The Forest Bull (12 page)

Florida

Among my vices are fishing, beer, my boat, sunshine, and trading vehicles. I planned on indulging in all of them within the next twenty-four hours. Purchasing an unending array of used cars wasn’t just a hobby, it was a tool. At times, an unobtrusive ride was a much-needed accessory for surveillance, travel, or transporting the former personal property of immortals that had departed the premises. My current ride, a solid but forgettable tan sedan, had served its purpose, but, after six months, it was time to move on. I called the least reputable used car lot in Broward County, owned and operated by one Jim Broward, whose true name was an incomprehensible Armenian monstrosity I knew he kept wisely hidden as part of his
nom de guerre
.

Jim answered on the second
ring, a voice that was nicotine-scorched, deep, and Southern, all the more impressive considering he was from Chicago.

“Broward cars,
here,” he managed to drawl, making the last word a polysyllabic cough.

“Jim,
it’s Ring. I think it’s time I took a look at your lot. You around later?” I enjoyed the familiarity of a frequent customer.

“Sure
am, Ring, I was wondering when you’d get the itch. How ‘bout an SUV this time? I’ve got something special sitting in the wash bay, pretty as a peach.” He wasted no time in appealing to my habit.

“I’m interested. It might be nice to sit up high. I’ll see you after lunch with my checkbook.” I couldn’t negotiate on an empty stomach.

“Music to my ears. See y’all later.” And we were done, as I wondered what color my new vehicle would be. Jim was a heluva salesman. I was sold before I left my house.

Suma
texted, and we agreed to dinner on the boat with a side of fishing. That meant that I had several minor but enjoyable errands, not the least of which was a trip to Publix, which I treat as a sort of pilgrimage each and every time. I entered, turned right, and headed to the deli. I sampled. I wandered, perused, picked up vegetables, and engaged in flights of fancy in which I envisioned myself a white-coated chef with minions of followers, all as I selected a masterful array of ingredients for two immense sandwiches. I then added tubs of salads and chips and made an inevitable trip through the beer aisle. When I arrived at the checkout lane, a relentlessly perky employee briskly moved me through the line. I was then disgorged into the sunlight, my wallet lighter, boat meal in hand, belching happily from Sample Row.

I keep a cooler in my car. It’s the habit of an inveterate fisherman, beer aficionado, and resident of Florida who respects the heat. In went the boat lunch, to be covered with beer, ice, then beer and ice. I pack in layers. Since salmonella was being held at bay by my prescience, I turned west and headed to University drive, where Jim had my new vehicle waiting for me.

It was time to get acquainted with my new ride.

The lot was crowded with cars roasting in the sun. I parked near the office, which was a converted hamburger franchise from the 195
0s, covered in white stucco, with a single steel sign announcing that Broward’s cars did, indeed, refuse to be undersold. To the left of the building, a three-bay steel hut housed the get-ready area, where Jim’s staff buffed and scrubbed years of use off of cars. The glass door swung open, and Jim ambled out, his cabana shirt straining over his stomach. His grey hair was slicked back, and his intense brown eyes sized me up as I stuck out my hand. He was having none of it. I was pulled into an Armenian bear hug as he said, “Good tuh see you, Ring!” and then deposited back on the ground, a bit flustered.

“Same here.
How’s Deb?” I inquired after his wife, who was indispensable to both his business interests.

“She’s dandy. Says you have to come in after you see what I got for you out here.” He turned towards the last bay. “I think this is exactly what you and the girls want. Style!
None of that economical horseshit, an honest to God two tons of style.” He waved his arm with a flourish as I saw what he had, shined up and ready.

He was right.
A steel grey Jeep Grand Wagoneer sat majestically awaiting my arrival, the red leather interior gleaming with polish. A seeming acre of wood paneling ran down the sides underneath immense windows.  Chrome was everywhere. It was a Yankee fantasy made real, twenty-five years old but kept perfectly by someone who had appreciated the vehicle as much as I did at that moment. I didn’t need to drive it. I knew. So did Jim.

“Let’s write it up
,” I told him, shaking his meaty hand.

He
laughed a spastic rumble. “Already did.”

We s
ettled in his office, the paperwork complete. He called for Deb, who was in the other room. I heard her feet tapping on the tile, and then she entered.

“
Hi Ring. It’s nice, isn’t it?” Her eyes flicked toward the Wagoneer. “Jim didn’t even bother putting it on the lot because he knew you were ready for something a bit more masculine.” Her tone was borderline flirtatious, which was at odds with her appearance. Deb was funny and smart, and regarding her looks, she was funny and smart. Tall, skinny, with a long nose, she had a distinctly bony presence. But her smile was warm, and she was unfailingly polite, qualities that go a long way in the world.

Jim brought me back to the present. “And how will you be paying today, Ring?
Cash? Check? Or perhaps something more interesting?”

“Cash is so dull.
How about these instead?”  I placed Senya’s hair combs on the desk. Neither he nor Deb moved.

She asked
, “May I?”  Seeing my assent, she picked them up and held them to the light. Jim’s other business interest was the acquisition and disposition of unusual items that were not benefitted by being on the open market. Jewelry, weapons, and the odd wayward artwork--all was within his, and Deb’s, field of expertise, along with the profitable and wholly legitimate car lot.

I sat
quietly while they conferred in the other room, ascertaining a value for the combs. After a few moments, they returned. The combs were nowhere to be seen. That boded well for me, I thought.

“They’re special, that’s for sure
,” Deb began. “Probably fourth century, Byzantine or Roman. Would you take,” she shrugged at Jim, “six?”

Jim seemed a bit tense. The combs
must be
really
unusual to get a reaction from a pair of old pros.

“And the vehicle?
Tax included, of course?” I smiled. I had leverage. It was deeply satisfying, even knowing that they probably had a buyer lined up already who would pay a ghastly number for the trinkets.

“Taxes.
Of course. Always a pleasure, Ring.” Jim shook my hand, and Deb began to count out money.

The combs must have been
much nicer than we could have imagined because she counted out six thousand dollars and set the Wagoneer keys on top of the stack. I was pleasantly surprised.

“Do me a favor, Jim
.” I had another matter in mind, for later. “I need something for protection for the girls. No guns. Anything light, maybe a blade. Something very personal. Keep me in mind. Functional but well designed. I’ll go a thousand each for whatever you run across. It should be small enough for a woman’s hand, but lethal. Not decorative.”

Deb and Jim both closed their eyes for a sec
ond in thought. Jim spoke first. “You betcha. I’ll send you anything appropriate that I might find.”

We said our goodbyes
, and I strolled through the sun to my new pride and joy. I shut the door with a satisfying
thump
. The engine turned over immediately and settled into the rich purr of an eight cylinder powertrain. With a tweak to the mirror, I pulled out into traffic and headed for home, a yuppie to the core.

And an elementary school art class was six grand richer.

When Suma pulled up to our place, the boat was ready. Gyro greeted her at the door with a single reverberating
WOOF
, and then fell to the floor, his security requirements fulfilled. Wally was cycling, and Risa had been at the heavy bag in our carport gymnasium. Her grunts of satisfaction with each strike had punctuated the last hour. She was working hard, and I didn’t wish to interrupt her, so I had Suma follow me to the dock, where we stepped aboard and cast off. The canal shone brilliant in the afternoon sun. The tide was running out, so I took a leisurely pace, opened two beers, and asked her what she felt like fishing for.

“I don’t know. Can we sit still, drink beer, and technically still be fishing?” Her look was mischievous. I appreciated that type of angler.

“Absolutely. In fact, the less we move, the better. It gains us tremendous fishing cred to remain in one location. I know just the place; it’s in Port Everglades. We’ll still be inshore, but there’s a deep hole where we might accidentally catch fish while we get sun.” I pushed the throttle forward, and we turned east, our destination minutes away.

We coasted to a stop
at the corner of two seawalls, where a lazy eddy circled underneath us. I dropped the blade anchor and let the line pay out until I felt the subtle underwater clink that meant we were relatively stuck.

“Okay, so, we have a hook, a small weight, and a
shrimp. We drop this over,” I demonstrated with my spinning reel, “until the line goes slack. Then, you reel up until there is a hint of tension and pray that nothing tugs at the bait, which would interrupt your sandwich and beer time.” I finished by sitting on a cushion with my legs overboard so that they could be slapped by wavelets.

“Like this?” Sum
a was very careful with the rod and had one finger lightly poised on the line.

“Just right.
That way, you feel the line, not the tip. If you get a bite, don’t reel--pull up quickly and
then
reel as you lower the rod, like a seesaw, up and down.” I mimicked my flawless strategy as she watched.

“Can we have a snack? I’m starving
,” she asked, smiling winningly at me from under her hat. I leaned toward the cooler and began to rummage.

“Sandwich time?”
I asked, and she reached with her free hand across the space between us. I noticed for the first time that her eyes were hazel. I handed her a one-pound section of sub, dripping lettuce and dressing onto the deck. It was an inelegant but rewarding way to eat.

“Are you from Thailand
or the States?” I asked, squinting out at the water. It was that particular fragmented green of late afternoon.

“I’m American. And a little bit French. Our grandfather was from Marseilles. He met our grandmother in Thailand, though, so some of my f
amily had dual citizenship. We--hey! A bite!” She cut off her speech and began to reel furiously, the rod tip dancing merrily. After a few seconds, a wriggling fish swayed in the air, gill plates pumping in frustration.

“Swing it over here. I’ll take it off for you, Fish Master.” I bowed solemnly as she led the fish through the air to my waiting hands.

“What is it? It’s beautiful, like a blue and yellow mirror.” Her gaze was admiring. It was a gorgeous little fish.

“It’s a grunt. They carpet the bottom, but they’re delicious. Since we have sandwiches, we’
ll let him go.” I held the foot-long fish out for Suma to inspect.

“A grunt
? What a name.”

The fish obliged me, barking several times like an old man clearing his throat. I tossed him back in as Suma laughed.

“That’s truth in advertising. I never knew fish could talk,” she said, looking into the water where the grunt had submerged with a miffed flip of the tail.

“They certainly can. Translated, it said we should have another beer, and I
, for one, always listen to nature.” I reached for the cooler as she laughingly accepted the bottle, and we both decided to work on becoming better friends before the sun went down.

I know the rhythm of our house, from the creaks and pops of roof joints cooling after a day in the sun to the low whirr of the refrigerator. I walked silently to
the back door. It was three in the morning, and Gyro rose quietly to join me on the dock. I replayed my afternoon on the boat with Suma and realized that I liked hearing her laugh more than I should. I noticed things about her. She had flecks of green in her eyes when the sun hit them under the brim of her hat. She hated the texture of fish but loved their colors. Enormous ships throwing wakes made her a bit sick, but she thought the shape of the waves was graceful, and she tanned without burning. There was no Nightingale syndrome between us, but I intrigued her for unknown reasons, even with the danger that surrounded me. In turn, I found her immensely likeable. Absently scratching Gyro, I knew that our day together was our last. She was family of family, and I refused to be the vector that brought death to her door. I hoped I would be determined enough to avoid an emotional attachment that could only lead to danger.

The canal was quiet
, and the streets were still. I let the illusion of solitude swirl around me. Even amidst the lights of the unending coastal city, stars burned sparsely in the sky. I knew the Milky Way stretched above, invisible to me, but still present, unending from horizon to horizon. So much of the world was beyond our perceptions. We were obtuse for so many reasons, our poor senses laughable in the animal kingdom. We could be blind by choice, or by design. That type of ignorance was no longer an option for me and the girls. We had lifted the curtain, and we could not lower it again, the stain of knowledge permanent in our minds.

I had Risa and Wally. I had a
dog. Still, looking out over the dark water, it seemed that there were many things I would never have, and anger stirred within me at the loss of a future I could not know.

I went inside, resolvin
g to call the Baron and ask him if someday there might be room in the forest for three more people. Our lives suddenly felt more dangerous.

Cazimir connected immediately and seemed genuinely glad to be in contact. After a description of fishing and my general leisure, he grew quiet.

“Ring, I do not wish to sound paternal or brash, but may I ask you if you are serious about finding Elizabeth?” He waited for my answer, hands folded on his desk. His expression was one of mild curiosity, not anger.

I was brought up short. I didn’t have a legitimate reason for my inactivity. In fact, his question caused more introspection than I was prepared for, and I hesitated to answer. I didn’t want to lie. Was it fear? Perhaps I was unable to be fully engaged in a task that was outside my original skillset, and my discomfort made me unfocused. I didn’t know, but it was a fair question, not an interrogation, so I waited a long moment before I began speaking.

“I don’t know. I feel like I may need a point of origin, or something, I can’t exactly articulate what is missing here.” I was nonplussed by my own vagueness. I knew to Cazimir I must appear to be a braggart at best and a coward at worst. He had unwittingly, or by design, struck at the very root of my entire life with the girls. I had morphed from a laconic teen into a sporadic soldier who found casual death inoffensive and forgettable, only to find that, as an adult, I was repeating the exact same behaviors to our detriment. I had even found a nontraditional but intense relationship with two women who, for some reason, returned my feelings and respect tenfold. I’d been dipped in luck and yet here I was being mildly rebuked because I couldn’t maintain an intensity that we needed if we were to succeed.

“Allow me to give you some direction, if I may, Ring. You recall that I was able to identify you by looking for oddities within the news. Let me pass along something you may find useful. One of your local news sources reported a murder, quite gruesome, involving a highly respected surgeon who was found
buried near the beach. After reading what is present and lacking in the crime description, I think you may be interested. I’ll email it directly, and please give me your opinion when you have read it.”

I felt a bit like a recalcitrant child, but I agreed and we signed off, my resolve a bit more firm than it had been an hour before.

We had a lead.

We all read the article describing the death of one Arnaud LeConte, a surgeon who had donated countless hours to corrective surgery free of charge. He was, on the surface, a highly unlikely target for an immortal of Elizabeth’s standing. Internet searches revealed him to be of relatively modest means and an
all-around good citizen. Risa keyed on the body. Rather, she keyed on who found the unfortunate Arnaud, and where. A caterer returning to clean up after the charity event stumbled, quite literally, on the good doctor and called the police. Photographs from the affair were everywhere online. For the people in attendance, being seen doing good works was more important than the act itself. Social sites were laden with smiling faces of perfectly coiffed socialites sacrificing for the greater good. In one photo, a caterer’s truck was parked in the background, the distinct blue and gold logo clearly visible.
Le Renard Gris
Catering.

Arnaud’s body was discovered by a male, we knew that much. In all likelihood he was young, self-assured, and attractive, if the hiring model held true for Palm Beach caterers as a whole. Our next move was simple. We needed information, and it had to be extracted with the leas
t possible resistance. I smiled grandly at Wally who was already rolling her eyes at me in disgust. After a quick search, I located the company and found that they also staffed a yacht club in North Lauderdale. In all likelihood, our target could be found there, pouring stiff drinks for boating enthusiasts who dressed more casually than their bank accounts would allow.

“Get your miniskirt, gorgeous. You’re going to shake down a bartender for some gossip.” I was already l
aughing. I knew her evening would consist of, at the very least, an interminable flirting session with a side order of personal space violation. I planned on cleaning the boat and then taking Risa for pizza. That seemed like a solid occupation of our valuable time while Wally played inspector.

Wally hung her head in dejection and made tracks for her room to prepare for her interrogation by flirtation, one of her specialties.

Risa put down the remote and softly called from the couch, “Be home by eleven, you tramp.” In answer, a flip-flop hurtled her way, followed by a slew of cursing as we heard the shower being turned on. Risa stood and grabbed her keys.

“Pizza and
beer? I’m buying,” she said. The boat would remain grimy. My response was the only one a sane man could offer. I opened the door with a flourish and wondered if Wally would have any luck.