Only Make Believe (11 page)

“You think the tires were stolen?”

“Next question.”

“You didn’t know Mr. DiGennaro personally, sir?”

“Not really. My kid brother’s in the Scouts. So’s the DiGennaro boy, or he was, though not in the same troop. I helped set up a spring-break Scout camp in 1948. Nick gave us part of the start-up money we needed, in cash, by the way. The next year, he donated a very snazzy Old Town war canoe. Turns out he actually knew how to paddle the thing. Taught the boys the strokes, spent a week out in the swamp with us—was one of exactly two dads that contributed money as well as sweat. The boys seemed to feel right at home with him.”

Sounded like an OK guy to me. “So who didn’t trust him besides your mom?”

“There was a lot of talk about a shipment of paper that got diverted late in 1944, for instance. Couple of freight cars disappeared from the loading dock at the
Tampa Tribune
. The cars later turned up empty, on a siding down in Immokalee. The rolls of newsprint ended up in Miami, in a warehouse owned by the
Miami News
. DiGennaro showed the newsprint buyer a bill of sale from a Canadian broker. There was a war on. And the
Miami News
sure wasn’t going to investigate its own black market dealings.”

“From pirated paper to school books,” Bud said.

“And Firestone tires to gum erasers and wholesale school supplies,” Yeomans answered. “DiGennaro and Company eventually built up a five-county monopoly in textbook sales. And that’s why Nick DiGennaro wasn’t Bradenton’s best loved guy.”

“He pirated school books?”

“He was from out of town—up north someplace. The local competition, Sterling Books, was an old-line, family business. Nick ran the owners into the sand. Hired their best people and cut prices. Broke ’em just like we broke the Japs. Somebody decided to pay him back. That would be my bet.”

Next I phoned Ted Peters, my high school principal, the man who recommended me for a scholarship to the University of Florida. Tampa Information listed a Theodore Peters Jr. I put in a call to that number and got Ted’s daughter-in-law. She told me the old man was now retired and living in Naples, south of Myers. She added that he was always glad to hear from former students.

When I called the Naples number, Ted’s wife answered. Though she didn’t remember my name, she said Ted would be happy to see me.

“I’d put him on the phone but he’s deaf as an old pine log,” she said, whispering as if perhaps she felt that somehow he
could
hear her words. “He reads lips, though. His sight’s fine. So you’ll need to either write him a letter or come visit.”

I arranged to drive down the next day.

Carmen and Brian had almost finished their annotated list of Sunday night guests and staff.

“With your permission, we can cross off the Sloan twins,” Brian said. “I gave Mr. Tim his Swedish massage as scheduled, in the locker room an hour ago. He brought up the commotion last night, ambulance and all, said it woke him and Mr. Todd, too. When I explained about the Diva, Mr. Tim he said, ‘Aw, Christ, the guy with the dress on?’ When I said, ‘Yeah,’ he sort of laughed and said that he and his brother accidentally tried to make time with her. Said his brother drove up here from Marco on Saturday, they played golf Saturday and Sunday and they were back at the hotel before dark Sunday night, hungry as bears. They had a few drinks first. In the dining room, Carmen seated them by the window, next to Miss Diva.”

“A
ménage
not made in heaven,” I said.

“Mr. Tim claims she flirted and preened like Jane Russell. The twins sent her a drink and tried to move in. Bam-bam-bam, she gave them the finger.”

I found Tim Sloan on a barstool in the club. He not only confirmed Brian’s account, he added tasty details.

“Hey, we’re all fun-loving guys, right? The Caloosa—what you see here, stays here, right? Top secret.”

“That about covers it. And you don’t think the Diva knew the score?”

“The Diva, huh? Figures. Got a mouth, that’s for sure.”

I asked what he meant.

“Hey, I can laugh about it now. Hell of a thing, though, to get fooled like that. Disgusting, now I think about it. She—he, whatever—looked like a lady out for a good time. We didn’t say anything bad, no insults or cheap talk, just something like, Madam, do you have plans for this evening, another cocktail perhaps, what about a two-for-one deal later on, hey hey? And she played along, told us some pretty lies. But then Todd leaned down, sniffed her perfume and noticed the shaved neck and chin.
She
noticed, gave him kind of a funny look. And she drew back and said, ‘Why don’t you pervert doll-babies go play with each other and quit breaking my nuts?’”

“Jesus. I’m sorry you had to take that. He was way out of line.”

“Forget it. Classic twisted fantasy. People imagine that identical twins can’t get enough of each other. But most people don’t say it, not to our faces.”

“Look,” I said. “This should not have happened. Let me arrange a date with a genuine, one-hundred percent, real girl for tonight. I’d be happy to do that. On the house. I don’t want you leaving here feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable. If your brother wants to drive back up, I’d be glad to include a girl for him, too. Separate rooms or however you like.”

“You are one slick rascal,” Sloan replied. “Nothing fazes you, does it?”

I shrugged. “My boss wants this matter cleared up fast.”

Tim Sloan lifted his drink. “Bastard could put on an act. That’s for sure. Here’s to him—or her? To the Diva.”

“And tonight?”

“I’ll phone my brother and let you know.”

Bud was waiting in my office, clipboard in hand. I locked the door and we moved into each other’s arms.

“Hell of a long day so far,” he finally whispered. “And don’t none of it make sense—starting with suspects one and two, Junior and his mama. Seemed like their minds was more concerned with Daddy’s reputation, and what he was wearing, than the fact that he got kicked and beat to death.”

“He fooled the Sloan twins,” I said. Maybe the Diva fooled his own family about a lot of things.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’re right, Junior wasn’t lying. He did know something about the Caloosa. Come to find out he put in a call to the department this morning. What with his daddy dead and all, they put him right through to the boss. Junior told him the Caloosa’s a whore house—he used a different word—and that we’re breaking the blue laws serving liquor on Sundays. Sheriff thanked him for the information, told him he was sorry to hear about his daddy and advised him to grow up. Telling me about it, the boss laughed it off. I ain’t so sure.”

“Teenage imagination? Kids will say anything?”

“More like throwing sand in the gears. Don’t know why yet. But I’m betting we’ll be able to place him here last night. Something like this: Boy got drunked up, lost control and beat his Daddy to a pulp.”

The image of Chuck as a teenage Ensign Rizzo crossed my mind again, stronger than ever. “I can’t see it. Not that boy. He’s no killer.”

“OK, say it was the wife running the hit. How could any woman do that to a man she’s married to? How could somebody, anybody, make love with a man, make a life together, have kids even—and then arrange to get his face kicked in?”

“Maybe love past-tense, Sarge. Maybe the dresses were the last straw. Somebody once said that love can turn to hate on a dime.”

“Not on my dime, Lieutenant,” Bud whispered. “Lemme hold you ten dollars’ worth.”

“Umm, feels good, Mr. Rockefeller. But maybe we ought to get some supper first?”

He reached down and touched the front of my pants. “This’ll be my appetizer. And these.”

I kissed him hard and deep. His big hands cupped my butt. Our tented trousers brushed. I figured supper could wait.

And then the phone rang. I picked it up without thinking.

“Boss,” Phil said. “We got two more problems.”

“Shoot.”

“Number one, we’re missing a key to room 522. Unless the police has got it.”

I turned to Bud. “Did you take a second room key into evidence?” He shook his head.

“Number two, you in your office? You better come upstairs, see this. Same room. Seems like we got another little problem. I’m calling from the hall phone.”

Bud and I took the fire stairs. Phil was waiting outside 522. On each side of the door, rough crosses had been drawn using blood-red lipstick. The same paint had been used on the door, spelling out the phrase “1 more dead faggit” and, below that, like a signature, the letters “KKK.”

“What the hell?” Bud’s face had gone pale for the second time in twenty-four hours. “Who’s been up here?”

Phil coughed out what must have been a tired, exasperated laugh. I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept. “You took your uniformed guard off the room once the doc finished up. Could be anybody.”

Bud was unwilling to take that hit. “Goddamn it, this is still the scene of a bad, serious crime. We can’t just let people wander up here. Like it was a five-and-dime store.”

You’re the house dick,
I thought, aware that the thought itself amounted to disloyalty, knowing we needed to stick together.
They’re after us. You’ve got to protect us, Bud.
I could see how shaken he was, and how hard he was working to hide it. I wanted to reach out and squeeze his shoulder, comfort him, tell him we’d get it all solved, case closed, in no time. With Phil standing there, of course I did none of these.

“What about we go talk to the elevator operator?” Phil suggested.

“Right. Yes. Go find him. Bring him up here. And the maid on the floor.”

Phil took off.

“Right now, I got to get Doc or somebody over here with a camera. Document this.” Bud was talking half to himself.

“Do you think the lipstick could be traced?”

“Possible. The FBI might could do that. Never heard of nothing like that down here.”

I made what was intended as a little joke. “We’ll keep our eyes peeled for that shade of lipstick on every woman that comes in here. Maybe do a search of ladies’ pocketbooks and makeup kits.”

Bud didn’t laugh, merely grunted, then cursed.

“What, Sarge?”

“The Diva wasn’t no lady. And I don’t think we got no members here that’s Klanners. Or staff, I wouldn’t think. Aw fuck. Fuck.”

“Relax, it’s been a long day. And—”

“And it just got longer.”

I studied the defaced door. “We can narrow down the list of suspects a bit, I’d say.”

“How’s that?”

“Have to be somebody that’s no good at spelling.”

“Huh?”

“F-A-G-G-I-T. It’s misspelled.”

Bud took a breath, almost said one thing, then evidently changed his mind, muttering, “Well, I wouldn’t know.” I tried to touch his side. He backed away. “We got work to do. None of that now. I’m OK.”

“OK, then call about getting a camera man over here,” I said. “I’ll stand guard.”

We worked another five hours. No one we talked to admitted seeing anybody near room 522. The maid volunteered that the shade of lipstick was a common one, most often used by older white ladies. One of Bud’s FBI contacts agreed to run the lipstick through their lab if we airmailed a sample to Washington.

Bud finally drove back to the rooming house to shower and change clothes. He fell asleep on the sofa, he told me later, listening to war news from Korea. He slept clear through to dawn.

Horny, frustrated and fearing more trouble to come, I hardly slept at all.

Mr. Patt Cope, the Caloosa’s on-call beautician, had been present at the creation. I figured he must know details about Diva that Bud and I didn’t. I visited his downtown shop, Tropi-Klips
Salon de Beauté
,
on Tuesday morning. I didn’t make an appointment. I hoped to catch him off guard.

Plump and dark, with nervous hazel eyes, clear-lacquered nails, narrow moustache and thick, black hair piled high, Pompadour style, Mr. Patt looked a few years past thirty. He wore a white Nylon barber’s coat over shoulders wider than his hips, dark trousers, heavy gold rings and snakeskin cowboy boots with sharply pointed toes.

“Poor Miss—Miss-ter DiGennaro. You could have knocked me over with this nail file when I heard what happened.” Mr. Patt dropped the file into a metal basin filled with ammonia water. “I gather he was rich and married? But aren’t they all?”

“Are they?” I knew some were. I’d slept with a dozen married, nominally heterosexual men back in Occupied Japan, twice for money. I shrugged. “We don’t have many club members with Mr. DiGennaro’s special requirements. Drags, costume balls—people usually go to Miami or New York for that.”

“Do they?” Mr. Patt caught my eye. An eyebrow arched protectively. “This was Nick’s second visit, I believe. And his second appearance incognito. Or that’s what Carmen told me.”