Charles Willeford_Hoke Moseley 01 Read online

  “What do you think, Junior?” Susan turned her head.

  Freddy dropped his cigarette into the Coke can. “I think we should go and take a look at the body right now. It may not be Marty after all, and I’m pretty sure the sergeant here would like to get it over with and go home to his dinner.”

  “My car’s down in the patio.” Hoke started for the escalator, and they followed him.

  Hoke’s well-battered 1974 Le Mans was indeed parked on the school patio. He had been unable to find a parking place on the street, so he had jumped the curb and driven over the flagstones to within a few yards of the escalator. There were winos lounging on the patio benches. Two old men, by the wall outside the bookstore, slept noisily on flattened cardboard boxes. Two other derelicts on a nearby concrete bench jeered and gave Hoke the finger as he unlocked the alarm in the left front fender and then unlocked the door and took his police placard off the dashboard. He shoved the placard under the front seat before unlocking the door to the passenger side of the car.

  “We’d better all sit in front,” Hoke suggested. “A man was sick on the back seat yesterday, and I haven’t had a chance to get it cleaned up yet.”

  Susan sat in the middle. Freddy, on the outside, unrolled his window. “Why does the college let these winos hang around the school?” Freddy said.

  “They suspended the old vagrancy laws a few years back. We can’t arrest ’em anymore, and if we could, where would we put ’em? On top of the normal eight thousand vags who come down here for the winter, we’ve got another twenty thousand Nicaraguans, ten thousand Haitian refugees, and another twenty-five thousand Marielitos running around town.”

  “What’s a Marielito?” Freddy said.

  “Where have you been?” Hoke said, not unkindly. “Our wimpy ex-president, Jimmy Carter, opened his arms to one hundred and twenty-five thousand Cubans back in 1980. Most of them were legitimate, with families already here in Miami, but Castro also opened his prisons and insane asylums and sent along another twenty-five thousand hardcore criminals, gays, and maniacs. They sailed here from Mariel, in Cuba, so they call them Marielitos.”

  As Hoke reached forward and switched off the police calls on his radio, a ragged Latin man came up to his window and pounded on it with his fists, shouting:

  “Gimme money! Gimme money!”

  “See what I mean?” Hoke said. “When you drive around Miami, Susan, always keep your windows rolled up. Otherwise, they’ll reach in and steal your purse.”

  “I know,” Susan said, “my brother told me.”

  Hoke backed expertly into the street, honking his horn until the traffic gave way.

  As Hoke drove north on Biscayne Boulevard toward the city morgue, Freddy said, “This old boat rides pretty smooth. You wouldn’t think so, just from looking at it.”

  “I had a new engine put in it. It’s my own car, not a police vehicle. The radio belongs to the department, and the red light, but they give us detectives mileage if we use our own personal vehicles. Fifteen cents a mile, which doesn’t begin to cover it, and nothing for amortization. But the convenience is worth it. If you order a vehicle from the motor pool you have to wait for a half-hour or more, and then it may be low on gas or have a bad tire or something. So I usually drive my own car. I should do something about the dents, but I’d have them back again the next day. Twenty percent of the drivers in Miami can’t qualify for a license, so they drive without one.”

  The morgue was a low one-story building. Its limited storage space had been supplemented by two leased air-conditioned trailers to keep up with the flow of bodies that were delivered every day. Hoke parked, and they followed him into the office. Dr. Evans had left for the day, but Dr. Ramirez, an assistant pathologist, took them to a gurney in the hallway and showed them the body.

  “That’s Martin, all right,” Susan said quietly.

  “I never met Martin, sergeant, but he looks like a nice guy,” Freddy said. “He doesn’t look anything like you, Susan.”

  “Not now he doesn’t, but back when we were little and almost the same size, people used to take us for fraternal twins.” She looked up at Hoke. “We were born only ten months apart, although Marty looks much older than me now.” Tears welled from Susan’s eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently.

  “Is it true,” Freddy asked Hoke, “that a man’s hair and fingernails keep growing after he’s dead? I noticed some stubble there on Marty’s chin.”

  “I don’t know, although I’ve heard that myself. Is it true, Dr. Ramirez?”

  “No, it isn’t true. That’s just normal stubble on his face. He probably shaved this morning, and that’s just his growth for today. One thing for sure, the nail on his middle finger won’t grow any longer. The finger was broke clean off. We haven’t done the autopsy yet, but Pussgut took a cursory look when he first came in, and there were no other wounds.”

  “‘Pussgut,’” Hoke explained to Freddy and Susan, “is what the people around here call Dr. Evans when he isn’t around to hear them say it. They call him that because of his paunch.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Ramirez said. “I meant to say ‘Dr. Evans.’ Is the sister here going to sign the papers?”

  “I’ll sign something to say he’s my brother, but I won’t sign anything else. Anything else, funeral arrangements or anything, you’ll have to notify my father. It’s his responsibility, not mine.”

  In the office, Susan signed the form Dr. Ramirez made out. He Xeroxed a copy on the office machine and gave it to Hoke. Hoke folded the Xeroxed form into a square and tucked it into his notebook. They shook hands with Dr. Ramirez and then went out to the car. When they were seated, Hoke suggested that they stop for a drink.

  “Fine with me,” Freddy said. “But make it some place where I can get a sandwich.”

  “We’ll stop at a Brazilian steak house on Biscayne. They’ve got the best steak sandwiches in town.”

  They were shown to a table right away. Hoke ordered a rum and Coke, Freddy a glass of red wine, and Susan asked for a Shirley Temple, claiming she never drank anything stronger than beer and that she didn’t feel like having a beer on top of the yogurt she had eaten for dinner. The waiter, a Salvadoran with very little English, had difficulty with the Shirley Temple. Hoke had to cross over to the bar and explain to the Costa Rican bartender how to make it.

  Hoke waved away the menu, which was printed in Portuguese, and ordered two steak sandwiches and three flans. The steak sandwiches arrived, redolent of garlic, along with the desserts.

  Freddy dug into the custard immediately, and finished it before he covered his sandwich with A-1 Sauce.

  “Where’d you do your time?” Hoke asked Freddy. “Marianna or Raiford?”

  “Time? What time? What makes you think I did time?”

  Hoke shrugged. “The way you tucked into that flan, and because you ate it first, before tackling your sandwich. How long were you in Marianna?”

  “I don’t even know where Marianna is.”

  “It’s our state juvenile reform school. Where’re you from?”

  “California. Santa Barbara. I came here to Miami to study management at Miami-Dade. When we graduate, me and Susan’re going to get us a Burger King franchise somewhere. So she’s studying business and management, too. I think I see what you mean, though, about eating my dessert first. But that’s because I was an orphan and raised in a foster home. There were three other guys there, all of us about the same age, and you more or less had to eat your dessert first or somebody else would snatch it.”

  “The same ritual, you’ll discover, is practiced at Raiford. So at least if you ever get into trouble down here you’ve got a good habit going for you. I didn’t get your name, except for the ‘Junior.’”

  “Ramon Mendez.”

  “You don’t have a Spanish accent. Have you got your green card?”

  “I’m not a Chicano, I’m an American citizen. And I’ve got ID if you want to see it. Just because a man’s got a Spanish name, that
doesn’t make him a refugee or something. It just so happens that Mendez was my father’s name, but my mother was as big a WASP as you are. Besides, I already told you I was brought up with all white guys in a foster home!”

  “Don’t get excited, Ramon. We’re just having a little pleasant conversation here. Do you speak Spanish?”

  “A little, sure. I went to school in Santa Barbara, and we had our share of Chicanos out there. You pick it up a little playing softball. You know, shouting ‘Arriba, arriba!’ when a guy’s trying to reach second base on a steal.”

  “You pump a little iron, too, right?”

  “A little. I can jerk three-twenty-five, but I don’t like to do it. I’m not really into heavy lifting. I just like to work out, that’s all.”

  “What’s your bicep?”

  Freddy shrugged. “I haven’t measured in a while. It used to be twenty-one inches. I doubt if it’s that much now.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Well, I’m not one of your body lovers. As I said, I just like to work out for the exercise, that’s all.”

  Hoke turned to Susan. “How’s your Shirley Temple, Miss Waggoner? Would you rather have some coffee? Some espresso?”

  “No, no, this is fine. I was supposed to meet my brother at the airport tonight at eight-thirty. And he was gonna give me two hundred dollars to make the car payment. D’you have his wallet and money for me?”

  “If you phone your father and ask him to call me and okay it, I can hand over the effects. There’s a little more than two hundred in the wallet. I’ve got it locked in my office drawer.”

  “Do I have to call my father? Can’t you just give it to me?”

  “No. He’s the one who should decide on the disposition of the effects, money included.”

  “He’ll just say no, and I need the money for the car payment. He’ll probably take the car, too, won’t he?”

  “Is the car in your brother’s name?”

  She nodded and began to cry. “It just isn’t fair! We both worked hard to buy that car, to make the down payment and all, and now my father’ll get it!”

  “Maybe your brother left a will?”

  “Why would he have a will? He was only twenty-one years old. He didn’t expect to die from a broken finger! I still don’t see how anybody can die from a broken finger.”

  “Let me explain,” Hoke said. He finished the last bite of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Dr. Evans is the best pathologist in America, and he’s the best doctor and dentist, too. He said it wasn’t the finger, but the shock that set in because of the broken finger. And if he says that, it’s gospel. Let me tell you about Dr. Evans. ’Bout a year ago, I had some abscessed teeth, and the only way I could chew was to hold my head over on one side and chew like a dog on the side that didn’t hurt. I was having lunch with Dr. Evans, and after lunch, he took me back to the morgue, shot me up with Novocaine, and pulled all my teeth. Every one of them. Then he made an impression and had these teeth made for me by the same technician who makes all of the Miami Dolphins’ false teeth.”

  Hoke took out his dentures, put them on a napkin, and handed them to Susan.

  “I didn’t even know you had false teeth,” Susan said. “Did you, Junior?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Freddy said. “Let me take a look at those.”

  Susan passed the teeth to Freddy, and he examined them closely before giving them back to Hoke. “Nice,” he said.

  “I call ’em my Dolphin choppers,” Hoke said. He sprinkled some water from his glass on his dentures, then slipped the dentures back into his mouth and adjusted them. “That’s the kind of doctor Dr. Evans is—and he didn’t charge me a dime. He just did it for the experience, he said. I went home after he pulled my teeth, drank a half of a fifth of bourbon, and didn’t feel a thing.

  “But to get back to the will, if your brother was a sworn-in Krishna, they might’ve had him make out a will for them. As I understand it, when you join the group, you’re supposed to sign over everything you own to them. I’d better check that out.”

  “In that case, the Krishnas’ll get the two hundred dollars and the car. Either way, I’ll be shit out of luck, won’t I?”

  “Perhaps. His partner’s notified them at the ashram by now, so if he does have a will on file, they’ll probably come down to the station tomorrow to see me. They may not know about the car, but his partner will know he collected some money out at the airport today. Just in case, I won’t mention the car to them. As a Krishna, I know he isn’t supposed to own a private vehicle. Does your father know about the car?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t worry about it, then. Just keep quiet, and make the payments. After a few months, or when it’s paid for, you can get a lawyer to have it changed over to your name.”

  Hoke took out his wallet, shuffled through his card case, and handed Susan a business card. “When you need a lawyer, try this guy, Izzy Steinmetz. He costs a little more, just like the breath mints, but he’s worth it.” Hoke smiled at Freddy. “He’s a good criminal lawyer, too, in case you ever get into trouble.”

  “Hang onto the card,” Freddy said to Susan. “Maybe Mr. Steinmetz can help us when we get our Burger King franchise.”

  The waiter brought the check. Hoke took it, and left a $3 tip on the table. They walked over to the cashier by the double-doors. Hoke put the check and his credit card on the counter. The manager smiled, tore the check in half, and pushed the card back.

  “Your credit’s no good here, Sergeant Moseley. Why don’t we see you in here more often? It’s been quite a while now.”

  “I’m working days now, and living over at the Beach. I’ll try to get by more often. Thanks, Aquilar.”

  “That was nice of him,” Freddy said, after they were outside, “to tear up the check that way.”

  “But you noticed,” Hoke said, “that I offered to pay. Aquilar’s a nice guy. We go back a long way, and I did a favor for him once.”

  “What kind of a favor?”

  “I called him on the phone. Where do you want me to drop you, Susan?”

  “Second and Biscayne’ll be fine.”

  Hoke dropped them off at the corner of Second and Biscayne. He started to make an illegal U-turn to get back to the MacArthur Causeway and then changed his mind. He didn’t want to go home; he never wanted to go home. He continued down the boulevard and headed for the Dupont Plaza Hotel.

  The pair had puzzled him. He had tried to jar them into some kind of reaction by showing them his Dolphin choppers, but they hadn’t even risen above the level of mild curiosity. Cold fish. The jock was obviously an ex-con. There was no way that Mendez could be his real name. With that bronze tan, he looked like an Afrika Corps Nazi, and it was definitely a tan, not dark skin. Besides, the world was too fresh and new to him, as though he had been out of circulation for some time. The way he had crooked that Charles Atlas arm around the tiny cup of flan—who did he think would try to take it away from him, anyway? It wasn’t enough that Carter had destroyed the city by sending in all the refugees, Reagan was importing ex-cons from California. Even if immigration was stopped altogether, it would be another twenty years before Miami got back to normal again.

  And the girl. She had looked at her dead brother as if he were a piece of meat. True, she had cried at the morgue, but she had cried much harder about the possible loss of her car and the $200. How could a girl as simple-minded as Susan Waggoner get into college?

  Hoke drove into the Dupont Plaza garage and parked on the ramp by the wall. As he locked the car, a Cuban attendant came running over. He had a parking stub in one hand, and a one-ounce hit of café Cubano in the other.

  “I’ll take those keys,” he said, holding out the parking stub.

  Hoke showed him his shield and ignored the stub. “Police business. I’ll leave the car right where it is. When more cars come in, drive around it.”

  Hoke went into the bar lounge, filled a
paper plate with chicken wings, hot meatballs, and green olives, then went to the bar. He ordered a beer reluctantly because a beer in the Dupont Plaza bar cost as much as a six-pack in the supermarket, but the free hors d’oeuvres just about made up for it. Hoke liked the Dupont Plaza, the quiet Mickey Mouse music that came over the speakers, and the tables beside the windows where he could watch the traffic on the Miami River. There was an older, dressed-up crowd here, and although his blue poplin leisure suit was out of place, he had once picked up a forty-year-old widow from Cincinnati, and she had taken him up to her room.

  Hoke showed the bartender his shield and asked for the telephone. The bartender reached under the bar and placed a white telephone in front of Hoke. As a matter of principle, Hoke never gave Ma Bell a quarter to use a pay telephone. He dialed Red Farris’s number from memory.

  “Red,” Hoke said, when Farris answered, “let’s go out and do something.”

  “Hoke! I’m glad you called. I tried to get you twice today, once at the station, and once at your hotel. The hotel didn’t even answer.”

  “You’ve got to let it ring. Sometimes the clerk’s away from the desk.”

  “I let it ring ten times.”

  “Try twenty next time. I was out at the airport most of the afternoon, on a homicide.”

  “How come they called you instead of Metro?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. It’s an interesting case.”

  “That’s why I tried to call you, Hoke, to tell you my good news. Are you ready? I resigned today.”

  “Resigned from the department? You’re shitting me.”

  “Not this time, Hoke. I told you before I’ve been writing letters around the state. Well, the chief of police in Sebring offered me a job as desk sergeant, and I took it.”

  “That means going back into uniform, doesn’t it?”

  “So what? I’ll be out of Miami. When I typed up my resignation, I never felt better.”

  “What kind of salary goes with it?”