Only Make Believe (16 page)

Asdeck slammed the table again. “I’ll be damned if I’ll have the feds poking through my hotel. I’ve still got connections myself, in Washington.”

Bud caught his glass just in time to save it from sliding off the table. “Dan’s got a point, sir. I stopped by the office on the way over here, ran it all past the boss. Sheriff Hollipaugh says it’s a pure speculation and he’s not about to involve the feds without overwhelming evidence, if at all.”

“But we already have,” I said. “Sending them the lipstick sample.”

Bud shrugged. “Not the same thing as a mob war. Or having the G-men set up shop in Myers.”

Asdeck looked somewhat relieved. “Keep me informed, then.”

Bud nodded. “One more thing more about Mr. Lowery, Admiral. He’s a beaten man, sir, as you can imagine. Beaten but not resigned to it. Angry, wanting some kind of revenge, and glad as hell to hear that DiGennaro’s been exposed as a pussy in skirts, a real pervert.”

“Understandable enough.”

“Only he’s Catholic, so he feels guilty about feeling that way. Said he confessed it to his priest but it didn’t do no good. He bowed his head, right there in front of us, crossed himself like they do in church and said a prayer, said it out loud, for DiGennaro’s soul. Something in Latin. Or that’s what Captain Yeomans told me it was later.”

Bud bowed his own head and plunged on. “I thought I had him. Thought Mr. Lowery was gonna confess to God and me and Captain Yeomans that he was behind what happened to DiGennaro, blame it on all the hate and anger he felt. Say it just got out of control and he spent his life savings hiring a strong arm to follow DiGennaro to Myers and put him down.”

Asdeck leaned forward. “I presume he did not—or you’d have told us, and he’d already be jailed.”

“Said his own wife left him for a man who owns four Standard Oil stations. Said he’s afflicted with sugar diabetes. Said the doctors told him they’re gonna have to take his left leg off or he’ll die. Said he wants to dance a jig on DiGennaro’s grave before they take it.”

“Terrible story,” Asdeck said. “Pitiful. Charity and forgiveness are not in him. I suppose he has an alibi for Sunday night?”

“Afraid he does, sir. Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. He was in Bradenton General Hospital overnight. Got a blood transfusion, in fact.”

“He says that or you know that?”

“Hospital administrator showed me the order for the blood work, sir.”

“Did he mention anybody else who might feel as angry and vengeful as he does?”

Bud sipped his beer. “Well, yes and no. He did mention a rumor that Jerry Dukes, DiGennaro’s former business partner, died up in New Jersey, in a car wreck, a year or two ago.”

“That lets him out,” I said. “Very convenient.”

“You’ll check to be sure,” Asdeck said. It was a command, not a question.

I jumped back in. “New Jersey again. OK, if the Tampa mob wanted to put DiGennaro out of business, why didn’t they go all the way—shoot him dead, like a horse with a broken leg? Or toss him out the window? They didn’t know he was going to have a heart attack in the emergency room. They didn’t know the doc on duty was sacked out in the laundry room.”

Asdeck wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You lean toward it being merely a warning?”

Bud smiled. “Lowrey mentioned a woman, some kind of purchasing agent. Said he didn’t recall her name. Said she worked for the school board up in Tampa. Was with Hardee County Schools after that. Got her tits in the wringer over some kind of scandal involving DiGennaro. Lost her job. Had a sick husband to support.”

“We know about her,” I said. “Bonnie McGraw. Remember? Worked in Tampa before that? You can bet he sure does recall her name. Dr. Ted Peters thinks DiGennaro secretly turned Dukes and the McGraw woman in on the Hardee County bribery charge. But that she and DiGennaro were involved together some way.”

Asdeck took a cigar out of a case, sniffed it and then laid it aside. “Hell hath no fury like a woman double-crossed. She could be very, very angry.”

Bud nodded. “Her and her sick husband. Makes me wonder where she was on Sunday night.”

Asdeck gave the cigar a second chance. “You think your old teacher could put Bud on her trail?”

I said I thought so, adding, “Bud needs to talk to Larry Doolittle first. I heard him say he hates homos—that they ought to be castrated. He tried to pick up the Diva in the bar. Maybe he got her room number some way. He was drunk. Maybe he came back to the hotel, slipped upstairs when nobody was looking and didn’t like what he found when he got inside the room. Got angry. Was drunk and couldn’t control his temper.”

“The boy and his mom are still at the top of my list,” Bud countered. One or the other. They had more to lose if it all came out about Diva DiGennaro. And right now, neither one can properly account for the other’s movements.”

Spud Hansen and Gregg Brasseux, the former army buddies, had accepted my fishing-trip invitation and extended their stay. We set out early the next morning. Rather than assign my regular charter boat captain, Emma Mae Bellweather, as guide, I led the trip myself. Bud looked like he needed a day off so I drafted him as first mate. I instructed Carmen to stock the hotel’s boat with cold fried chicken, potato salad, chips, sandwiches, coffee, rolls, two kinds of pie and plenty of beer.

The boat was a pre-war, 38-footer built by Wheeler Brothers, in Brooklyn, New York, for well-to-do German owners who had wintered in Palm Beach. Commandeered by the Coast Guard for patrol duty in the Florida Keys, she’d been declared surplus in 1946 and snapped up by one of Admiral Asdeck’s associates. From the flying bridge to a broad afterdeck equipped with fighting chairs and outriggers, she was a classic American beauty. Twice-yearly trips to the boatyard for scraping and caulking kept her occasional leaks under control.

We cast off just after dawn, cruised downriver to Punta Rassa, rounded Pine Island and entered the Gulf through Redfish Pass. Wind and chop were light so, about two miles out, I turned north, left Bud on the fly-bridge to steer a course up to Boca Grande Pass and climbed down to the afterdeck. Spud and Gregg had chartered the boat a couple of times the previous winter and were already busy with hooks, lines, leaders and bait.

Although both men knew I was aware of their relationship, they had no reason to know how close I was to Bud. They must have assumed I’d passed their mutual alibi on to him as part of the investigation. Privately, they may have speculated about my own status as a seemingly confirmed bachelor. But to my face there’d been not so much as a hint of any such assumptions and suspicions. Rather the reverse. Detective Wright was the very picture of a virile ex-Marine-turned-cop. With Bud a member of the party, their behavior became exaggeratedly circumspect. They kept their distance, going out of their way to stay at least two feet apart. “How do you take your coffee?” Spud had asked Gregg before we cast off, though he surely must have known.

One reason I’d brought Bud along was to let these obviously isolated men know that relationships need not be limited to shared business trips and furtive meetings. When we set out that morning, I had no particular plan in mind, nor a desire to break up what may well have been two happy marriages. But, in those days, the venomous moral code preached by worthies such as Senator Joe McCarthy, Cardinal Joseph Spellman and J. Edgar Hoover ruled most aspects of life. For lesser citizens in conformist, 1950s America, caution and invisibility were bywords for people who preferred the company of their own sex. A fishing boat was thus an almost perfect setting for a private, all-male party. Bud and I had come to terms, sexually at least, when we got naked on the same boat two years earlier. I definitely wasn’t planning an orgy. But I figured a demonstration of buddies sharing work and play might open a window to future possibilities. Especially if the more experienced buddies stripped down and started horsing around.

Yeah, I have to admit, I copied a page from Admiral Asdeck’s exhibitionist book.
But hell,
I thought at the time.
My intentions are good.

Spud hooked and landed a ten-pound scamp grouper within fifteen minutes of wetting his line. Gregg followed a few minutes later, reeling in a red drum that put up a pretty good fight. It turned out to be that kind of morning. We filled all three fish boxes well before noon and headed for a lunch-time anchorage in San Carlos Bay, a mile or so leeward of Sanibel Island.

While I set out food and beer, Bud, Spud and Gregg removed their shirts to compare battle damage. Spud had entry and exit scars from a German bullet that had passed through his right shoulder and similar scars in his biceps. “Good thing I’m left handed,” he joked. “Right side’s weak. I couldn’t do a real pull-up for a million bucks.”

Gregg had lost the hearing in one ear and had a six-inch scar just to the right of his right nipple. “Body armor, but not quite my size,” he explained. “Got it off a dead soldier on the beach, just after we landed in France. Hated to do it but Spud urged me. Without that vest, I might be pushing poppies.”

Spud started to say something but closed his eyes and shook his head.

Bud raised his arm to show off his jagged, jaw-to-beltline scar. “This here cost the Emperor a sergeant and half a dozen slant-eyed sake-suckers,” Bud boasted, exaggerating a bit.

“And won you a medal, a Purple Heart and a promotion,” I said. “Anybody hungry? Or would you rather stay with beer for a while?”

All three answered “Beer.” I was on my a third Regal. Gregg and Spud each had finished at least three bottles during the morning, Bud two.

Hell,
I thought
, what’s a vacation for? Married men probably never get to drink before lunch, especially not married salesmen with families.

Spud picked up where Bud left off. “You men, what, you served together? Got to be buddies in the Pacific?”

That sounded like an opening question, if not an assumption.

“Bud got drafted right out of high school,” I said. “Made his living killing Japs from Tarawa to Iwo Jima.”

Bud sported a Marine Corps tattoo. I wore no such identifying markings so I let him handle it.

Indicating me with his left thumb, he said, “The lieutenant here, he couldn’t have made it through Parris Island on a crutch. The Navy made an exception and gave him a commission. He had to get down on his hands and knees and beg and kiss ass. They gave him a job waiting tables and buying coconuts and fish from the natives.”

It occurred to me that Bud might be just as willing to show off our partnership as I was.

“Good thing, too,” I replied. “If I’d been in the Corps I’d have assigned this worthless sergeant to permanent duty digging slit-trench latrines.”

Bud punched my arm, hard. “Watch your mouth, Lieutenant. Or somebody might have to wash it out for you.”

I punched him back. “Somebody bigger than you, gyrene.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me upright. “Listen, squid, I’ll show you bigger.” And then he pulled me into a bear hug, released me and turned me around. “Rub my shoulders for me,” he said, his voice a mocking growl, “and maybe I won’t have to toss you in the drink again.”

Maybe the admiral’s kink is rubbing off on him, too.

“You remember what happened the last time you tried that?” I slapped his butt.

“Shut up, Dan. That’s private. Didn’t nothing happen. You got a dirty mind. Gonna embarrass these men.”

Spud’s and Gregg’s mouths hung open like two baby birds.

Gregg spoke first. “I thought he works for you, Dan. How does it—?”

“We’re off duty,” Bud answered.

“We’re careful,” I added. “In public. And Bud knows your story.”

Spud blushed. “I knew we should have headed home, Gregg. People don’t talk about things like this.”

“No, they don’t,” I answered. “Not much. But we trust you. And I figured, four men, four veterans, buddies, we can drink some beer and be honest about who we are for a change. We don’t get many chances like this, either.”

It was Gregg’s turn to blush. Maybe he thought I was going to suggest swapping partners. “You work together every day?”

“Most days,” Bud answered.

“And some nights,” I said, making clear what we were talking about.

Gregg sucked down half a beer, tossed the bottle over the side and got up to fetch replacements from the ice chest. “How do you get away with it?”

“Don’t people talk?” his buddy echoed. “Thank you,” he said, accepting another uncapped Regal. Gregg tousled his hair before sitting down.

“This is Florida,” I said. “You guys had good enough connections to qualify for out-of-town memberships. There must be a dozen hotels in this state offering the kind of privacy and special services we do. My boss, Admiral Asdeck, oversees the Caloosa and two more.”

“We don’t even know what kinds of services you mean,” Spud said. “Connecting rooms, the private club and no questions asked are good enough for us.”

“Girls, card tables, drinks around the clock, Cuban movies, bookie service, golf at a private club. Most of it costs extra.”

“Your rooms were more expensive than the Bradford, and they offered us a group rate.”

“We have higher overhead. There are people who have to be taken care of. So other people
won’t
talk.”