you were around to slip some green his way.

What the hell kind of car was it, anyway? he wondered. He glanced back at the thing as he moved to toss the boots inside the storage shed where he kept his things. He’d taken it for some European version of a U.S. sedan, but that was wrong. The car sat too low, its lines were a bit too sleek, and wasn’t that leather upholstery on the front buckets? He turned to pitch the boots in the shed and gasped as a hand clamped his T-shirt and jerked him roughly inside.

“Homer?” A voice came out of the darkness. Homer aimed a kick toward the voice but the guy had him pinned against the back wall of the shed, at arm’s length. Homer ran a quick inventory of his debts and transgressions, but nothing serious registered. He’d laid some pipe a couple days ago, an older woman he met in the lounge of the Cadillac Hotel downtown, but she’d claimed to be divorced.

“Naw, I ain’t Homer,” he said, pawing a couple of soft right crosses into the darkness. “I’m just a regular guy got caught in the wash, shrunk up a few sizes.”

“It’s Deal, Homer,” the guy said.

Deal?
Homer thought.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just have to be careful, coming around here.”

Then it registered. Homer relaxed, going limp in the guy’s hands. He laughed, a wry, barking sound. “No, man, you don’t have to be careful. You have to be out of your fucking mind.”

They drove down Biscayne the mile or so to Homer’s place, Deal slouched down in the backseat, Homer barely visible behind the wheel of the Rivolta.

“Maybe you can find something on the radio,” Deal said, his mind still whirling from what Homer had told him.

“You don’t believe me?” Homer said.

Deal didn’t answer. Homer shrugged and began punching the buttons on the Blaupunkt until he found a bulletin that bore out what he’d already told Deal about Penfield, “victim of a vicious attack in his palatial home.” Deal hadn’t been listening to the radio. He’d spent the entire day hunched down in the Rivolta, waiting for Alcazar to show up before he decided to try Homer.

“Police have not yet established a motive for the killing,” the report continued. “But Miami builder Jack Deal is being sought for questioning. Police would not explain their interest in Deal, said to be distraught since the death of his wife in an auto accident just a few weeks ago.”

“Jesus Christ!” Deal said, as the broadcast cut away to a commercial. He thought of Alejandro and his pal, moving grimly toward Penfield’s house. Could he have been wrong about Penfield?

“I told you,” Homer called from the front seat. “Hey, maybe there’s a reward. I could just swing over to Metro Dade, drop you off at the suspect window.”

“You could do that, Homer,” Deal said, his voice flat.

“Nah. Vicious killer like you might escape, track me down. I’d never live to enjoy the money.”

They pulled up at a stop light and Homer hiked himself over the seat to smile down at Deal. “Even if you did nail the old fart, I still owe you one for what you did to Alcazar. I’d give anything to have seen it. Besides, how would you find your old lady if you were in the slammer.”

Deal stared up at him. “Thanks, Homer.” Homer waved it off. “And I didn’t kill Penfield.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Homer said, dropping back out of sight. “I ain’t the one you have to convince.”

The commercial on the radio had ended and the lady rock jock was back, schmoozing with the newscaster. “So what effect will Thornton Penfield’s death have on our chances for a Major League franchise, Gene?”

“Right, let’s get to the important shit,” Homer said.

“Be quiet,” Deal said. He was trying to sort it all out, but his mind spun in circles.

“Nobody’s quite sure, Irene,” said the newscaster. “But sources close to the local committee tell me the application is complete and in the hands of the commissioner’s advisory board. It
shouldn’t
affect anything.”

“Well, that’s
some
good news, Gene,” the disk jockey said.

“That DJ’s got community spirit,” Homer said, snapping off the radio. “Also a nice rack. I see her around the dealership now and then. She drives a Lexus, the station leases it. She’s married, but her husband’s a real schmuck. Guy runs the station’s probably banging her.”

Homer broke off, wrestling the Rivolta around a cab waiting to make a left against traffic. Deal heard horns blare behind them.

“You’re going to get us pulled over,” Deal called from the back seat.

“Stop worrying,” Homer said. “You think a Miami cop gives a shit about traffic violations? Get real.”

Deal felt another lurch as they swung back into the left lane. More horns behind them.

“Highway patrol pulled me over on the expressway one time, though. What he tells me is, the car was ‘moving erratically.’ Besides, it was dark and he couldn’t see anybody behind the wheel. He thought maybe the driver had a heart attack or something.”

Homer hit the brakes suddenly and Deal had to brace himself. Homer levered himself up on the seat with his elbow and looked back at Deal, his face going pink with the exertion.

“So anyway he puts his flashlight in my face to see if I’m plowed, you know, and this guy, who is clearly no Sherlock Holmes, finally notices there’s a broad in there with me, got her head in my lap, right?”

They pulled away from the light with a squeal of tires, and Deal slid back against the seat. “Christ, Homer. Why don’t we just call the station house, turn me in?”

“Tricky clutch, that’s all,” Homer said. “Lot of horses up front. What would you guess they put under the hood?”

“I don’t know, Homer. It’s not my car.”

“Great. Do a guy, steal a car, that’s a hell of a day. Too bad the banks are already closed, you could go for the hat trick.”

“It’s not funny, Homer,” Deal said. The car made a hard right, then bumped over something and it was suddenly dark inside the Rivolta.

“Covered parking,” Homer said. “One of the attractive features of life at the Shabby Arms.”

They squealed up a couple of ramps and finally pulled to a stop. Homer levered himself up on the seat again and glanced around outside. “It’s okay,” he said, finally.

Deal followed after him into the stairwell, which stank of urine and other, unidentifiable odors. “Only four flights up,” Homer assured him, moving into a kind of gallop that Deal had trouble keeping up with. His knee was still a little tender, but he suspected he’d have trouble staying even with Homer even if it weren’t.

At the door marked Six, with
Seis
scrawled under it in magic marker, Homer motioned Deal to wait, then poked his head out into the corridor.

Abruptly Homer stopped. “Christ, officer, don’t shoot!” he cried, throwing up his hands. “He’s right in here.”

Deal stood frozen. Homer turned to him with a manic smile on his face.

“Just kidding,” he said. He pushed the door open on an empty hallway.

“Hilarious,” Deal said, his heart pounding.

He followed Homer down a hallway that was even stuffier than the stairwell. There were graffiti scrawled along the walls, as mystifying as cave paintings, a carpet that had once been a green shag, an odor of mildew adding to the ripe musk of the air. Breathe this a few hours a day, maybe you’d turn out like Homer, Deal thought.

At the end of the hallway, Homer worked two keys, then let them into his place. Deal felt air-conditioning rush over him and took his first deep breath since he’d left the Rivolta. He followed Homer in, stepped aside as the door swung shut.

More surprises. A tidy efficiency, dishes stacked neatly at a drainboard, a couple of sling chairs, a futon bed beneath a pair of windows that gave a view north and east over Biscayne and out to the bay where the running lights of boats were beginning to glow in the dusk.

Deal became aware of a pink light pulsing on the rear wall of the apartment. He turned to Homer who pointed out one of the windows.

“Coppertone Girl’s right outside,” he said. “We’re right about bare-ass level on the big sign. Wanna look?” Homer went to throw the window up.

“I want to use the phone, Homer.”

Homer turned, clearly disappointed. He pulled the window closed, brought Deal a phone from a concrete block that sat as a table beside the futon.

Deal punched in Cal’s number, and waited. After the fourth ring, a man’s voice answered. Familiar, but not quite right.

“Cal?” Deal said, uncertain.

“This isn’t Cal,” the voice said. “Who’s this?”

Deal took a breath. “I must have dialed the wrong number.”

“You got the right number,” the voice cut in. “This is Vernon Driscoll, Metro Dade Police. Who am I talking to?”

Deal felt an unreasoning dread sweep over him. “It’s Deal,” he said. His voiced seemed almost a whisper. “John Deal,” he repeated. “What’s wrong?”

“Where are you, Deal?” Driscoll’s voice had lost the kindly undertone Deal remembered from the night before. Had it only been last night? It seemed like a century ago.

Deal felt as if a huge wave were rolling toward him, its crest about to come crashing down. The light was nearly gone outside. The ocean was slate gray all the way out to an even darker horizon. Deal watched the pink glow from the Coppertone girl paint and unpaint the windowsill in front of him.

“Where’s Cal?” he said, dread filling him. “What’s happened to Cal?” Homer had punched on a tiny black-and-white television he kept on his dinette table, was flipping around the dial. When he registered Deal’s tone, he turned to stare. Driscoll’s voice was muffled now, as if he had covered the receiver, was shouting to someone at the other end of the line. Could they trace this call somehow?

Abruptly, Driscoll came back. “Somebody beat him to death, Deal. Then, just to be sure, they set him on fire.”

Deal felt himself go numb. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s real pretty up here, Deal.” Driscoll’s voice was angry now. Accusing. “I’d like to talk to you about some things, okay? Including a tip from a concerned citizen who says you’re the one who tore up Surf Motors last night. Why don’t we set up a place to meet.”

Deal steadied himself against the windowsill. Homer shot him a worried look, hurried over with one of the chairs from the dinette. “Cal? Is he all right?”

“Just tell me where you are,” Driscoll was saying. “I’ll send somebody for you.”

Deal sagged into the chair. “I can’t do that right now,” he said. They had come to Cal’s looking for him. That’s what it was. “Process of elimination,” as Cal had said. Some irony. Poor Cal. And all because of Deal, as surely as if he’d shoved him out in front of that big, runaway truck.

“Suppose you tell me why not?” Driscoll’s voice brought him back.

He could meet with Driscoll, explain it all. Tell him who killed Penfield, who killed Cal. Sure. And while they were dragging him to his cell he could tell him where the Easter Bunny lived too. He stared across the room vacantly. Homer was in the kitchenette, rooting through the refrigerator for something.