Hot Rocks (10 page)

twenty-two

“Okay, I’ll call you
Bob, Albert, or Harold. I’ll even call you Rumpelstiltskin if you like. Frankly, at this point, I don’t give a damn what your name is. Forget I asked. But I demand to know what you are. When we met, you sounded like a …” I swallowed the rest of my words.

He let me flounder for a moment while sipping his beer, then said, “Like a bum. Is that what you were going to say? And, of course, in your saying it, you really mean an
un
-person. Right?”

Again, he had me. This had to stop. “Bob, or whatever your name is, let’s get to the point. Do you have information for me?”

“If you mean the identity of the woman in the picture, yes.” He leaned forward and placed both hands, palms down, on the table. “However, I’m thinking you need help. You have a personal, not professional, interest in finding her. For example, the car that almost ran you down. It was no accident it came so close. You only survived because when she jumped the curb, it redirected her away from you a bit. That was more of a personal attack than a professional one. Also, I see pain behind your inquiry. What is it? Knowing the truth might affect the price of the information.”

I was flabbergasted. What had happened to the faceless, invisible, homeless man I met? This man was a force, a man who read me like a well-written newspaper. I was almost afraid to question him anymore. He might tell me about my nights dreaming of David. A shift in strategy was demanded.

“Bob, you’re perpetuating a scam on society. You’re not homeless, are you? If you are, it’s by choice, not necessity. Why are you selling papers in the street?”

He smiled and did a palms-up gesture. “Why do you ask? Have I suddenly developed a face?”

I hated his smirk. “Yes, dammit, and it’s one that’s pissing me off.”

“Good. But since that’s not my intent, we’ll move on.” He swiveled toward the bar. “Judy. Bring me that paper I asked you to keep, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stared at him again, questions and doubts swirling through my mind.

Meanwhile, Judy approached us, carrying a newspaper. “Here it is.” She laid it on the table and walked away.

Bob flipped it open and spun it toward me. “There she is.”

I looked. There was a picture of a woman. It wasn’t quite like I remembered her, but close enough. It was either my Ms. Garcia or an identical twin. The caption read,
Hit-and-run victim identified as Deborah Ann Goldstein.

I stared, not wanting to believe. I zeroed in on a section circled in red.

The hit-and-run victim killed Friday evening has been identified as Deborah Ann Goldstein of Deerfield Beach. Ms. Goldstein, age 43, was struck while crossing Hillsboro Boulevard. Her body was thrown 25 feet before hitting a royal palm tree. Paramedics said she was dead on contact. She has no known relatives in the area.

There was more to the article, but my eyes had quit focusing. I had already learned more than I wanted to know. My Ms. Garcia was dead. It was a strange time for it to happen, but the problem with my police sketch, the one that had nagged at me since my friend finished it, became clear. Ms. Garcia did not look Latino—not in the slightest.

My face must have reflected my disappointment because Bob reached across the table and laid his hand over mine. “Tell me what’s happening. Maybe I can help.”

I blew up. “Help? Help? How the hell are you going to help? This bitch,” I pointed at the picture, “set me up for murder. And she was my only lead to prove I didn’t do it. Are you some damn high-powered lawyer masquerading as a bum? Where’d you hang your shingle, under a bridge?”

He leaned back and grinned as I continued to rant. I don’t remember everything I said, but it didn’t wipe the patient look off his face. That just made me madder. Within minutes, I didn’t know who I was madder at—him, Ms. Garcia-Goldstein, or my predicament. If I’d been at home alone, I might have broken out in tears of frustration. But with Bob across from me, I wasn’t about to let it happen. Not sure how long I went on, but finally, I blew myself out and wilted.

“Is she okay?” Judy said. “Can I get you something, ma’am?”

I hadn’t heard her approach, but I’d been so loud the fire department could have driven old number one through the place, and I probably wouldn’t have known it. However, the
ma’am
following her question did little to improve my disposition. “I’m not your ma’am. I’m—” I couldn’t continue. From her age, mid-twenties at the oldest, I probably did look like a ma’am, a shriveled up, blue-haired ma’am in need of a walker. “I’m sorry, Judy. I’m just a bit upset. I’ll be fine.” Someone inside me added, “Bring me a beer. One of those will do.” I pointed toward Bob’s Killian’s.

“Yes, ma’am.” She disappeared toward the bar, a smile plastering her face.

“Have you finished blowing off steam?” Bob said. “If you have, maybe we can figure out what to do. All I know is a woman you wanted to find is dead. If you read the rest of the article, it says the police have no leads, no description of the vehicle that hit her.” He sighed. “Not like my day when folks stepped up to help solve crimes. But we must deal with what we have. Want to tell me the parts of the story that happened before I entered the scene?”

Judy appeared beside the table with my beer and a frozen mug. She repeated the salt on napkin routine, then poured the beer. Before she set it down, she showed it to Bob, pride on her face. “No head. Just like you taught me.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s more difficult than it looks. Bob says it’s the mark of a good bartender—knowing how to pour a beer without letting all the fizz out.” She set it in front of me and said to Bob, “I’ll get you another. Then I’ll make myself scarce. Looks like you’re having a business conference.”

Bob patted her arm. “Thank you, Judy. You’re very perceptive.”

“Hold it with the bullshit,” I said. “What’s with the salt? Why’d you salt our napkins?”

She looked at Bob and grinned. “He taught me that, too. You see, if you sprinkle some salt on the napkin before you set a frozen mug on it, it won’t stick to the mug. And the mug doesn’t drip on you either. That’s what Bob said, and it works.”

I must have looked pretty dumb because they enjoyed a communal laugh as she walked away.

twenty-three

While I sat, feeling
like the sidekick in an old western, a revelation hit me. I looked first at Bob, then toward Judy’s retreating back as she swished away from us. “Bobby’s Bar. Bob. The way she treats you,” I said, confidence building with each word. “This is your place, isn’t it?”

Bob glanced toward Judy, then back at the table, and sighed. After what appeared to be a moment of reflection, he said, “I suppose you’ll dig at it until you come up with the truth, so I may as well lay it out. Yes, I’m the Bob of Bobby’s Bar. Guilty as charged. But I hope you’ll keep my secret. In return, I’ll look into your case and, with my contacts and vantage point, we just might discover what’s going on around you. At least, it won’t hurt to try.”

I let the clock tick a couple of minutes while I wrestled with what I was hearing. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost control and was now a pawn on Bob’s chessboard. He was ambushing me with ease, while the best I could do was castle to move my king out of his queen’s attack. But that was about to come to a screeching halt.

“Ms. Garcia is dead, Bob. That means I don’t need you or anything from you. And about all your report is worth is the beer you’re drinking.” I fumbled in my purse and came out with a twenty that I dropped on the table. “I’ve had enough of your games. You’ve had about all the fun with me you’re going to have.” I stood, ready to walk away.

“Hold on, missy. You’re right. But you’re also wrong. I can help you. And for some strange reason I don’t understand, I want to help. First time I’ve felt this way in a long time.” He paused and sipped his beer. “I have to admit, it feels pretty good. Allow me to start with an explanation. If you’ll sit back down and finish your brew, I’ll give you an abbreviated version of Bob Sandiford’s life.”

I glared at him, then settled into the booth. “It better be good.”

He raked his hands over his face, then leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “It starts a long time ago, a time when I had the best that life has to offer—a wonderful family and a job I enjoyed. My wife, June, was gorgeous, loving, loyal, and a marvelous mother. I worshipped her. Every day I wondered why she picked me from all the men she could have had. We had one child, an eleven-year-old daughter. I know every father thinks he has the perfect daughter, but in my case, it was true. Samantha was smart, pretty, talented, popular … a bright future ahead of her. Everything a man could hope for. My job? I was in my early thirties at the time, but was already a vice-president in my bank. The world was flush for me, the sky the only limit.”

His face went somber as he paused, visibly swallowing. I sat frozen, feeling as if he were reaching deep inside himself to tell his story.

He focused tear-filled eyes on me. “Then the bottom fell out. In one brief instant, everything collapsed. I was working late, and my wife and daughter were coming home from ballet practice. Samantha had the lead in an abbreviated version of
The Nutcracker.”
He smiled a sad smile. “She was so graceful.” He turned his head and rubbed his eyes, then took a deep breath. “A drunk driver crossed the centerline and hit them head-on. June and Samantha were killed instantly—or that’s what the doctors said. I can only pray they didn’t suffer. The funerals were closed casket.

“Can you imagine what that did to me? I lost my reasons for success. I lost the reasons for staying alive. The glitter, the shine was gone from everything I saw. Oh, I stayed on the job for another year, but I knew I was just going through the motions. I had no heart for it. And going home to that empty house every evening was agony.”

Bob stared at me, a plaintive look on his face. “I hope you never go through the kind of loss I felt. I hope no one does.” He paused again, then continued, “After about a year, I knew it was over, life was not worth continuing as I’d known it. I liquidated everything and moved to Florida. I wanted to get away, to escape anything that reminded me of what I had been, what I lost. I quit running when I reached Boca, bought the bar, and converted a storage room to my master suite.” He chuckled a sad chuckle. “Some suite. A twelve by twelve block room with no window. However, it did connect to the original restroom. I added a shower, and with that done, became a drunken bartender. I opened the bar at three, then drank all night and slept all day. Eating became an accident that occurred when severe hunger drove me to it. My solace was in a bottle.

“Now, don’t think I drank alone. That’s the sign of an alcoholic, isn’t it?” He gave what appeared to be a forced smile. “Well, that’s what I told myself during the few moments when I was lucid enough to think about it. I drank with my customers. Didn’t matter who they were, I’d match them drink for drink. My place became a watering hole for husbands on the way home from work. They’d stop in to let the rush hour traffic die down, and I’d have whatever they ordered.” He stared toward the bar. “Husbands and fathers sat on those stools, sharing their familial happiness with me. Every one of them broke my heart into smaller pieces. It got to the point I’d hang out the closed sign if I saw one of them pulling into the parking lot. I couldn’t take it.

“But I had one customer I liked, one who was as sad as I, a homeless
bum
. He called himself Jupiter. Said he liked being the biggest something, even if it was only a planet no one knew much about. He sold papers on the corner down the street, the same one I use now. I don’t know much about him, and he didn’t know much about me. We respected one another’s privacy. We didn’t need to pry, we had a common friend—booze. Didn’t matter what kind. Beer, wine, whiskey. We shared it all. Whatever my hand settled on was what we had. We bonded through our misery and our love of the empty-mindedness of being drunk.” Bob stopped talking, lowered his head, and held his face in his left hand.

I could see pain etched across his forehead. This was not the man I met. This wasn’t even the man I spoke to moments ago. This was a man baring his soul to me. My intuition said he needed to finish the story, needed to use it as a cleansing. I couldn’t tell if I was the first person he’d told it to, but I felt he shouldn’t stop. “Bob,” I said in a soft voice. “What happened next? How did you get yourself sober?”

He looked at me, then took a deep breath. “One night, it was July thirteenth, actually more like early the fourteenth. As usual, Jupiter and I drank ourselves into a stupor. At some point—I was too far gone to know—he left the bar. The police investigation said he staggered into the path of an SUV. Since it was after two a.m., and traffic was light, the vehicle was moving fast. Jupiter was dead before his body quit bouncing—much like your Ms. Garcia.”

He stopped and wiped a hand across his eyes. “I didn’t find out until the next day. I woke with my head resting on the bar, a whiskey bottle turned on its side, my sleeve soaked with the liquor, and my head pounding. After a little of the hair of the dog, I noticed a note. It was from the police and said I should contact them when I sobered up. Later, I discovered they had canvassed the neighborhood, found my front door unlocked, and me passed out. They said they were unable to wake me so they left the note. That’s how I found out my only friend was dead—dead because of me, because of my drinking. Again, I’d lost the person closest to me.”

He paused, straightened his shoulders, and seemed to grow an inch or two. “I took that as a wake-up call. I knew I had to get my life back on track, or people who cared about me would continue to die. So, I buried Jupiter, shook off the booze, and pledged my life to his memory.”

He raised his hands, his palms open to me. “That’s it. That’s the sorry life story of Bob Sandiford. Not very pretty, is it?”

I took his right hand between mine. “I’m so sorry. I can feel your pain. No man should ever have to go through what happened to you.”

“Many people go through worse and don’t fall apart,” he said. “There are so many horrific stories out there.”

“Yes. I suppose there are. But you still haven’t explained why you’re fooling society, why you’re making the world think you’re homeless.”

“You’ll never understand, but I’ll try.” He sat for a moment, appearing deep in thought. “No, I can’t find the words. Just accept that it’s something I promised Jupiter.”

His failure to explain made me wonder if this was another charade, another attempt at jerking me around. “Then why did you tell me your story? What’s your gimmick?”

He shifted on the cushion and scratched his scalp. “Nothing I can explain. Again, I find myself at a loss for words. All I can say is your problem has affected me like Jupiter did. For one of the few times since my family died, something interests me. That something is your situation.”

I lifted my mug, realizing I had emptied it while Bob told his story. I didn’t remember a single sip. That was an indicator of how engrossed I was in his words. Despite my earlier reservations, respect for him flowed into me. This man with so much pain in his background was sharing with me. I was convinced. For something to do, I signaled Judy to bring another round, but Bob waved his off. “I’m buying,” I said.

“Two is my limit.” His eyes focused on a place far beyond me. “Those were my last words to Jupiter as they lowered his casket. I promised I’d clean up and sober up. No more than two a day, no matter what the occasion.” He took a deep breath. “There are days when it’s hard to live up to that oath, but I do it. I do it for him and for me. Now, do you want my help?”

With no hesitation whatsoever, I said, “I’d be honored,” and reached across the table, hand extended.

He grinned and shook it. “Okay, partner. How about you start by telling me why you were chasing this dame? The whole story this time.”

“She set me up …” I gave him a condensed version of what transpired from the time I received the phone call from the alleged Maria Garcia until I met him that afternoon.

When I finished, he nodded. “Sounds like something you’d see in a movie—if I went to movies. Of course, her being dead doesn’t help us any.” He toyed with his beer bottle for a moment, peeling the label with his thumb nail. “Hillsboro Boulevard, Deerfield Beach. I’ll put out the word. There are homeless all over the area. Maybe one of them saw something—something they’d never tell a cop. You’d be amazed what we see and keep to ourselves. Saves a lot of hassle.”

“Good. While you do that, I’ll make contact with the detectives who put me on their short list. The communities here in Florida are so close together, they must know someone in Deerfield Beach. If we’re lucky, her hit-and-run is solved, and the driver is confessing to multiple crimes, including the death of Jacobs.” I took my cell phone from my purse.

“Make your calls. I’ll use street commo.” He pushed out of the booth and took a couple of steps.

“Wait,” I said. “I owe you—the reward, remember?”

He chuckled. “Maybe I’m getting a bigger reward than either of us figured on. But you can pay for the beer. Oh, and leave Judy a nice tip. She’s really a sweetheart.” He paused. “There is one other thing though. Keep my secret. I like the life I lead. If the word gets out, I’ll have to change it.”

“I will.”

He crossed the room and exited through the front door.