Only Make Believe (13 page)

News-Press
reporter Ralph Nype had left a series of increasingly urgent phone messages for me. I scanned the paper before calling him back. The squib was buried on page six. Nype, it seemed, had taken my misleading remarks at face value and done no follow-up reporting.

Riverside Ruckus
— Violence broke out at a downtown hotel early Monday. Two guests came to blows according to inside sources. One man was taken to Lee Memorial by ambulance. His sparring partner remains at large. Hospital and police officials withheld comment pending further developments. No charges have been filed.

Nick DiGennaro died a good twelve hours before the paper’s evening deadline. Nype missed reporting it. No wonder he wanted to talk to me. I caught him at his desk in the newsroom. He opened without preliminaries.

“You double-crossing son of a shit-can. My editor’s on the carpet in the publisher’s office over this.”

“Hold it, Ralphie. We talked very early yesterday morning and—”

“Don’t Ralphie me, mister. I barely missed getting the boot, thanks to you. I won’t forget this.”

“When we talked the gentleman was very much alive.”

“He was corned beef hash and you knew it. Beaten to a pulp. Coroner’s engaged in what looks like a murder investigation. Your jarhead buddy, the detective, he’s all over the map but don’t have a clue as to who—”

“Now, wait a minute.”

“You eff-ing wait a minute. Just because I come around your place and socialize once in a while and keep it off the record, that doesn’t mean we have to turn a blind eye to what’s going on.”

“You’re the reporter, Ralph. You knew an ambulance was involved—remember you told me that? Did you check with the hospital or sheriff’s department later in the day? For new developments?”

He paused. “I trusted you,” he finally said. “I trusted you and now we find out there was something funny about this Mr. DiAngelo.”

“DiGennaro, Nicholas C.”

“Can you spell that? Thanks.”

“You’ve got a story to write,” I continued. “I can’t tell you how to do your job. But you may want to look into Mr. DiGennaro’s reputation up in Bradenton, where he lived. He was a leading citizen, had a lot of powerful associates, or so I understand. Wife, two kids, successful businessman, Boy Scout leader, church choir, patron of the opera and so forth. Ought to make quite an impressive obituary.”

Nype knew my taste for hyperbole and wasn’t easily put off. “Caloosa Club’s no church social. We understand the man was wearing some kind of costume. Can you fill me in on that—give me the straight scoop, not some hooey?”

“You were in the same room with him, Ralph. An eyewitness. You didn’t see him?”

“I was playing cards. You know that. You got my twenty dollars. And I didn’t see anybody in costume.”

“Then you’d better ask Detective Wright or Doc Shepherd about it. If this really is a murder investigation, they’ll probably want to keep certain details confidential.”

“Who was the other guest in the fight? Was he in costume, too?”

“Same answer, Ralph. My hands are tied.”

“There’s other places I can spend my time, you know. The
News-Press
is the tribune of the people.”

Not so many places where you can eat and drink free,
I thought,
with an occasional fuck on the house when your wife’s out of town.

“The people of Lee are entitled to know what goes on behind locked doors. Even at private clubs. Do you get my drift?”

“Listen up, Ralph. I’m your friend. Take my advice.”

“Tribune of the people, Dan.”

“It’s possible that Mr. DiGennaro had powerful enemies. You better watch yourself.”

“Get to the point.”

“This looks like a professional job. DiGennaro may have made the wrong people mad.”

“You mean, rubbed out? Like, by the Mafia?”

“It’s possible. One of my contacts suggested organized crime could be involved. He might be wrong. But if I were you, I’d want to be careful what I printed. Until I was sure of my facts. Because I wouldn’t want to make the same people mad. And get my nuts kicked up my butt hole.”

I could practically hear Nype’s nuts draw up tight, seeking protection, dimpled walnuts between two hollow logs.

“I see what you mean,” he finally said. “Getting the facts is important. I better make a few more calls.”

Bud had visited the Lee County School Board while I was in Naples. He slipped into my office toward the end of the conversation with Nype.

“The Lee purchasing agent was sorely disappointed to hear about DiGennaro,” Bud said once I’d put down the phone. “I have to guess their meeting would of involved more than a handshake and lunch.”

“Hey, Sarge, no graft in this town.”

Bud shot me a look. “See, the entire textbook list for Lee public schools is drawn from what purchasing agent Larry Abney calls the southeastern register of recommended curriculum materials. The state of Florida belongs to some kind of southern education association that reviews and approves textbooks and study guides. Systems have some choice in the individual books they buy, but not much choice in what they teach.”

“We wouldn’t want the children of Florida knowing about Darwin and Evolution, would we?”

Bud cocked his head.

“Or that colored people can vote in California and Illinois—and send their kids to the same schools as white people?”

“Right. Yes. That must be it—but teach ’em how Christ and his apostles was the founding members of the KKK.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth. “You know, even the Florida guard is changing. We got a colored sergeant now. He just transferred in, was in Korea up to last month, brought home a silver star. A lot of the men don’t like it. Back before President Truman started integrating the military, the man’d of been in some kind of all-colored unit. Or just a mess cook.”

“So you think your Mr. Abney expected a payoff? Why? If he has no choice in what they force-feed Lee pupils?”

“School supplies—paper, pencils, erasers, ditto machines, grade books, paperclips, typewriters—that’s got to come from somewhere. DiGennaro and Company held contracts for all of it.”

“Sweet. Not that Abney’d admit any such thing.”

“I didn’t put his feet to the fire. He was clear enough. Told me about an incident during the war, a well-founded rumor, he said. Had to do with a Navy lieutenant commander temporarily reporting to the bureau of yards and docks detachment up at Port Tampa. The officer happened to meet an expensive Atlanta hooker who happened to be staying at the same Tampa hotel. A Miami Beach photographer happened to take some artistic snapshots through a peephole, shots that the officer’s wife might not have liked to see. Meanwhile, a shipload of truck tires for the Army got lost somehow—disappeared, vanished, off the books, vessel left Norfolk full, docked at Port Tampa empty. DiGennaro later sold a similar number of tires to a broker in Havana. Had papers stating the tires came from Brazil. The ship captain lost his license. The lieutenant commander and the hooker each walked away with enough money to pay their rent for a year. The switch didn’t get pinned on our man DiGennaro, but Abney swears it should have, and everybody knew it.”

“Very slick. Presumably he used that kind of money to jump into the textbook trade and buy an expensive canoe for the Scouts.”

“Right. Yes. That and the proceeds from that hijacked newsprint Captain Yeomans mentioned. Stands to reason.”

“I don’t suppose your Mr. Abney admitted any personal knowledge of payoffs by DiGennaro.”

“Like I said, I went easy on the man. He told me plenty. If anything else points his way, don’t you worry, I’ll talk to him a little harder.”

“Bust his balls for him, huh, tough guy?”

Bud reached inside his jacket and drew out two sheets of hotel stationary. The holstered automatic under his arm flashed dully. “We got a handful of other balls to bust first. This here’s Carmen’s and Brian’s lists of everybody who had contact with DiGennaro. You want to help with the legwork?”

“Legs, balls, cock, whatever you desire, Sarge.”

He winked and unfolded the lists. “We’ll work on them parts later, Lieutenant. Maybe have us a little give and take session ourselves one day. At the moment, though, I got to head up to Bradenton. So why don’t you start working down the list of people you know best?”

He bent forward and ruffled my hair. I pulled him close and kissed him hard.

“You’re the one I know best, Sarge.”

He pulled my ear, stepped back and winked. “Think you own me, Lieutenant?”

I found Lucille Shepherd in the clubroom. I knew her to be smart and observant. She’d studied art in college and traveled in Europe before the War. She read racy novels and passed the hottest volumes on to me. Between her husband’s career and her own experience, she claimed to have seen it all.

“Didn’t fool me for a minute. Shoulders like a fullback and walked like Donald Duck. I took one look and nicknamed him Josephine Bone-attached. Betty Harris, well, she just laughed at that. Betty and I were at the bar, you saw us. She and I played eighteen holes on Saturday, out at the club, and we were going over our game when this, this—
creature
appeared. So very amusing, really. Queer, do you think? She, he—he did fool some people, I gather.”

Lucille knew my story, more or less. Still, the phrase “some people” rang a warning bell.

“What people? Freshen your cocktail there?”

“I don’t mind if you do. Hmm, what people? My baby brother, for one. Who was completely plastered, sad to say. But he’s on his vacation. And a skirt chaser from way back. He made passes at all the girls—Betty, of course. And Slim, the waitress.” Lucille winked. “Bud’s girlfriend. Who behaved herself admirably. Always tries to be the perfect lady. Oh, and even Nordeen Simms, who’s very sweet but older than God’s carpet slippers—you know, the widow of Admiral Asdeck’s Navy buddy?”

“Where’s Larry now? He hasn’t left town, has he?”

“Out in the Everglades. He and his hunting buddies, they go out there and shoot things every year. Inedible, disgusting things.”

Her brother’s ugly, drunken words on Sunday night rang in my mind:
Can’t stand the sons of bitches. Ought to be KAHH-ster-rated. Just like a STEE-ah.

He sounded like a suspect to me: He hated homosexuals and killed on a regular basis. Maybe he’d followed the Diva upstairs and made a pass. When she turned him down he exploded in drunken, frustrated rage.

“When do you expect your brother back?”

Lucille Shepherd laughed, then suddenly sat up straight. “Don’t be silly, Dan. I told you he wasn’t sober.”

“Bud’s going to want to talk to him. Maybe he can help clear up the situation.”

“Dan! I’m surprised you’d dare suggest such thing. How long have we been friends? I don’t think I’ll even mention this to Lemuel. He wouldn’t like it. Not at all.”

“Doc Shepherd would have to take himself off the case, wouldn’t he, if his brother-in-law got implicated?”

Matt, the part-time bartender, set down Mrs. Shepherd’s Tom Collins and removed her empty glass. She picked up the refill, sipped and suddenly set it down. “What do you mean?”

“The sheriff may have to decide.”

“One more word, Dan—
one more
—and I may consider asking Lemuel to resign his membership here. It’s risky business anyway, a local official belonging to a club like the Caloosa. One more word.”

“I’m not the police. I’m not your husband. That would be your decision.”

“I can tell you definitely that Larry had nothing to do with the, ah—with what happened upstairs.”

“How’s that? I’m glad to hear it.”

“I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“There were two dozen people in the room. It would have come out anyway.”

“He went home with us. Lemuel drove, of course. We left at, I don’t know, eleven-thirty or twelve. When we got back to the house, Larry went right to his room.”

“And you can swear he was there all night?”

“I have to assume so. I always sleep late. He left for the Everglades Monday afternoon. I hardly saw him.”

“I’m sure Bud’s going to want to talk to him as soon as he gets back.”

“And I think that’s a very bad idea. You can tell Bud that for me. Tell him to think it over. He was just promoted, wasn’t he? I’d hate to see him make enemies of people who can help him.”

Spud Hansen and Gregg Brasseux, the army buddies who’d spent Sunday evening together in the club, were sunbathing by the pool. Their sales meeting at the Bradford had gone extremely well, Hansen said. Brasseux added that they’d both been awarded raises and bonuses for their above-and-beyond-the-call efforts on behalf of the company. So, instead of returning to their wives and children in St. Paul and Shreveport on schedule, they’d decided to blow a bit of the unexpected bounty on a few extra days of Florida sun and fun.