“Sheldon’s
kid?”
“I
told you it’s complicated.”
“I
didn’t think you could piss off any more people in this city, but I never fail
to underestimate you.”
***
Once
ashore, Scarne headed to a line of cabs still dropping off guests.
“Mr.
Scarne!”
He
turned to see Emma Shields walking toward him.
“I'm
sorry about what happened,” she said when she reached him. “I'll have Nigel
call you a car.”
“That’s
not necessary. I'll catch a cab. I'm just glad I wasn’t keelhauled.”
“We
stopped doing that years ago.” She smiled. “At least inside the 12-mile limit.
Can I ask you a question, Mr. Scarne?”
“Of
course.”
“Do
you think Uncle Sheldon may be right...about Josh?”
“I
wouldn't take his money if I didn't think there was a possibility. What do you
think?”
“I
don't know what to think.”
“Emma!”
Randolph Shields was standing at the top of the gangplank. “Our guests are
waiting.” Some of those guests looked surprised and embarrassed at the tone of
his voice.
“When
are you leaving for Miami?” Emma Shields said.
“Wednesday
morning.”
“I’m
teaching some courses tomorrow at the New School but I’ll have a break at
lunch. Can you meet me?”
“Just
say where and when.”
“Noon,
at the Rose Café in the Village? It’s at Fifth and…”
“I
know it. I’ll see you there.”
She
headed up the gangplank and Scarne made sure to look at her legs the entire
way. He probably would have done it anyway, but the thought of “Randy” Shields
watching him gave him a perverse, if childish, pleasure.
CHAPTER
12 – BABY’S BREATH
The
beauty of Georgia is wasted at 80 miles per hour. So, after a lunch at a
Cracker Barrel – a chain restaurant, to be sure, but ridiculously satisfying –
Garza left Interstate 16 at Dublin and headed southeast on local roads. That
prompted a steadily stream of robotic remonstrations from his already
programmed GPS system, which didn’t suffer fools gladly. But it eventually
threw in the towel after one desultory “calculating new route.”
Garza
decided to put the top down on the convertible and really enjoy his new route,
which would add at least 45 minutes to the trip to Claxton. Then he’d have
another 30 or so to Statesboro. But Bradley Cooper wasn’t going anywhere. Nor
was he expecting any visitors. Garza figured he’d arrive by 3 P.M., when most
residents would presumably be sleeping off their chicken, soft rolls, gravy and
Jell-O.
The
speed limit on the local roads was 55, but could suddenly drop to 35, even 25,
in and around small towns. Wary of speed traps, he paid attention. There was no
hurry. The rich red Georgia earth was speckled with green, and variegated buds
sprouted on trees and bushes awakening from winter. The air smelled sweet and
the horses in the pastures seemed to be having a lot of aimless fun. At one
point he pulled over and walked over to a fence near where a mare and her foal
were grazing. They were beautiful animals and from the look of their glistening
black coats well cared for. The mare’s tail was swishing back and forth slowly.
The little guy’s tail was going a mile a minute.
Garza
had hoped for such a moment and had come prepared. He emptied a few Cracker
Barrel sugar packets into his palm and stuck it through the fence. He was
surprised at how quickly the foal bounded over to him. His was undoubtedly not
the first hand through that particular fence. The foal, which had a white star
on its forehead, lapped the sugar as the mare watched cautiously. The baby’s
tongue was warm and surprisingly soft. It almost tickled. Garza kept very still
and made no sudden moves when he opened more packets. Sensing no danger, the
mare eventually sidled over and began nuzzling his hand as well. She towered
over him. She didn’t interfere with her foal’s treat until Garza moved his hand
under her muzzle. A mother, after all, is a mother. Her tongue was rougher and
he could feel her teeth. Her breath was hot against his palm. He produced more
packets, wishing he had some apples or carrots. Or even some fruitcake. They
probably would love that. But it might not be good for them.
“It
has nuts,” he said to the mare. “Might not agree with your little fella.
Besides, I’m not coming back this way.”
At
the sound of his voice the mare twirled a huge brown eye toward him, dipped her
head and nickered, as if in appreciation at his thoughtfulness. Garza knew he
was anthropomorphizing; horses weren’t as intelligent as they looked. But it
was a charming moment nonetheless. Not for the first time he wondered what, if
anything, animals thought. He had, by necessity, spent many hours with people
whose cognitive faculties had deteriorated to the level that basic awareness
could not be assumed or proven. Was this horse now more “intelligent” than
those poor sods in the nursing homes he visited? Garza realized he was
teetering on a rationalization. He reached up and rubbed the mare’s neck.
“Stupid,”
he said.
The
mare’s nostrils flared.
“Not
you, beautiful. Me.”
Garza
left the pasture reluctantly. He checked his watch. He hadn’t meant to stop
that long. But the interlude had been worth it. He loved horses. When he wasn’t
fishing much of his youth had been spent riding the mountains, meadows and
hills of Cuba. Again, memories flooded back, but no regrets. He had come to
believe that there was no place on earth as beautiful as the American Southland
in spring.
Garza
abandoned his sightseeing to make up some time, but slowed when he reached
Vidalia, home of the famously sweet onions, as the de rigueur billboard
announced. He smiled. Sometimes it seemed as if every town in the South was
famous for something. If it wasn’t a Civil War battle (pardone!
The War for
Southern Independence
), it was some form of produce.
He
was startled from his reverie by a pair of motorcyclists who overtook him just
as he left the town. They roared by him, cutting in front so closely he had to
brake. Neither wore helmets.
“Organ
donors,” he muttered.
His
normal good humor was restored when he reached the outskirts of Claxton (
Population:
2,391
the welcome sign stated) and spotted the familiar 50-foot water tower
with its “Fruitcake Capital of the World” slogan. Claxton, he knew, was famous
for only two things: fruitcake and a meteorite that crushed a resident’s
mailbox in 1984. He’d read someplace that the mailbox, the only one in history
believed to have been hit by a celestial object, brought $83,000 at auction.
Garza
wasn’t interested in meteorites. He turned off Route 301 onto Main Street and
three blocks later pulled into the parking lot of the Claxton Bakery. He
visited the bakery whenever he was in the area and knew the Claxton story by
heart. How the bakery was started in 1910 by an Italian immigrant named
Salvatore Tos, who made a special fruitcake for Christmas. How Tos sold the
business to his longtime apprentice, Albert Parker, when he retired in 1945.
How Parker decided to concentrate on “old family recipe” fruitcakes rather than
compete with supermarket bakeries sprouting up after World War II.
A
brilliant move, as it turned out. The Claxton Bakery and its rival Georgia Fruitcake
Company (started by another Tos apprentice) have since shipped millions of
fruitcakes all over the world. The United States military is one of their
largest customers. That, Garza was sure, generated plenty of jokes about
fruitcakes being used as weapons. Certainly a Claxton fruitcake dropped from a
drone on some Taliban fighter would do the trick!
Most
civilian customers, including a thousand charities that sold Claxton fruitcakes
at fundraising events, probably ordered them through the company website. Garza
occasionally did as well. But he also liked to visit the store, where he could
soak in the ambiance and sample new products. Like most Cubans, Garza had a
sweet tooth. He was always bugging Christian to remind his sister to send extra
Stollen at Christmas. He’d received his first American fruitcake as a gift, and
now considered himself an aficionado. He had come across no finer fruitcake
than the ones made in Claxton. He ate them, gave them as gifts, shipped them to
relatives back home, left them in every nursing home he visited and expounded
the glory of the recipe to anyone who would listen. Christian naturally bore
the brunt of his enthusiasm, and often reminded him of the time a bar of the
dense mixture of nuts, candied fruit and pound cake in Garza’s carry-on was
mistaken for plastic explosive by airport security.
“It
has the same consistency,” Christian said.
Garza
opened his trunk. He stood back for a long moment and then took out a large
bouquet. After checking it for leakage, especially around the stems, he placed
it on the back seat of his car. A little fresh air wouldn’t hurt the flowers.
He also didn’t want to risk the bouquet being crushed by his purchases. With
rising anticipation he entered the modest store that fronted the huge bakery
complex. The smell of fruitcake was overwhelming. He’d once asked a sales clerk
if he could view the production facilities, only to be told that the company’s
insurer now forbade the once-popular tours. Damn insurance companies ruin
everything, the clerk had griped. Garza, while not mentioning that he
occasionally worked, in a manner of speaking, for an insurance company,
wholeheartedly agreed with the man.
The
walls and shelves of the store were lined with fruitcakes. Platters of samples,
each on a small doily, were everywhere. Most people, Garza included, preferred
the regular Claxton fruitcake over the dark variety, made with more molasses.
But the dark variety was useful for one of Garza’s favorite treats, which
involved soaking several loaves in Myer’s Rum for a month in his refrigerator.
Even snotty Christian usually asked for a loaf.
One
of the platters featured “Nut-Free Fruitcake.” Garza didn’t remember ever
seeing the product. Must be new. A small placard next to the platter read:
Southern
Original Fruitcake, For Those With an Allergy to Nuts
. He tried a piece.
Not bad! He thought of the mare and her foal. What a pity.
He
took his time, tasting a sample, sometimes two, from every platter. A clerk
finally came over.
“Can
I help you, sir?”
Probably
thinks I’m just here to eat the samples, Garza mused.
“Let
me have 40 regular, 20 of the dark and 10 of the nut-free, all in individual
one-pound loaves.” The man stared at him as he picked up another sample. “And
perhaps you can help me carry them out to my car.”
He
gave the clerk a generous tip for loading the fruitcakes into his trunk and a
half hour later pulled into the parking lot of the Bartlett Home and Hospice on
Pine Needle Road in Statesboro. With a bouquet in one hand and a Claxton
fruitcake in his jacket pocket he walked up the stairs to the nursing home’s
large veranda and said hello to a small group sunning themselves in rockers and
wheelchairs. Bradley Cooper wasn’t among them. Most were asleep but a few
smiled, probably hoping he was visiting them. One elderly lady put out an
onion-skin hand to him. He took it, careful not to squeeze too hard. It felt
like a trembling little bird in his hand.
“Lawrence?”
“No,
ma’am. I’m sorry.”
She
quickly lost interest and he went through the door.
As
he walked past the central nursing station, the duty nurse said, “Those sure
are lovely flowers, honey.”
Every
woman below the Mason-Dixon Line said “honey,” either at the beginning or end
of a sentence. Garza really loved the South.
The
bouquet certainly was spectacular. Figuring it was the least he could do, Garza
had spared no expense. Bradley Cooper was one of the insurance unit’s most
important clients. If anything, the florist had gone a bit overboard with the
Vanda orchids, spray roses, gloriosa lilies and chrysanthemums.
“Thank
you,” he replied, handing the fruitcake to the nurse. “You are very sweet.”
She
smiled indulgently. The nursing home was only a few towns over from Claxton. It
was not her first fruitcake.
Cooper
was in Room 126, down a long hallway. Garza came to a recreation room. Inside a
young man in a wheelchair sat at a table, moving some blocks around with his
right hand. His left arm was folded awkwardly in his lap. He seemed to be
having trouble holding his head up. Stroke victim, Garza assumed. He’d always
been surprised at how many younger residents were confined to assisted-care
facilities.
There
was nobody in the hall and none of the other patients appeared to have
visitors. As he walked past rooms his senses were assaulted by a variety of
human and mechanical smells and sounds unique to nursing homes. One never got
used to them. Nothing out of the ordinary, to be sure. Bartlett was immaculate,
unlike some of the assisted-living facilities he’d been, where residents sat in
dirty pajamas amid overflowing trash receptacles. After those visits he’d sent
off scathing anonymous letters to the authorities. But no matter how nice some
nursing homes were, Garza had long ago decided he would shoot himself before it
ever came to that.
When
he finally reached Room 126, he walked in, closed the door and smiled at
Bradley Cooper, who was watching a television on a small ledge at the foot of
his bed. The old man looked up and nodded, trying to place Garza. When he
couldn’t, he went back to his show.
“What
are you watching?”
“CSI,”
Cooper answered, sounding annoyed.
Of
course, Garza thought, suppressing a laugh. While no spring chicken – he was 81
– Cooper looked surprisingly healthy. His skin tone was good and his voice
strong. Garza knew that recent surgery on a blocked intestine had laid Cooper
low. That and some leg troubles had forced him into the nursing home. There was
nothing terribly wrong with Bradley Cooper.
Cooper
had a roommate and Garza walked over to his bed. Compared to this shriveled old
fellow, Cooper looked like Derek Jeter. The man looked up with rheumy eyes and
Garza gently patted his arm with his free hand.
“How
are you, old timer?” Garza said.
“The
clams are flying.”
“That’s
wonderful,” Garza replied, and turned back to Cooper.
“He
never makes any sense,” Cooper said. “Alzheimer’s. I keep asking for a roommate
with some marbles left, but all I get is the wackos.”
Garza
knew the old goat was feisty. He frowned and Cooper apparently had second
thoughts.
“You
here to see him? Sorry I said that. He’s not as bad as the last one. Least he’s
quiet most of the time. But I’ll be glad to get out of here. Soon as they
reverse this damn colostomy.” Senior citizens, Garza knew, showed no hesitation
in discussing the most intimate details of their medical condition, even with
total strangers. “That’s a hell of a bunch of flowers. But they’re gonna be
wasted on him.”