Freddy was reminded of Miles Darrell, an old fence he had worked with in Los Angeles. Miles would sometimes plan and bankroll a robbery and take half the profits. If the perpetrators were caught, Miles wrote off his investment and let it go at that. On the other hand, Miles was never a participant, and his careful plans usually worked out successfully. If the hooligans he recruited for a job were picked up, they accepted the bust stoically, and none of them ever informed on Miles. To do so would have been foolish. Even when convicted, the average stay in the joint was only two years, and a man knew when he got out he could count on a stake from Miles until he got back on his feet again.
Freddy had learned early in his career that it was best to work alone. If two or three men were in on a job and one was caught, the others would almost invariably be picked up later. Either deals were made by the man who was apprehended, or they would be picked up as the apprehended man's friends or acquaintances.
On the other hand, Miles, who had never been arrested, only got half the haul when a job was successful. The best method, Freddy concluded, was to plan and execute your own job. That way, no one could inform on you, and if you were successful, everything you got was yours. What he would like now was one large haul. One well-planned job, where the take would be large enough for several years of semiretirement living. Semi, not full retirement, because a man would have to put his hand in from time to time to keep from getting bored, but with enough money stashed away so that he could wait and pick and choose--like Miles. Miles had been a careful planner, and 90 percent of his jobs had been successful.
Perhaps Freddy had been too pessimistic about his life. He had figured, for as long as he could remember, that someday he would end up in prison for life, wandering around the yard as an old lag, muttering into a white beard and sniping cigarette butts.
But that didn't have to be--not if he could plan and execute one big job. Just one big haul .
But nothing came to him. He had no concrete ideas except for the germ, and the germ was that he had Sergeant Hoke Moseley's badge and ID. The badge was an automatic pass to free food and public transportation; it could also be used to bluff someone out of a considerable sum of cash. But who?
After lunch and a Darvon, Freddy usually napped on the webbed recliner on the back porch. He would awaken after an hour or two, covered with perspiration. He would then do a dozen one-arm pushups with his good arm and take a shower. He couldn't shave because of the cuts on his face. After a few days these cuts began to fester. They filled with yellow pus, and he had to pull off the colorful Band-Aids. He awoke one afternoon from his nap with a fever, and it made him dizzy when he tried to sit up in the recliner. He asked Susan to bring him some Bufferin and a pitcher of lemonade.
Susan brought the Bufferin and lemonade, and then left the house. She returned a few minutes later with Mrs. Damrosch, a short middle-aged woman who talked through a professional, meaningless, saleswoman's smile.
"Susan said you refused to see a doctor, and that you probably wouldn't let me take a look at you either. But you're wrong there, boy, I'm taking a look. I nursed my husband for three years before he died, and I can do the same for you--although you aren't going to die." She stuck a thermometer under his tongue and told him to close his mouth.
"Not bad," she said, when she removed the thermometer. "It's only one-oh-two, and we can get that down with some antibiotics. I've got a medicine cabinet full of 'em."
She slipped her glasses down on her nose and peered into his face, still smiling and shaking her head. "Some of those punctures've still got glass in 'em. I'll go home and be right back."
"Go with her, Susie," Freddy said, "and make sure she doesn't call a doctor."
Mrs. Damrosch had no intention of calling a doctor. She returned with medicines, unguents, a razor blade, and tweezers. She crosscut each of the punctures in his face with the razor blade and removed bits of glass with her tweezers, telling Freddy in her cheerful voice that it would hurt. She also removed the crude stitches Freddy had taken to replace his eyebrow. She made some butterfly adhesive patches and replaced them on the gaping places that had not, as yet, grown back together. She used two more butterfly patches on the two deepest wounds on his face but said it would be best just to let the others drain.
She and Susan helped Freddy walk to the bedroom. Edna Damrosch poured Freddy a glass of gin, made him drink most of it, and then sponged his muscular body with a mixture of water and rubbing alcohol. When she removed Freddy's jeans, Susan took the sponge away from her and said:
"I'll take care of that part."
Edna laughed. "I would too if I were you!"
This drastic treatment, in addition to penicillin tablets every four hours, broke Freddy's fever. By noon the next day he was sitting up in bed and eating a roast beef sandwich. He remained in the air-conditioned bedroom for two more days at Edna's insistence, then felt strong enough to take a long, soaking bath.
When he looked at his face in the mirror, he could barely discern the scabbed crisscrosses beneath his beard. The thick stubble, a quarter of an inch long in some places, was a mixture of blond, brown, and jet-black whiskers--not matching his burnished yellow hair in the slightest. If he was careful he could probably shave, but he decided to keep the incipient beard. It would cover the scars somewhat, and it might be a way to change his appearance. By now the Miami police were looking for him, but they weren't looking for a man with a blond, brown, and blackish beard. The beard, together with the healing scabs, made his face itch, but he was determined not to scratch his neck or face. His refusal to scratch caused jerky tics to develop on both cheeks, but at least the tics relieved the itching. The following day he took a hammer to the cast on his arm. His wrist was stiff and slightly atrophied, so while he watched TV he squeezed a tennis ball to strengthen his wrist and fingers.
Three weeks after the accident at the 7-Eleven, Freddy put on his Italian suit, took the car keys, and drove into downtown Miami. He had studied the Yellow Pages and the ads in the _Miami Herald_, and he had a tentative plan. He cased three different coin dealers before picking a major one on Flagler Street. Flagler was Miami's main street, and the downtown stretch of Flagler was one-way, but just around the corner on Miami Avenue there was a yellow loading zone. If Susan pulled into the loading zone and sat in the car, a mere thirty yards around the corner from the coin dealer's, she could probably stay there for a half-hour or more before some cop came along and told her to move. The coin dealer, a man named Ruben Wulgemuth, had a reinforced steel door to his shop, and there was a circular, revolving bulletproof window in the wall beside the door. To transact business with the dealer, patrons outside on the sidewalk placed their coins or whatever into the drawer of the revolving window. Except for his regular customers, Wulgemuth didn't let anyone inside his shop. But Freddy knew how to get inside.
Over the asparagus that night, Freddy explained Susan's duties to her. Freddy had never eaten asparagus before, nor had he ever tried hollandaise sauce, but he liked it a lot, especially with the center-cut ham steak and scalloped potatoes au gratin. Susan, whose part in the plan was minimal but essential, was apprehensive because Freddy did not feel that it was necessary to tell her what he was going to do.
"I know you don't like questions, Junior," she said, "but I want to do it right."
"I don't mind questions," he said, appropriating Susan's uneaten asparagus. "I just don't like dumb questions."
"You haven't told me what's going down. If I knew what you were going to do, it would help me do what you want me to do."
"No, it wouldn't. All you have to do is park in the yellow zone and keep the engine running. Nothing could be simpler. I'll get out of the car and do my business with the coin dealer. If a cop or a meter maid comes along, tell them that you're waiting for your husband to finish a transaction with the coin shop around the corner. The cops know Wulgemuth does business with people on the street, and that's a legitimate reason to park in a loading zone. They may make you move anyway, but then you just drive around the block as fast as you can without breaking the speed limit and park there again. If you're forced to move, lean on your horn with a long two-minute blast as you come by the shop. I'll be inside, but I'll hear you."
"It'll only take a few seconds to pass the shop, so how can I blow the horn for two minutes?"
"Start blowing when you turn the corner onto Flagler, and keep the horn on all the way up the block after you pass the shop. That's what I mean by a two-minute blast. Think, Susan, think. If someone looks at you funny for holding down the horn, pretend like it's stuck."
"Like this?" Susan dropped her jaw, made an O with her mouth, and opened her eyes wide.
"That's it!" Freddy laughed.
"You laughed! I don't remember you laughing before, not even at TV."
"You never did anything funny before. I don't laugh at TV because it isn't real."
"All right. So what I do is park there and keep the engine running. If nobody makes me move, I just wait for you. When you get back into the car I drive down to Biscayne, take the MacArthur Causeway, and pull into the parking lot on Watson Island."
"The Japanese Garden parking lot. We'll stay parked in the lot until it gets dark, and then we'll drive back here to Dania by way of Miami Beach. The Japanese Garden has been vandalized, so they've closed it for repairs. No one parks in the Garden lot now, except for a few fishermen in the daytime and some lovers at night. So, if we aren't followed, it'll be easy to hide out there all afternoon until it gets dark. You'd better pack some kind of lunch and a thermos with iced tea."
"Suppose we're followed--and why would anybody want to follow us?"
"Don't worry about it. If we're followed, I'll deal with it, but we won't be. When you ask why, you're asking another dumb question."
"I'm sorry."
"What's for dessert?"
"Sweet potato pie."
"I've never had that before."
"It tastes something like punkin pie. If I didn't tell you, you'd probably think it was punkin, but sweet potato's better."
"I'll try it. I like pumpkin pie."
"You want whipped cream on it?"
"Of course."
After dinner, Susan drove them to the Dania jai alai fronton. While she was buying the tickets, Freddy scouted the parking lot and unbolted a Kansas license plate from a Ford Escort. He locked the plate into his trunk to exchange for the TransAm plate when they got home. Freddy watched the first game and decided he didn't know enough about the game or the players to make an intelligent wager.
Susan, however, by betting on the Basque players who had the first name of Jesus--there were three that night--won $212.35.
20
Hoke still had Bill Henderson's .32 automatic pistol when he left the police station. He had meant to lock it in Henderson's desk drawer, but when he had seen Ellita Sanchez sitting at the double desk in the little office, he changed his mind. He had got a good look at Sanchez, however, and noticed that she did indeed have large breasts, although they were disguised somewhat by her loose silk blouse and the large silk bow that was tied under her throat. Her black hair was bobbed the way they used to cut the hair of little Chinese girls. The back of her slender white neck looked as if it had been shaved. She wore blue-tinted glasses, and she was frowning, with tightly pursed lips, as she read through a file. She tapped the glass top of the desk absently with a yellow pencil. If he went into the office, she would surely ask him some questions about the paperwork. Sanchez was a formidable-looking woman, and Hoke did not relish the idea of working with her, or as Brownley had put it, "winning her over." So he had left the station without talking to her.
Hoke thought about Ellita Sanchez now, however, as he sat in his room, trying to figure out his next move. Whatever he did, he would have to be careful. He didn't want to involve Sergeant Wilson, the Vice cop, nor did he want to make a legal mistake of some kind that would result in bail or a quick release for Mendez. He had to get that man off the street forever.
There was no doubt in Hoke's mind that Mendez had mugged the unfortunate Gotlieb, whose credit card he had then stolen and used at the International Hotel, but he had no proof of the mugging, nor could he get a warrant on the strength of how he happened to feel about it. And there was always the possibility that Mendez had bought the stolen credit card from someone else. For fifty bucks apiece, a man could buy all the stolen cards he wanted at the downtown bus station.
Hoke went to the desk and poured an overflowing jigger of Early Times into his tooth glass. Too much. He poured part of it back into the bottle. His hands shook a little, and he spilled part of his drink. He could hear his heart beat. The more he thought about Mendez, the more afraid he was. This was not paranoia. When a man has beaten you badly and you know that he can do it to you again, a wholesome fear is a sign of intelligence.
There was only one thing to do, and that was to find Mendez and follow him. Then, if he could find his gun and badge on the bastard, he could bring him in for assault or attempted murder. At the very least, Mendez could be held for a few days without bail, long enough to run a fingerprint check out to California to see what they had on him. If the man had a record, and Hoke was certain he had one, the chances were good that he was wanted in California, too. If he wasn't on the run from California, why had he come to Miami?
Hoke had calmed down a little. The drink had helped so much he poured another one. His hands were steady now. Hoke lit a Kool and picked up the phone. After he listened to it buzz at the switchboard fifteen or sixteen times, he lost count. Finally Eddie Cohen answered the phone.
"Desk."
"Eddie, this is Sergeant Moseley. Dial my number at the police station for me, will you, please?"