Magic City (10 page)

“We're here to speak to Alan Bingham,” Thorn said.

“Well, he's not here.”

The willowy man who opened the front door of Merrick Gallery was about to shut it again in their faces when Lawton shouldered ahead of Thorn and plucked his wallet from the back pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts and flashed an ID at the man.

“Homicide,” Lawton said in his old cop voice.

“I just put the phone down thirty seconds ago and you're here already?”

Lawton didn't skip a beat.

“Famous for our response time. What's the problem?”

“We were robbed. Or, I don't know, plundered, ransacked.”

The man half opened the door but didn't move, still deciding what to make of Lawton and Thorn. Two guys in short pants. He was not more than thirty but already bald except for a fringe of blond hair. He wore a dapper yellow silk shirt embossed with bamboo stalks. His mannered tilt of head and sulky tone suggested the irritation of someone whose station in the world was less than he believed he deserved. Another unappreciated genius.

“I called Coral Gables police, but your ID says Metro.”

Thorn had wanted to speak to Alan Bingham briefly, get his story on the photo, and head off to Key Largo, but now he was becoming intrigued.

“Thing like this,” Thorn said, “we send our best.”

“And who are you, sir?”

Lawton said, “This guy, he's one of our street punks working undercover. He's
supposed
to look like a dirtbag.”

“You want our assistance or not?” Thorn said.

The man heaved a world-weary sigh and swung open the door.

“My name is Marcus,” the man said. “Marcus Carbonnel.”

“So give us the tour, Marcus,” Thorn said.

“I unlocked the place five minutes ago. And this is what I found.”

Marcus strolled into a cool, shadowy room with high ceilings. He flicked on the overhead halogens and the room filled with a stark, flawless light. Except for the neatly spaced picture hangers, the white walls were bare.

“It's all out in the alley. Someone tore them down and made a bonfire.”

“Alan's photos?” Lawton said. “Somebody destroyed them? Why?”

“I believe it's your job to answer that, isn't it?”

So far, Lawton was holding himself together, but Thorn saw the old man's eyes begin to mist—the first signs of a meltdown. A crying jag or some rambling discourse on the degenerates he used to toss in the slammer.

Thorn stepped around Lawton and took over.

“Mr. Bingham have any enemies you know of?”

Marcus drew back and stared at Thorn as if he'd uttered a heresy.

“Everyone adores Alan. He's a sweet, dear man. I mean, yes, his work has a slight political edge, a kind of liberal sympathy for the downtrodden, but he's certainly not someone who would inspire this kind of…” Marcus gazed around at the empty walls and drew a fortifying breath.

“Violence?” Thorn offered.

“I suppose that's the word, yes,” Marcus said. “Of course, in this town sooner or later everyone in the arts is a target. You know how it is, anything that might be construed as the least bit pro-Castro, we can expect pickets and boycotts, political pressure. The Merrick has had its share of bomb threats, and the board of directors were bullied once into taking down an entire show. But, as I say, nothing in Alan's work arouses that kind of hatefulness.”

Carbonnel touched a hand to his white throat and kept it there as if taking his own overstimulated pulse. He looked over at Lawton, who was wandering the gallery, staring at the walls. The old man paused and hooked his finger over a hanger and tugged to test its worthiness.

“Just last night,” Carbonnel said, “we had a VIP reception, a private viewing with members of virtually every segment of Miami society, and I heard nothing but positive remarks all evening.”

“You hear that, Thorn?” Lawton called. “That's who Alan is. That man can draw the black-tie limo crowd. And what about you? You think any VIPs would show up for something you did? I sure as hell don't think so.”

Thorn figured they might have a minute or two more before the real cops arrived. It'd be tricky trying to explain why he and Lawton were impersonating police officers.

“Hey, Marcus,” Lawton called again. “You trying to pass this stuff off as art? All these blank walls. This some kind of joke?”

Thorn smiled.

“Don't mind Detective Collins, he's a joker.”

Marcus gave Thorn a sour look and seemed on the verge of trotting away to his office to make another phone call to the Gables cops.

“Did I see your badge?” Marcus said. “I don't believe I did.”

Thorn raised the boxing photograph.

“Was this part of the exhibit?”

Marcus examined the photo, then looked at Thorn.

“Where'd you get that?”

Thorn repeated his question, and with a huffy frown Marcus nodded.

“Look, Mr. Carbonnel, is there anything unique about this photo, something that sets it apart from the rest of the show?”

“You're not policemen, are you?”

Thorn held his gaze until Marcus couldn't bear it anymore, and with a grimace, he cut his eyes away. Not used to losing stare-downs.

“Here's the deal, Marcus. Detective Collins and I may already have a lead on the two guys who did this.”

“You do?”

“But we need your help. So stay with me, okay?”

Thorn glanced over at Lawton. The old man was almost finished circling the gallery. He'd tugged on every hanger and was shaking his head at the blank walls.

“The photo,” Thorn said, bringing it into Marcus's line of sight. “Is it distinctive in any way? Different than the others in the show?”

“Alan should be here by now,” said Marcus. “I phoned his home but got no answer, so I suspect he'll show up any second. You can ask him these questions.”

“I'm asking you,” Thorn said.

“Oh, I don't know. I mean, yes, I suppose it's unique. Uniquely inferior. Don't repeat this to Alan, of course, but that boxing shot is quite immature, technically sloppy compared with where he is now. More of a snapshot than an artistic effort. To be honest, I'm not sure why he decided to include it. The lighting, composition, even focus. It's amateurish. Has none of the elegant structure, the aesthetic tension he evolved over the years.”

“What about the people in the audience? Anything jump out at you?”

Marcus squinted for a moment, then shook his head.

“Fight fans, typical dress of the time. Somewhat quaint.”

“Why quaint?”

“Except for that one woman, it's all white middle-aged men. Everyone wearing suits and ties like they were dressed for church. That's not what you get in a boxing audience today.”

“Besides that?”

Carbonnel shrugged and looked over at Lawton, who seemed to be studying a particularly blank part of the wall.

Thorn caught a glimpse out the front window of a patrol car pulling up.

“Detective Collins,” he called out to Lawton. “We should wrap it up.”

“What?” Marcus said. “A couple of questions? Not going to dust for fingerprints? You don't want to see the bonfire in the alley, take a look at the security video?”

“There's a video?”

“Of course,” Marcus said. “Before you arrived I took a peek. Two men. Hispanic, I think. One was tall and thin, the other short and husky. I just looked at a few seconds, then you showed up.”

“Those are our guys.”

“You're sure?”

“Is there a back door to the alley?”

“Through there.” Marcus motioned with his chin to a narrow corridor.

“Listen,” Thorn said. “That VIP thing last night. Was that the first time these photos went public? They weren't on display before?”

“Oh, no. Alan's work has been shown a great deal. This show was a retrospective covering four decades of his career, more complete than anything he's done before. That's what made it so special. The breadth and scope of his presentation of Miami life, history, culture, crime. Everything.”

“This one, too, the boxing shot? It's been exhibited before?”

A uniformed cop was rapping on the front door, shielding his eyes from the sun as he peered into the tiny window.

Marcus made a move that way, but Thorn took a grip on his arm and held him fast.

“That's Mulroney, don't worry about him. He'll wait.”

“But…”

“What about it?” Thorn said. “Has it been shown before?”

“Not that I'm aware of. Alan must've pulled that out of a drawer in a moment of sentimental weakness.”

Thorn patted Marcus on the shoulder.

“What about a guest list from last night, this VIP thing?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Do I need one?”

Marcus glanced over at the patrolman at the door.

“It's in the office.”

“I'll wait.”

Marcus returned a moment later with a sheet of names. Thorn took it, folded it into quarters, and slid it into the back pocket of his khaki shorts.

“I really should let him in,” Marcus said.

Thorn gripped the young man's shoulder and steered him toward the rear of the museum.

“First the bonfire,” Thorn said. “The patrolman can wait.”

“Meyer Lansky,” Lawton said when they were back in the car, heading south through a shady neighborhood.

“What?”

“This guy.” Lawton tapped the little man in the gray sports coat and polo shirt, dark wavy hair, sitting three rows back from the ring. “It's Lansky, all right. And that guy next to him whispering in his ear, hell, anybody with a diamond on their pinkie, they got to be a gangster.”

They were working their way south through the Gables, driving beneath a canopy of oaks and ficus, passing tile-roofed mansions that backed up to a golf course. Hovering in the west was the glittering spire of the Biltmore Hotel. Part palace, part fortress, the hotel dominated the Mediterranean fantasyland surrounding it.

“My memory,” Lawton said. “It's spotty, I'll grant you that, but faces, no sir, I see a face once, zap, it sticks forever, like fuzz on Velcro. Names and faces. Faces and names. My specialty.”

Thorn kicked it around for a few blocks. Then, when they were stopped for a light at Bird Road and Granada, he said, “We're dropping this, Lawton. It's none of our damn business. We'll go to your house, pack some clothes, drive down to Key Largo. I'll call Alex later, tell her what happened. She can pass it to her cop friends at work, have them sniff around.”

“I
am
a cop.”

“You
were
a cop, Lawton. You're retired now.”

“Hell with that. A guy like me can't retire. Can you picture me, Jesus, sitting around all day in some retirement home? Hell, they'd have me doing flower arranging with a bunch of biddies before you know it. 'Cause that's what happens. Minute you quit the force, they ship you off to flower arranging.”

“I've heard that, yeah.”

“Lansky wasn't a killer per se,” Lawton said. “He was the financial guy. He set up the front businesses. Down in Havana, that was his big deal. He squeezed out Bugsy Siegel, made a bargain with Batista, the dictator before Castro. They were going to build fifty hotels together, a Riviera of sin, gambling, prostitution, drugs. Then the communists came along and tossed him out, and old Meyer wound up back in Miami Beach. Not even his CIA buddies could help him. He was pissed. But what could he do? I saw him once before he died of cancer. Out walking down Collins Avenue with his blind shih tzu. Shriveled-up little guy. Didn't matter he was worth four hundred million. He died like the rest of us.”

“When was that? When did he die?”

“Had to be, I don't know, twenty years ago. In the eighties sometime.”

“So why the hell would two punks care about a picture of him at a boxing match?”

“Punks,” Lawton said. “Who knows how their minds work? I got close to forty years working with slimeballs, I still got no idea what makes them tick. Anybody says he does is full of shit. Way I see it, slimeballs come flying in from the far end of the universe. Some perverted planet produces them and launches them one after the other.
Whoosh, whoosh
. Dead of night, they zoom down out of the sky, crash-land in the desert, the Mojave, Death Valley, Sahara, they're closed up inside those pods, you know. A few hours later, up they pop. Ready-made slimeballs. They're raining down every night, hundreds of them, thousands maybe. Who knows? Deserts all around the globe.”

Thorn felt a wave of ripples pass across the flesh of his shoulders.

Snake. The name had been itching in his head since he'd heard it earlier that morning. And now like some faint echo that finally comes rolling back across the canyon, the name clarified, attached itself to a place and time. There had been only one Snake in Thorn's life. Only one.

When the light changed, Thorn wheeled left onto Bird, then left again, heading back the way they'd come.

In that week following the Clay and Liston fight, he and Kate and Dr. Bill had stayed in a Miami motel to take in the sights. During those seven memorable days, two boys' names were on the news again and again. Two orphaned kids. They were the sole survivors of a mass murder, which was graphically recounted in the press. It was to be Thorn's first clear memory of the horrors men could wreak upon one another. And since Thorn himself was an orphan, losing his natural parents in a violent car crash when he was an infant, those two kids, Snake and his younger brother, made an indelible mark.

Thorn weaved north, picking his way toward Coral Gables Library, listening to Lawton work out his intergalactic theory of evil.

Maybe Thorn was starting the slide toward senility himself, because by the time he drew into the library parking lot, Lawton's outer-space invasion idea was starting to sound as plausible as any explanation of evil Thorn had ever heard.

 

Millicent Wharton, the reference librarian for Coral Gables Library, was in her late sixties and must have threaded the microfiche machine for idiots like Thorn ten thousand times before. But she did it with a happy smile nonetheless, chatting all the time about the year he'd selected, 1964. A wonderfully innocent period, according to her. Miami was such a lazy, happy town. So polite and full of promise.

“You couldn't have been more than five years old,” Thorn said.

The white-haired woman gave him a pretty smile and hooked the spool of film onto the sprockets and ran it forward. The pages flashed by on the screen like a herky-jerky newsreel.

Millicent's unstated implication was one Thorn had heard hundreds of times before. Think of what a paradise Miami would be today if Castro had never come to power and Miami was still an English-speaking southern city instead of the unofficial capital of Latin America. The attitude was a sly mingling of nostalgia and racism. Most in South Florida had long ago come to some sort of détente with the Latin takeover. Many, like Thorn, even embraced it, found its food and scents and cacophony of languages a stimulating alternative to the bland middle-American sensibility that once ruled the region. But Millicent's delicately stated bias was common. It sneaked into the conversations like a wisp of toxic gas. It was offered as an invitation for a full mean-spirited conversation about the Hispanic invasion and all its irritating consequences.

But Thorn let the invitation pass.

At a reading table nearby, Lawton was hunched over. He'd fallen into a dark sulk and was staring at the empty mat before him.

When Millicent had the machine primed and ready, Thorn slid the boxing photo onto the desk in front of her.

“Cassius Clay?” she said.

“You're good.”

“He was the champ. Who could forget?”

“What about the audience? Anyone you recognize?”

Millicent studied the image for a while, then turned to Thorn with a look of mild surprise.

“The mayor. Stanton King. All of twenty-seven years old.”

She tapped the man sitting two down from Meyer Lansky. His left cheek stained with a red birthmark.

“Well, now,” Thorn said. “Isn't that interesting?”

“Oh, back then Stanton King was a boy wonder. Everybody loved that man. Such a charmer. Until he got married, then he just sort of disappeared.”

“Marriage can do that, I hear.”

“Especially if it's to someone like the woman he fell for.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, listen to me. Gossiping about one of the pillars of our city.”

“Who'd he marry?”

“Well, her name is Lola.”

Millicent made a face. The slightest roll of eyes, her lips flattening in mock horror. The look a respectable woman might give a tramp who'd just sashayed into the drawing room with her garters exposed.

“Would you like me to help your father find something to read?”

“That'd be nice,” Thorn said. “But he's a little cantankerous.”

“Wouldn't be my first.” The librarian smiled and drifted away to take charge of Lawton.

Thorn cranked the machine through the early days of '64, speeding past photos and headlines and page after page of classified ads. After a while it felt a little like pawing through a tomb. The transitory goodies of an era so far removed that probably little if anything advertised on those pages still survived.

He homed in on the last week of February, scanning the items quickly.

The sports pages were full of prefight articles and photos. Cassius with his mouth and eyes wide-open, jawing at the press, at whoever would listen. Cassius with the Beatles, clowning around inside the ring of his training camp, throwing a fake punch at Ringo. And several shots of Sonny Liston glowering into the lens in a hateful, wordless gloom. Edwin Pope was the writer of most of those sports stories. A man who still covered that beat for the
Herald
, still clipped his sentences short and brutally precise. Thorn loved his stuff and he'd forgotten that it was Pope's coverage of Cassius that he'd read at the breakfast table each morning when he was just a kid.

Then he rolled the machine forward to the Morales murders. The shocking events shared the front page with Clay's victory. And just as Thorn's flickering memory had whispered, the two surviving sons of Jorge and María Morales were named Carlos and Snake.

He rolled the loop of microfilm forward to the days following the bloodshed and found pictures of the boys settled into Mayor Stanton King's Coconut Groves estate, a fine old Mediterranean villa where the photographer had posed the newly orphaned kids in front of a vast swimming pool and the spread of Biscayne Bay. The tall, wiry Snake, and the thick-necked younger brother, Carlos. There was no mistaking it. The two boys in the newspaper photos had become the two men at Alexandra's house earlier that morning.

Even in the fuzzy black-and-white newspaper photos, it was clear the two of them had experienced their loss in starkly different ways. In every shot young Carlos was smiling broadly, while Snake was slumped and heavy and refused to look into the camera lens. A few days after their entire family was murdered, the younger kid was celebrating his good fortune while Snake seemed to be tormented by the unspeakable demons of grief.

Off to his right Thorn heard Lawton's grumpy voice coming from the far corner of the back shelves. Library patrons were glancing that way as Lawton came stalking across the big quiet room with Millicent's hand fixed firmly to his upper arm.

“He was trying to tear out a page,” she said as she sat Lawton down at the microfiche machine next to Thorn.

She was holding a coffee-table book of photographs.
The Life of Muhammad Ali
.

“Page seventy-five,” said Lawton. “Look at it, Thorn.”

Millicent settled the heavy book on the desk and flopped it open. Thorn leafed through the glossy pages: Cassius growing up in Louisville, Cassius at the Olympics in 1960, Cassius training in Miami Beach for his showdown with Liston. And then a single shot of the fight itself.

“Upper right corner,” Lawton said. “I told you I was there.”

Thorn peered at the photo of the crowd. A different view of the big auditorium from the one with Meyer Lansky and Stanton King.

“I don't see you,” Thorn said.

“Right there.” Lawton leaned over and tapped a finger against a pair of legs standing in the aisle. “Those are my shoes. See how polished they were? That's me. Spit-shined. Nobody ever got their shoes as glossy.”

Millicent looked at Thorn and smiled.

“They
are
shiny,” she said.

“Yes,” said Thorn. “Shinier than anybody else's.”

“And you thought I was lying,” Lawton said. “But look. I was there. I watched the whole damn fight. ‘If you want to go to heaven, you'll drop in seven.' I was there, damn it.”

“Yes, you were,” Thorn said.

When Lawton had quieted down, Thorn asked Millicent how to make Xerox copies of some of the newspaper pages. He might want to read them through more carefully later on. Millicent led him through the process, feeding several dollar bills into the machine. Together they printed out a couple of dozen pages. Millicent Wharton found a manila envelope and slipped the copies inside, along with the Clay-Liston photograph.

“Good luck on your research,” she said at the door.

Thorn thanked her for her help and stepped outside.

A shower had passed while they were in the library. The sidewalk was steaming and water pattered from the branches overhead. The light filtering through heavy clouds turned a misty yellow as they walked back to the car. Summer was coming. Its seven months of relentless heat, the airless breezes, the merciless clouds of mosquitoes.

Usually Thorn was cheered by that first taste of humid air. He thrived in the summer heat. But today the thickening breeze seemed oppressive and full of menace. His lungs were unaccountably laboring.

He'd staggered into somebody else's nightmare. A mayor and a mobster sitting at a boxing match forty years earlier. The boys whose parents had been murdered that same night were grown men now, and apparently the two of them had ransacked an art gallery, destroyed a photo exhibit, then come gunning for Lawton to steal his copy of that image of their adoptive father and the Mafia boss.

Maybe it was Thorn's vivid memories of that week in Miami after the Clay fight. The newspapers full of the murders. The TV and radio prattling on about nothing else. As Thorn and Kate and Dr. Bill had driven around the city, soaking up the sights, half a dozen times they'd been halted by blockades. They sat in the car and watched as hundreds of Cubans marched down main thoroughfares, carrying posters and chanting for an American attack against the communist devils who'd committed this atrocity.

Or maybe what was pushing Thorn's buttons was the orphan angle. The explosion of brutality those two kids had suffered had fused with his own experience of a similar grief and isolation. He identified with those two boys, knew the weight and texture of their hurt, the devastating sense of injustice and desertion of losing both parents in a single bewildering catastrophe.

Whatever it was, the significance of the photograph and the passions it had aroused were absolutely none of Thorn's goddamn business. Yet it was all starting to feel very personal.