Done Deal (19 page)
Deal spent most of the thirty minutes it took him to get from Hollywood to Miami Beach nurturing the memory of Janice’s voice, the one clear beacon amid a welter of confusing thoughts. He didn’t want to believe Penfield could have anything to do with Janice’s disappearance. Couldn’t believe it. But he would find out.
It was still dark, and he stayed on A1A all the way south, avoiding any freeway traffic, letting the thump of the tires on the old pavement fill his mind, savoring the ride of the powerful car, the empty streets, the traffic lights that for once stayed in sync, the look of old Florida in the store-fronts of one oceanfront hamlet after another.
In a few hours there would be more than you could want of orange juice, beach towels, T-shirts, and suntan oil for sale, as it had been since God made Florida, he thought. Most of the places hadn’t seen the need for renovation, save for the occasional crudely printed sign reading
Bienvenidos!
or
Parlez-Vous Français?
tacked above the awnings or wedged in the windows between the inflatable alligators and killer whale floats. The signs had been added over the past few years to comfort the waves of South American and French Canadian tourists who’d replaced the American tourists here. Different accents, but business as usual once the sun came up. Right now, everything was shut tight, and Deal was taking an odd comfort in the quiet.
A shower had swept in from the Atlantic, leaving the streets gleaming in the vapor lights that switched from orange to blue once he hit Dania. He found himself speeding then, hurrying past the stretch of antiques shops there, a place Janice had loved to browse, although Deal had always favored sturdy and comfortable over frail and delicate. He saw a lamp stand holding up a huge Boston fern spotlighted in one shop window and felt a sudden jab in his gut, remembering talking her out of a similar piece the last time they’d come to window shop. It had been a year or more ago, but he could still remember the look of disappointment in her face.
“For Christ’s sake,” Deal said aloud. He switched off the air-conditioning and sent the window of the Rivolta down, willing his attention to the hiss of his tires through the rain, catching some spray from the streets as he leaned his face out into the breeze. Most couples their age were supposed to splurge once in a while, wasn’t that so? And here he was, back to square one, trying to parlay his last little building into a decent life and somebody trying to screw even that up.
He tightened his grip on the thick wood steering wheel, squeezing the anger out, forcing himself to calm. He was south of Dania now, moving along a broad dark stretch where the shops fell away. The highway was being widened here, and the streetlights were still waiting to be hooked up. Gulfstream Park, where Cal’s horseman dreams had come to ruin, lay across the highway on Deal’s left. Deal could see a few lights far off in the stairwells and maintenance sheds, although the horses and trainers were long gone, not to return until October, when with luck, the weather would begin to break. Yes, Deal thought. Things would be better by then. The weather and everything else.
There was a guard on duty at the entrance to Sunrise Island, a Venetian-styled bridge that arched over the narrow cut separating the million-dollar homes on the island from the rest of Miami Beach. The guard was a guy in green fatigues and a visored cap who’d come out of his little shack to lean on the rail of the bridge and stare down at the flat gray water like something might be ready to rise up there.
The guy turned when he heard Deal’s footsteps whacking on the pavement, his hand moving automatically to the holster at his belt. He wore thick glasses that glittered in the gray, predawn light. Deal imagined his effective range with the pistol to be about a foot and a half. Still there was that foot and a half.
“Morning,” Deal said, holding his jogger’s pace.
He’d parked the car a couple of blocks back, on a side street just off Alton Road and stripped down to a pair of Cal’s baggy swim trunks and T-shirt.
The cop moved his hand off his holster and grunted as Deal ran past him and up the incline of the bridge. Try to drive past the guy and there were probably land mines in the pavement that would blow you sky high, Deal thought, chugging over the crest of the bridge. But put on some running gear, Charles Manson and Squeaky could jog past, no problem, go out and hack up all the millionaires they wanted.
Deal was headed for the second island, which had never seemed much of a drive before. And it probably wasn’t much of a drive, he thought, his lungs beginning to burn. He had slowed to a geezer’s pace by the time he crossed the little bridge—no guard on this one, of course—that took him out onto the familiar winding boulevard, but he kept his legs pumping. Everything would be easier if he got there before the sun came up.
His toes were practically dragging the asphalt now. Past the sprawling colonial that housed (or had, the last time Deal had been here) the president’s nephew, then beyond that, on the landlocked side of the street, the former Beach mayor’s stone-and-glass compound (the mayor had to resign after a prostitute’s diary had come to light).
Finally, past the still-unfinished mansion of a Kuwaiti prince. The place was sealed off behind a six-foot fence with a padlock and a couple of judgment liens stapled to the gate. Deal had seen aerial shots on local television: tennis courts, two pools, three major buildings, a pool house, nothing that had a finished roof. A local bank had been into it for three million when the Gulf War broke out and the prince disappeared.
Deal staggered over the curb and beneath the limbs of the enormous banyan tree taking up most of the vacant lot between the prince’s compound and the place he was headed. He held himself up by one of the tendrils that dropped from a limb, getting his breath back, taking a close look at the house before him.
A green and white antebellum mansion, it looked like something plucked off of St. Charles Street and dropped down a thousand miles away on the verge of the Intracoastal Waterway. The Intracoastal was dead calm this morning, like the waters of some bayou, and only the fact that it was gumbo limbo and banyan instead of live oak lining the circular driveway gave away the fact Deal wasn’t in New Orleans.
From where he stood, he could see the rear corner of the house as well as the front. The driveway was empty and there was no sign of activity inside. He had a moment of uncertainty. He could have called ahead, pretended a wrong number had anyone answered, but that might have sounded an alert. He’d just have to trust his luck.
Deal found the strength to give up his hold on the tree and was edging toward the rear of the place when he saw a light come on in the kitchen. He eased back into the shadows of the enormous tree. Napoleon’s army had once camped under the base of a huge banyan, he found himself thinking. Now how had their battle gone?
After a moment, there was the sound of a door latch working and then wood shuddering open. A black cat darted across the lawn toward the pool overlooking the Intracoastal. Somebody letting the cat out. Deal was about to step forward when the kitchen door swung open again and a thin black woman in a white dress and shoes emerged onto the back steps.
She stood there a moment, arranging a string bag on her arm, then getting her purse settled, then squinting at a piece of paper she held up in the dim light. Finally, she stuck the paper in her purse and walked across a strip of lawn and disappeared behind the garage that stood between Deal and the house. There was the sound of a garage door grinding open, then a car starting. After a moment, Deal saw a station wagon jounce down from the driveway onto the broad boulevard and pull away, retracing his route in.
Fine, Deal thought. By the time she got back from Publix, he would be long gone.
He came out from under the limbs of the banyan, glancing about the grounds to be sure no eager gardener was already at work, but there was only the cat moving about, now bending at the edge of the pool to lap up a drink. He took the knob of the kitchen door, ready to punch out one of the windowpanes with his elbow, then stopped. He smiled as the knob turned easily in his hand. That’s what happens when you have a moat and a guard shack, he thought.
He slipped inside, hesitating at a strange whining sound. Some high-tech alarm? His heart was thundering. Then the smell of percolating coffee hit him. Just the last sigh of a Braun machine on the counter across from him, getting things ready for the master’s breakfast when she got back.
Deal allowed himself a nervous smile, then started across the kitchen. The place had been renovated, of course, beech planks laid over the top of the Cuban tiled floor, a bank of appliances that looked like they could handle the dinner rush at Chef Allen’s replacing the old stuff Deal remembered from his childhood—and there, a greenhouse window filled with herbs where the dining nook had once looked out…
Deal was nearly into the dining room, the ghost of some long ago breakfast glimmering in his mind, when he saw the man coming toward him. Deal ducked back into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the white Formica, the glittering steel surfaces, for anyplace to hide. Now there were steps across the dining room floor, which still uttered their familiar creaks and groans…
Deal edged into a nook that partitioned the enormous freezer and refrigerator from the rest of the kitchen, knowing it wasn’t good enough, all the guy had to do was look his way and…And then what?
Oh hi, I’m the exterminator. There’s something wrong with your ice maker
…
The guy came out into the kitchen then, an older black man who might have been the twin brother of the woman he’d seen drive off in the station wagon. The guy was talking to himself as he shuffled along, shaking his head. He went straight to the door that Deal hoped still led to the pantry, a place he’d often chosen as a hiding place. The old man opened it and disappeared inside.
Deal was across the kitchen in seconds, closing the door behind the black man, slipping home the old-fashioned bolt. He was through the dining room and headed for the stairwell before he heard the first muffled thumps. By the time he was halfway up the stairs, you couldn’t even hear the old guy’s shouts.
Cal Saltz had fallen asleep in his chair, the bottle of Wild Turkey cradled between his legs, the seal still untouched. He was dreaming, his lips curled into a smile as Fighting City Hall, one of his more notable losers in real life, moved out from the rail and closed the gap on Alydar. The two horses fought it out down the final stretch but any fool could see Fighting City Hall was destined. Billy Shoes on Alydar, Johnny Deal on City Hall, Shoes looking panicked, Deal merely grim. This one was for the little guy.
Though the race seemed to be the Florida Stakes, Saltz noticed that the venue had been moved. Jagged mountains lined the horizon to the south. There was a pitch-and-putt golf course set up in the infield of the track. A mustached man moved down the aisle near Saltz offering Tecate and Bohemia beer from his shoulder tray.
So they were running the Florida Stakes at the Juarez race track. Who gave a shit? Fighting City Hall was pulling ahead. Shoes was up, laying on the whip, but Alydar was fading. The fans rose, screaming, sensing the upset of the century, and even the golfers in the infield turned to stare as the horses pounded toward the pole, great clods of earth flying in their wake as if from cannon shot.
“Oh Sweet Jesus,” Saltz murmured, clutching at his chest. Fighting City Hall’s nose crossed the finish line, and his eye froze the moment, a photo finish, and for once things had gone his way. “Oh my God,” Saltz said. Then his eyes flickered open as the bottle of Wild Turkey, drawn by some inexplicable force, slipped upward from between his legs.
“Ain’t your God, white folks.”
Indeed it wasn’t, Cal thought, staring up into the big man’s face. As big a man as he’d ever seen. Smiling and holding his bottle of whiskey. Like no kind of a god he’d ever seen.
***
“Jesus Christ!” Penfield had been on his way out of his bathroom, toweling his mane of white hair when he looked up and saw Deal standing there, leaning against a chest of drawers.
He staggered backward, swallowing a couple of times before he could get his breath back. “What the hell are you doing, Johnny?”
“I need some help, Mr. Penfield.”
Penfield glanced around the room, trying to appear calm. Where was the thorazine brigade when he needed them?
“You had yourself quite a night, I hear.” Penfield’s hands were trembling as he tried to get his towel wrapped about his middle. Not much flesh there, Deal noted. Not bad for a rich old goat.
“Who told you about it?” Deal said, his voice level.
Penfield’s eyes flashed wide momentarily. Deal had caught him. The old war horse making a mistake like that. Deal shook his head, not waiting for Penfield to come up with something.
“What’s Alcazar have in mind, now, Mr. Penfield? Skybox for the Dolphin games? Trip to Paris? I’m curious to know what he thinks I want.”
Penfield shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”
“Did he ask you about the car thing? Ask you my favorite color? Or was yellow just a guess.”
There was a dim thud from downstairs, probably the old man he’d locked up throwing his hundred and thirty pounds into the pantry door frame. Deal thought about it a moment. If the guy killed himself trying to get out, would that mean a murder charge?
“I think you’d better tell me what you want, John.” Penfield was trying to summon some of his courtroom manner, but it was hard, with his hair awry, one hand holding up his towel.
“Janice called me last night,” Deal said. He saw something in Penfield’s eyes. Surprise? Fear? The certainty that Deal had lost his mind?
“Janice?” Penfield shook his head. “That’s not possible.”
“She’s alive,” Deal said. “She called to tell me I was in big trouble.”
Penfield snorted. “Well, that’s not exactly news, is it? But if you think Janice is alive, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”
Deal turned away. There were more thumps from downstairs, but they were losing their authority. A big plaque had been mounted above the chest of drawers where he’d been waiting. He’d had plenty of time to inspect it while Penfield finished his shower: “To Thornton J. Penfield, A Friend to Tropics Baseball,” in appreciation from the Chamber of Commerce. Cradled on hooks at the bottom of the plaque was a dinged-up bat inscribed with several signatures.
Deal took the bat down from the hooks and had a closer look: Henry Aaron. Roberto Clemente. Willie Mays. He glanced up at Penfield, who was watching him warily.
“Fuck your baseball,” Deal said. Penfield glanced sharply at him.
“The sonofabitch is trying to buy me off with a car, and you guys are wheeling and dealing baseball.”
Penfield shook his head. “John, I think you’ve been under a great deal of stress…”
“So you went to bed with Raoul Alcazar, just to get a baseball team.” Deal shook his head, sadly.
“Even if that were so, I don’t know that
just
is the correct term,” Penfield said. “Anything that might bring baseball down here…”
“All that bullshit about the nature of the game, the community welfare, I should have figured it out the day I saw the bastard in your office. You guys were desperate for cash. Anybody’s cash.”
“You probably can’t conceive of what it would mean to this community…”
“I can conceive of what it would put in your pocket,” Deal said, patting the bat absently in his hand. What kind of salary might Mickey Mantle command these days? he wondered. How might it have gone if Deal had been able to hit the curve ball? He’d be retired now, but maybe he’d still be in the game, hitting fungoes to the kids coming up, drawing a nice pension, signing bats for kids whose fathers told them about John Deal, who’d stick his head in front of a pitch if that’s what it took…
“Money’s the last thing I’m interested in, John.”
Deal glanced up at him. “Sure. What I can’t figure out is how you expect to get it past the commissioner. I mean Pete Rose can’t even wear a baseball cap anymore and you’re going to put Raoul Alcazar on the board of directors?”
Penfield flushed all the way down to his towel line. “You’re way out of line there, John. Raoul Alcazar has never been convicted of any crime. His legal difficulties are behind him. He’s come to see me about making some positive contributions to the community, that’s all.”
Deal nodded. “That’s what I figured. You
can’t
be up front about it.” He thought for a moment. “How does it work, then? He forks over a hundred million or so, you channel it into the baseball group through some dummy corporations. How’s that sound?”
Penfield shook his head sorrowfully as Deal continued. “Then you go to work on Alcazar’s public image, is that it? Four or five years from now, he’s throwing out the first pitch?”
“I don’t know what’s got into you, John.” Penfield’s gaze was the picture of compassion. “You were always headstrong, but this is insane…”
“I’m right on the money, Mr. Penfield.” Deal took a step toward him, flipping the bat around so that he could tap Penfield on the chest with the handle. “The funny thing is, I don’t give a goddamn if you make Raoul Alcazar the starting pitcher.”
Something seemed to give inside Penfield. His shoulders sagged and a faraway look came into his eyes momentarily. “Then let’s get this over with, John. What do you want from me?” There was a renewed flurry of thumps from the pantry, but they died away quickly.
“Somebody has Janice,” Deal said. “I don’t know why. I don’t know where. But it occurs to me that maybe you do.”
Penfield shook his head sadly. “John, you’re out of your mind.”
“That is another possibility,” Deal said. “I considered it, Mr. Penfield. But I came to the conclusion it wasn’t true.” He tapped Penfield’s chest with the end of the bat again. Penfield backed away, but he was blocked by a floral printed chaise longue.
“She said she knew about what happened last night at Alcazar’s. How would she know that?”
“Good Lord, Johnny, I don’t know.”
Deal poked him again and the old man went down in a heap on the chaise.
“She found out what happened and then she called me. Who told her?”
Penfield gaped up at him. Deal patted the bat softly in his palm.
“Maybe Alcazar, but he was awfully busy, last I saw of him.” Deal shrugged, looking around the room. “So maybe it was somebody tied up with Alcazar.” Deal poked him in the chest with the end of the bat again.
“I’d like you to tell me where Janice is, Mr. Penfield.”
Penfield stared up at him, his eyes watery. Fear? Pain? “John, for heaven’s sakes, I don’t know what you’re talking about. If Janice is alive, I’ll do anything I can to help find her…”
“Another possibility,” Deal said. “I thought about that too, all the way down here. But you’ve been lying to me all along about Alcazar. How can I trust you now?”
As Deal took another step forward, a car motor sounded in the driveway below. Keeping an eye on Penfield, he edged to the window and parted the curtains. The maid’s station wagon was pulling up between the garage and the back entrance. She couldn’t have bought as much as a loaf of bread in this amount of time. Had she forgotten something?
The passenger door opened first, and Alejandro, the blocky Latin with the bad complexion, stepped out, one of his pals from the dealership coming out the opposite side after him. Deal dropped the curtain and stepped back.
Penfield stared at him, his mouth quivering silently. “Just pray you’re not lying to me,” Deal said. A door banged open below. Then he tossed the bat aside and ran.
In moments, he was out of Penfield’s bedroom and down the broad corridor that split the upper level of the house, thanking Penfield for the heavy carpeting that muffled his footsteps. He heard the pantry door wrench open down below, then shouts, and then he was through the last door on the left that had been Mrs. Penfield’s sewing room and catchall in the days of his and Flivey’s youth.
The attraction of the room for Deal and Flivey had been the porch that opened off the room. Cantilevered off the back of the house and over the docking area, it made for a fine diving platform into the broad waterway, if you didn’t mind the possibility of falling a foot or so short onto the coral pilings that lined the shore below. He’d never minded it when he was fifteen, but today it seemed the house had retracted or the coral had bulged out from the porch. Had he really made the jump so many times? He heard more shouts inside the house as he kicked his sneakers off.
He backed up against the siding, felt the drip from the misting rain seeping through his shirt. He could see the tops of the hotels on the beach from here, a mile or so away. The Rivolta was parked under a canopy of trees somewhere in between. He felt the thumps of footsteps inside, then pushed himself off: three steps, a breathtaking rush of air, a glimpse of a Donzi throbbing down the middle of the channel thirty yards out, a blur of white jagged rock as his head tucked down, and then the soothing chill of the water as he knifed in and dove down.
