Baja Florida (4 page)

Boggy and I were on the road by 6:00 a.m. I had a thermos of Café Bustelo. Boggy had a thermos of God-only-knows-what. He poured some in his cup. It made the car smell like something that might get stuck on the bottom of your shoe and you wouldn't bother scraping it off, you'd just throw the shoe away.

“What is that stuff?”

“
Maja acu,
” Boggy said. “Is Taino for ‘Big Eye Tea.'”

“Big Eye as in wakes you up?”

“No, more like Big Eye as in helps you see.”

“See what?”

“See what you would not see if you did not drink it.”

“It legal?”

“By whose law?”

“By the law of any highway patrolman who might pull me over, ask what's in there, and then haul the both of us to jail.”

Boggy drained the cup. Then he drained the rest of the thermos.

“We're good,” he said.

He closed his eyes and for the rest of the drive to Miami he just sat there seeing what ever the hell he saw—a short dark man with long black hair and the visage of some ancient stone-faced tiki god.

I saw U.S. 1 going south in the early morning. Tiny pockets of it were still distinctly Florida—tidal creeks and salt marshes, mom 'n' pop motels and bait shacks, houses built to fit a place, not to make a statement about net worth.

But more and more it was just a slice of anywhere. The same restaurant that would serve me the same hamburger in Omaha. The same motel that would offer me the same thin mattress in Dubuque. The same gated developments with the same insipid names—Oak Run, Pine Glen, Quail Hollow—that substituted nomenclature for what they had stripped from nature.

I recalled a sign I had seen at Minorca Beach, just north of our place. Most of Minorca County allows people to drive cars on the beach, a long-standing tradition in this part of Florida, dating back to the days when the first stock car races were held on the hard-packed sands at Daytona. A big part of me knows that driving cars on the beach doesn't make a lick of sense. Not good for loggerhead hatchlings that get squashed under steel-belted radials. Not good for sunbathers on beach blankets who get mistaken for speed bumps. But this is Florida and good sense is not an abundant natural resource. All fourteen million of us want a place where we can plant an umbrella and a chaise lounge and enjoy our little place in the sun. Yes, the beach belongs to everyone. And the notion that access to it is the exclusive domain of those who can afford to own pricey oceanfront homes doesn't sit right with me either.

Recently, driving had been outlawed along a five-mile stretch of south Minorca Beach. In addition to putting up Day-Glo barricades to divert traffic, the county had erected a pair of giant signs that read “Natural Area Ahead.” It was like planting wildflowers in the median of the interstate and calling it a “Wildlife Refuge.” No matter that beyond the pair of giant signs the five-mile stretch was zero-lot lined with ticky-tacky condos built where soaring dunes once stood. No matter that the beach itself was actually fill that had been pumped in from offshore by huge dredges after the last hurricane and would likely disappear with the next big blow. No matter that the endemic coastal vegetation—sea oats, scrub oaks, and spartina grass—had been replaced by sod lawns, hibiscus hedges, and other exotic flora that needed constant irrigation from an increasingly tapped-out aquifer. No matter that the most abundant fauna was flocks of squawking seagulls that subsisted on a diet of Cheetos and discarded fried chicken. It was, by official proclamation and garish sign-age, a “Natural Area.” And it irked me. It irked me because it bespoke an insidious mentality, one that had crept in to diminish our understanding of nature in its most precious and bona-fide form. It made us increasingly numb to venal encroachment and blind to greed masquerading as progress.

But simmer down, Chasteen. You're getting older. You're a husband and a father. By all rights, your mellow years are well upon you. The rage? Let it go, man, let it go.

Besides, generations of Floridians have been raging and to what good? The thirty percent of us who vote still elect county commissioners who buddy-up to developers and lack the foresight of a flea. And the legislature, populated largely by realtors who fancy themselves statesmen, provides ongoing evidence that everything all the other states think about us yahoos down here might well be true: It's not the heat, it's the stupidity.

Perhaps it really is better just to marvel over the ongoing spectacle of Florida, do what you can to save your little part of it, and hope for the best.

If we've succeeded at nothing else, then at least we have succeeded in out-weirding California. Really, there ought to be a cable news channel that is all Florida, all the time. Chronically botched elections, astronaut/hitwomen wearing adult diapers, and Burmese pythons taking over the Everglades. Condo commandos, world-record shark attacks, and a critical mass of trailer trash.

Our peculiar peninsula is the original Dysfunction Junction. Give the U.S.A. a good shake and all the loose parts roll down our way.

Yes, the road to hell passes straight through Florida. Grab a chaise lounge, kick back, and enjoy the parade.

Around Titusville I pulled onto I-95 and slid into the southward flow. Traffic started jamming when we hit Delray Beach a couple of hours later, became a total snakepit in Fort Lauderdale, and by the time the interstate folded into Dixie Highway south of downtown Miami, I was ready to get where we were going.

The detective's name was Delgado. Abel Delgado. Mickey Ryser told me he'd been referred to him by a friend of a friend, someone who worked for the Metro Dade Police Department. Delgado had left the force and set up shop for himself. I'd called his office twice on the drive down. Each time I'd gotten a voice on the answering machine—Delgado's, I supposed; monotone, like he was reading from a script—followed by a beep. Then the call disconnected like it does when the answering machine is full.

I'd been expecting a shabby storefront in a run-down strip mall somewhere. But the address was Coral Gables, a shiny, five-story office building on Ponce de Leon. Nice neighborhood with soaring palms—Cuban Royals,
Roystonia regia
—lining the street.

I found shade under a banyan tree at a corner of the parking lot. Boggy was in the exact position as when we'd left home hours earlier. Sitting up straight in the passenger seat, hands clasped in his lap, eyes closed.

I gave him a shake. One eye eased open and considered me.

“We're here,” I said.

The eye closed. Boggy didn't budge.

Fine, then. I'd go it alone.

I got out of the car and went inside the building. A receptionist's desk sat in the middle of the lobby, sans the receptionist. Near the elevator, a directory listed who was where, and I picked out Delgado Investigations, Suite 121.

I walked down a hall and found Suite 121 at the end of it, past the law office of Andrew Strecker, Esq., and a real estate appraisal firm. I tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Same thing.

I looked at my watch. Ten o'clock. No reason a private detective should keep regular office hours.

I walked back to the car. I gave Boggy another shake. This time I kept shaking until both his eyes opened.

“Nap time's over.”

“Wasn't napping,” he said.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“Good. You can watch me eat.”

A few minutes later we were sitting at Lario's, just south of Sunset. There are more authentic Cuban joints than Lario's in Miami, places where you order at a walk-up window and eat at the counter next to old men smoking fat cigars and old women studying scratch-off lottery tickets, sometimes vice versa.

But Lario's had a patio and I liked sitting there. The view was nothing special—a Winn-Dixie across the street—but the human scenery was always worth taking in. Not the fashionista South Beach scene, but the ebb and flow of a neighborhood. Good-looking moms with their good-looking kids. Guys with slicked-back hair who might be mobsters. Or who might just as easily be deposed Central American dictators. U.M. coeds who might moonlight at Club Platinum. Young men in dark suits doing deals. Old men in guayaberas dreaming of deals they once did.

When the waiter appeared, I ordered a
cortadito
, Cuban toast, and a chorizo omelet with pica de gallo. Boggy said he'd have the same thing.

“Thought you weren't hungry.”

“I'm not,” Boggy said.

“Just being sociable?”

He looked at me. Like I should know better.

The waiter brought the
cortaditos
and the toast, and we broke off hunks of toast and dipped them in the coffee and didn't talk.

A man sitting at the table next to us was going on about the Heat and how with a stud like Dwyane Wade why couldn't they do any better than they did. The guys sitting at the table on the other side were talking about all the grouper they'd caught in the Dry Tortugas over the weekend. Then again, they could have been talking about the Heat, too. My Spanish pretty much sucks.

The waiter brought our omelets and we ate them. I ordered another
cortadito,
sucked it down, and paid the bill.

We drove back to the office on Ponce de Leon. This time Boggy deigned to accompany me inside.

It was still short of noon. Still no receptionist at the receptionist's desk. Still no answer to my knocking on the door of Suite 101.

Maybe the neighbors knew something. No one home at the real estate appraisal firm. But the door to the law firm of Andrew Strecker, Esq., opened and we stepped inside.

A woman sat behind a desk in the anteroom. Mid-thirties, pretty enough. More than pretty enough, actually. One of those women it took you a second glance to see all the pretty.

She looked me up and down without passing judgment. She looked at Boggy and her eyes lingered longer and she smiled. That's the way it always is. Women see Boggy and they want to hug him. Sometimes they wind up doing more than that. Beats hell out of me.

“Help you?” she said.

“Actually, we're looking for the guy at the end of the hall. Abel Delgado.”

It didn't register. Then she brightened.

“Oh, the detective you mean?”

“Yes, him. Any idea when he usually comes in?”

She shook her head.

“Afraid I can't help you. I've never even laid eyes on him.” She shrugged an apology. “But then, I've only been working here a couple weeks. Just a sec…”

She punched the intercom button on her phone.

“Mr. Strecker?”

A voice said, “Yeah, Maria, what is it?”

“Men here are asking about the office down the hall.”

“They want to rent it, tell them to call the leasing agent.”

“I don't think they want to rent it.” She looked at me. “Do you?”

“No, just looking for Abel Delgado,” I said.

“They're just looking for Abel Delgado,” she repeated into the intercom.

A pause, then: “Oh, looking for Abel Delgado. Hold on…”

“He'll be right with you,” Maria said.

She nodded to a pair of chairs. We didn't take her up on sitting down. She didn't seem offended. She studied Boggy and smiled some more.

A few seconds later, Strecker stepped into the anteroom. Younger than his secretary. Not long out of law school. Tall with shaggy blondish hair.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were interested in the office next door. Closed up shop. Appraisal business isn't what it used to be.”

“We're looking for Abel Delgado,” I said.

I figured if I said it enough it might finally sink in with someone.

Strecker thought about it.

“May I ask what for?”

“Yes,” I said.

He waited. Then he got it. He looked away, coughed.

“Reason I ask,” Strecker said, “is because I represent Mr. Delgado in…in his personal matters. And if this pertains to that, then…”

“This pertains to ten thousand dollars he took from a friend of mine as a retainer to locate his daughter. Thing is, my friend has had exactly no luck contacting Mr. Delgado to find out what he has done to earn the money and find the daughter. And now it has become a personal matter. For me.”

“Oh, I see,” said Strecker. He seemed to be eyeing us for the ball-peen hammers we might have brought along to use on Delgado's kneecaps. Guess I couldn't blame him for thinking that, this being Miami and two guys walking into his office looking like Boggy and me. “I'm afraid I can't help you with that.”

“You got any idea what time Delgado might show up at his office?”

Strecker shook his head.

“No,” he said.

“What time does he usually show up when he shows up?”

“No special time really,” Strecker said. “Early. Late. All hours. It depends.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don't know. A week ago. Maybe longer.”

“Know where he lives?”

“Yes,” Strecker said.

I waited. Then I got it. Touché.

“Gentlemen,” Strecker said.

He turned and went back to wherever he came from.

I tipped my head to Maria.

“Thanks for your time.”

She looked over her shoulder to make sure Strecker was long gone.

“Hang on,” she said.

She turned to her computer, tapped on the keyboard, squinted at the screen. She wrote something on a piece of paper, folded it over, and handed it to me.

“Try this,” she said.

“Appreciate that.”

She smiled. This time it wasn't all for Boggy.

“Hope you find the guy's daughter,” she said.

The next time it was just him and he didn't untie her.

He pulled her upright on the bed. He sat beside her. They had found her a clean pair of pan ties and put them on her and that's all she wore now.

He touched the back of her shoulder. She flinched.

“Looks infected,” he said. “I'll get something for it.”

He ran his fingers down her cheek, put a hand on her thigh.

Her stomach tightened.

He moved his hand between her legs. She tried to squirm away but he held her there.

He brought his face close to hers and spoke in a whisper.

“Sweet, sweet Jen…”

“I need to pee.”

He jerked his hand away and moved back from her. He helped her up from the bed. He loosened her feet just enough so she could hobble. He left the blindfold on and her arms bound behind her as he walked her away from the bed. She was a little wobbly and she had to lean into him to keep her balance.

She heard a hatch door slide open. He pulled her pan ties down to her knees and turned her around. She bumped her head against the top of the door frame. The ceiling was low and she imagined that, tall as he was, he was having to stoop not to scrape against it.

He said, “OK, sit.”

He helped her ease down onto the toilet. It sat low on the floor. A chemical toilet, not one that flushed into a holding tank. It told her that the boat she was on wasn't all that big.

He said, “OK, go.”

“Can you shut the door?”

“Nope.”

The head was cramped. Her shoulders brushed against the walls as she positioned herself atop the toilet. When she was done, she said, “Can you undo my hands?”

“What for?”

“So I can clean myself.”

“Down there?”

“Yes.”

“All you did was pee, right?”

“Yes.”

“So drip dry.”

She sat there, and after a moment she said, “I'm thirsty. I need something to drink.”

He stepped away and she heard water running from a faucet. She looked up and had a slight sensation of light. Maybe there was a small hatch above her or a ventilation shaft. She could feel air coming from above.

He returned and touched a cup to her lips. He put a hand behind her head, helping her as she drank. She emptied the cup.

“More,” she said.

He snickered.

“Oh, Jen, I love it when you say that.”

She spit at him. And she kept spitting, bracing for the blow she knew would come. But nothing happened. He stepped away. She sat still and heard the water running and he came back with another cup. She emptied it, too, and when she was done he helped her to her feet, pulled up her pan ties, and walked her back to the bed.

“You hungry?”

She was weak and hollow and she did not feel like eating. Most of all, she did not want to take anything more from him. She could not bear to feel his touch against her skin. But she knew she could not let herself slip away.

“Yes,” she said. “I could eat something.”

She heard him rustling around and when he returned to the bed he fed her saltines and chunks of cheese. There were pieces of apple, too.

She ate slowly at first, tentatively, and then as her stomach stopped protesting, she began to devour the food, waiting anxiously for him to offer her another bite. She told herself:
Stop it. You're eating from his hand. Don't let it be like this.

But she was so, so empty. So hungry…

“That's all,” he said, patting her head. “Good girl. You get a gold star.”

“Can you at least take off the blindfold? It's not like I don't know who you are.”

“No, I don't think so. You misbehaved.”

“Just take off the blindfold. Please. I won't try anything. I promise.”

“Is it getting to you, Jen?”

“Please…”

“Because it would get to me. Can't see anything. Don't know where you are. Don't know what's going to happen next. Yeah, it would really get to me.”

He got up from the bed. She heard him pacing. And then he stopped. Jen could tell he was standing there, watching her.

“Seeing you like this, all tied up, feisty, it kinda gets me off. You know what I mean?”

She didn't say anything.

“Gets me off a whole lot more than when we were together.”

He stepped close, right in front of her, talking down to her.

“I'm not saying I didn't like doing you, Jen. Not the best I ever had. But not bad. I know you liked it. You liked it a lot, didn't you? I made you scream, didn't I, Jen? You loved it, didn't you? Didn't you?”

He moved in closer, brushed the front of his pants against her face, then thrust himself hard against her. She fell back onto the bed, trying to get away from him.

He stayed where he was, standing above her. She could hear him breathing.

She said, “What do you want?”

“What do you think we want, Jen?”

“Just tell me, alright? Just tell me…”

He laughed.

“It's easy, Jen. Real easy,” he said. “We want it all.”