The Quick Adios (Times Six) (8 page)

I sensed that the space would not be photo-friendly.

“I know,” said Beeson. “It looks like more than a full day’s work.

It looks like far less, I thought.

“Our helpers can shift those cubes to different arrangements,” he said. “We can emphasize fabric colors, drop-downs, modular height, lighting, privacy and corner offices.”

“Flexibility,” I said, already bored shitless.

“Yep,” he said. “That big room doesn’t exist for its beauty. It’s there to generate revenue.” In a lowered tone he added, “For someone. Speaking of which…”

He stepped into the last office on the left, flipped on the ceiling lights. With a key on his pocket ring, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He lifted out a notebook-sized checkbook and began to write.

“Let’s call this your sixty percent up front, but if your bill runs higher, for any reason, you’ll get no argument from me.” He handed me a check for $1,500 then locked up the checkbook, flipped off the lights and led the way out of the office.

Bordering the maze of cubicles, the hall turned to the right and ended at a steel door that Beeson opened with his passcard. “These were the shipping and receiving bays in our first incarnation,” he said.

The workshop smelled of anti-freeze, axle grease, stale gas and Go-Jo soap. Just inside the doorway a young man in a vintage Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and oil-stained Levi’s sat at a parts bench. He appeared to be rebuilding a hefty carburetor. Beeson introduced him as Edwin Torres.

I guessed that Torres was in his late-twenties. He nodded and wiggled his right hand as if to say, “I’m too greasy to shake hands.” He had a tattoo on the left side of his neck that resembled a hitchhiker’s thumb. I had to wonder if Edwin needed the skin art to solicit a ride back to prison. Then I reminded myself to hold back on my judgment of his appearance. The guy was working for Beeson. He could be a family man, a normal fellow.

“How are things?” said Beeson.

As if he knew he wasn’t to answer, Torres returned to his task. Another young man, face-up on a flat mechanic’s creeper, rolled out from under a 1955 Chevy two-door 150 with a shaved hood and American Racing wheels. “Smooth as can be,” he said.

I looked back to Torres. He nodded in agreement but kept his eyes on his work and said nothing.

Beeson introduced me to Luke Tharpe, a man with a choirboy face, probably in his early twenties. He also gave me a wave in lieu of a handshake. His hair style, with its part to starboard and wave above his forehead, was straight from a 1940s Norman Rockwell painting. He wore royal blue coveralls, a gray T-shirt and greasy sneakers, and came off as the spokesman for the pair. When he stood to chat with Beeson, I thought that he and Torres might be the two slimmest men in Florida.

“There is one thing,” said Tharpe. He and Beeson began to discuss re-chromed trim and bumper guards that hadn’t been delivered on time. I walked away to let the men talk business without me.

“Two minutes,”Beeson half-shouted to me. “I’m hungry, too.”

The rear interior section of the building was partitioned under a maze of trusses and high storage bins. The rear wall had a glassed-in security access cube, less fancy than the one out front. It appeared to be a bother and a foolish expense next to three roll-up galvanized steel garage doors.

In the section given to the failed museum, old gas station signs and framed showroom placards hung on walls and partitions. One sign promoted the aftermarket installation of seat belts. Model cars, chrome fender badges and vintage brochures were arranged in glass-topped display cases. Three cars were pushed up against one wall. A ‘66 Mustang fastback that someone had turned into an imitation Candyapple Red Shelby GT-350H with gold stripes. The Nightmist Blue ‘67 fastback Mustang that Beeson and I had discussed on New Year’s Eve. And a green ‘54 Ford Customline V-8 coupe with whitewalls, vinyl seat covers and small hub caps. Three fine cars and four antique gas pumps, all pushed aside like old ashtrays. The checkered-flag motif flooring was covered with the kind of file storage boxes you buy from Office Depot. The proud display had gone to seed.

My phone buzzed again in my pocket. I couldn’t answer, but stole a look. Dubbie Tanner trying to get through.

From thirty feet away I heard Beeson bark, “Fuck him. We’ll buy our manifolds from someone else.”

I turned to look. He was walking toward me.

“That was my grandmother’s car.” He pointed at the ‘54 Ford. “Original Highland Green. It survived her driving right up to the day she died, bless her soul, even while the DMV was trying to revoke her license. They claimed she didn’t sit high enough to see over the dashboard. These, however…” He stepped behind another partition and I followed. “This is Amanda’s stable. My ex-wife likes attention.”

Along the opposite wall sat a red Mini Cooper convertible, a white Mercedes-Benz SLK300 roadster, and a silver BMW 335 convertible. A trio of showroom fresh Draw-Attention specials.

Beeson called out to Luke Tharpe. “How are we so blessed? All three are here?”

Luke walked over and explained that he had come in the day before and found the Benz outside, as if it had been dropped off. He had moved it inside to its regular spot. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but somewhere in his explanation he used the word, “ostensibly.” His vocabulary didn’t match his clothing.

Beeson and I?left the way we had entered. The Cubicle Wasteland turned me off even more the second time through. On the upside, some buyer might see the huge open-plan room as an inviting challenge. My view was that no photo of mine, no matter how artistic, could beautify the workplace.

As we passed back through the security “man trap” to the parking lot, I had to wonder why Beeson, with his expensive classic and modern cars needing shelter and maintenance, was so anxious to sell their oversized garage? If the building sold, what would he do with them all?

I saw the place as promise of a tough and boring day ahead of me.

I would be correct. I would also be wrong.

B
eeson drove south on I-75, west into Sarasota and south on Orange Avenue. During that time two thoughts played inside my mind. One was the quick attitude shift the man had displayed inside his failed museum. He had vehemently cussed a supplier and ten seconds later, in a respectful, wistful tone, expressed fondness for his late grandmother and her ‘54 Ford. That ability to transform himself so abruptly would shade my opinion of the man from that point on.

We entered a pleasant area of tall trees and lovely homes tragically devalued by its concrete speed bumps, obnoxious traffic calming mounds announced by reflective pavement paint that read, “Hump.” It was a part of town similar to many in America where anyone on foot and not wearing jogging clothes is under suspicion. A mile farther, under mature, leafy trees, Beeson turned right into Cormorant Lane.

“You can’t tell because of the privacy walls,” he said, “but we’re only 200 feet from salt water.”

I asked if he kept a boat at the house.

“My pristine 2011 Sea Ray 350 Sundancer with the custom-built teak interior is owned by my ex-wife these days,” he said. “With fuel prices through the roof, it’s everything I could wish for her. Of course, indirectly, I pay that gas bill too.”

Beeson’s home looked new, Mediterranean, with arches and high ceilings, lighted landscaping worth more than my home in Key West. He parked to the left side of his three-wide driveway, grabbed his satchel, we got out. He unlocked a tall gate next to the garage and led me down a flagstone path to a private entrance to the guest house. The small bungalow was a masterpiece of indirect lighting. Its king-size bed looked like ivory-toned high-thread-count heaven. Six fat pillows rested against a stout, solid wood headboard. Dave Brubeck jazz came from speakers I couldn’t see.

“Drop your bags and wash up.” He pointed through the French door to a window on the far side of the lighted pool. “Please join us for drinks and supper when you’re ready.”

“I’ll need to make one or two calls,” I said.

“Take your time.” He pushed open the French door, left it ajar and strode across his pool deck toward the kitchen door. The bungalow door closed slowly until the last inch or so then snapped shut automatically.

Another call had come through during our drive back into town. I sat in a leather chair, practically sank to China. Fred Liska’s message said, “There was something I meant to mention this afternoon, and I didn’t do it. For that I apologize, and I would rather not discuss it on the phone. Please call when you can. Maybe we can sit on your peaceful porch again and chill out.”

From Beth: “Okay, I’m going to hope… Never mind. I know you’re not being an asshole like I was. There’s a real reason that you haven’t answered four times in the past three hours. I’ve changed my mind about not seeing you tonight, but right now I’m going to have a drink with my next-door neighbor. She wants to sit at Antonia’s bar and listen to the bartender’s jokes. Call if you want company.”

Hell, yes, I wanted company. I wanted to yell out the door so she would be sure to hear me.

Four empty voicemails had arrived from Dubbie Tanner. Finally he lost his mike fright: “Hope you don’t mind me leaving this in your message box. My partner, on a library computer, found Christi Caldwell, Emerson’s wife, on Facebook. He can’t get to her stats page until she accepts him as a “friend.” Her profile photo, we’re talking soccer mom.”

Wiley may have thought that the library’s computers were secure, but I feared he had a surprise in store. I felt certain that the staff required some form of ID to use the machinery. If some agency wanted to find him, they could.

I looked toward the main house, saw Anya Timber peer back at me from a kitchen window. Beeson’s remark that I should take my time may not have fit Anya’s idea of suppertime. Best to get inside, be a dutiful guest.

I walked around the pool’s chlorine cloud, across a painted deck, and found the kitchen by way of a central room large enough for volleyball. Even with six or eight plates of food on the center island, I could smell Anya’s shampoo and conditioner. Her damp hair was tucked behind one ear, a touch that highlighted her loveliness.

Beeson stood alongside a glass-front liquor cabinet at the far end of the kitchen. He shook a cocktail glass, rattled the melting ice in the dregs of his first toddy.

“Drink, Mr. Rutledge?” he said. “There’s beer… and wine, if you’d rather.”

I noticed an open Grgich Hills bottle next to Anya. I pointed at the Cabernet.

Anya poured generously into a fourteen-ounce glass. Handing it to me, she tapped the U-shaped granite-topped island that held all the food. “This is albacore tuna salad, here are two turkey reubens and that’s hot beef and brie. Over there is vegetarian lasagna. This is eggplant rollatini. Please help yourself, Alex.” She pointed to one empty plate. “Justin and I are light eaters.”

She had bought dinner for six to ensure that I had something I liked. I sipped the wine and watched Beeson fill his rocks glass with Johnnie Walker Green Label.

Anya understood my reluctance to dig in alone. “I can make you a plate,” she said. “Is there anything you
don’t
like?”

“Not on that table,” I said.

Beeson and I watched as she created an assortment of salads and pasta, then slid the plate onto a teak party tray.

“Shall we adjourn to the den?” said Beeson.

I followed him out of the kitchen, spent another ten seconds in the huge central room and entered an entertainment center paneled in walnut, filled with mahogany furniture and leather chairs. Three 60-inch TV screens filled one wall, a bookcase filled another, and two sets of French doors faced the pool area. A sofa and three chairs were at the library end of the room, and eight theater seats faced the center screen on the wall. I didn’t see speakers, but knew there were plenty somewhere. Beeson pressed a remote and one of the screens popped on with a movie of a real aquarium. We sat and he raised his glass in a toast to something. The task ahead or my presence in his fine home. Or for no other reason beyond habit. Then he sucked down about fifteen bucks worth of scotch in one gulp.

Anya joined us carrying a tray. She had fixed herself a small plate so I wouldn’t have to be the only one eating. She sat next to Beeson on the wide sofa. With his housemate next to him, Beeson went philosophic.

“I’ve gone from no worries to high pressure, Rutledge,” he said, “but I’m still better off than ninety-nine percent of the people in this country. I quit running around like crazy three months ago and I thought things through. I had made a series of bad decisions, I won’t deny that. But I also tolerated second-rate associates. I can change that, and part of my rehab is hiring people like you.

Anya stared at the fish. “You may be trivializing the word ‘rehab,’ Justin.”

His confident grin froze, rictus-like, and he wiggled his arm a moment, swirling the ice in his glass. “I meant only to praise a fine photographer, dear. I suppose I was bragging about leaving behind all my destructive habits.”

“You paint with a broad brush, my love,” she said.

Beeson looked away from Anya, didn’t respond. A cold expression enveloped his face, his eyes locked on his drink glass. The liquor was gone. I couldn’t tell if the topic fatigued him, or he resented Anya’s making her comment in front of me. He stood shakily. “When she starts to edit my pronouncements, Alex, I know it’s time for one of us to go to bed. Please excuse me.”

Beeson left us in the mini-theater watching the aquarium. Anya reached for the remote, pressed it several times. The aquarium went dark and another screen began showing a movie of a beach in the Caribbean. The camera was fixed, pointed at the water, at lapping waves, tree fronds swaying to each side of the view. Other islands were visible in the distance.

“British Virgins?” I said.

“Yes,” said Anya. “An old friend of mine has a home there, and he sends me one of these every month. Justin’s not too wild about them. Would you like another glass of wine? Or some other drink?”

“Wine, thank you, but I can pour it.”