Excerpt from Chapter One
Bud Palmer slipped on
his sunglasses and set off in his Ford Sunliner convertible on this balmy
subtropical Satur- day morning. All the while he tried to convince himself he
could get this meeting over with quickly no matter what his shady uncle Rick
was up to.
Then again Bud wished
he’d just hung up on him. Not put up with “Can’t tell you over the phone. I
need you here in person, soon as possible.” That way he wouldn’t be driving
across the MacArthur Causeway. Moreover, if his mother hadn’t asked him to look
out for her kid brother while she and his dad were on their Caribbean cruise,
he’d never have been reminded of Rick’s schemes such as hanging up a dual
Realtor/ PI sign.
He wouldn’t be thinking
of Rick Ellis at all.
As he drove on, more
disconcerting images came to mind: a wiry little guy clutching a polaroid
camera, hiding behind the poinsettias as some floozy snuck into a garish motel
with some- one’s husband in tow.
Not that Bud himself was
always straightforward. At twenty- nine, while his friends were married with
kids he was still easing out of relationships the minute he was asked, “Tell
me, Bud, how much does a sportswriter make?” Or, “I hear there’s a new
subdivision going up in Miramar, each house with a Lanai. Perfect for raising a
family.”
In comparison with Rick,
however, Bud was always honest about his intentions whether it be his work or
love life. In contrast, when playing tennis for instance, Rick was always looking
for an angle. He’d crouch behind the net ready to pounce or cut off an
opponent’s serve, always looking to throw the server off his game.
Bud crossed over onto
Miami Beach, tooled around, passed the ballfield at Flamingo Park, eased by the
pastel sidewalks taking him up to Ocean Drive and the fresh fruit juice stand
at 10th Street Beach. He parked by a curb directly in line with the juice
stand, got out and crossed the sun-dappled street.
Glancing around, he took
in the cool tinge of fall blowing in from the ocean, fusing with the salty
scent of the water. The sun’s rays streamed through the fluffy clouds; the
waves rippled, beckoning the smattering of sunbathers to take a dip.
Everywhere Bud looked
nothing had changed. Which included the sight of middle-aged women across the
way in their flowery sun dresses, whiling away the hours on the patios of their
pink-stucco efficiency apartments; shuffling mahjong tiles; glancing over at
the white sands stretching off into the distance in hopes of spotting some
lonely bachelor. It was all predictable. Even his paper, the Miami Herald and
source of his livelihood, discarded on the empty green bench, seconded the motion.
There was a photo of
President Eisenhower above the fold playing golf nearby at Jackie Gleeson’s
country club, and a sidebar noting the U.S. was gaining in the space race with
the Soviets.
Whatever Rick was
champing at the bit about had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.
As if in agreement, a
voluptuous blond in a fuchsia bikini came into view, turned on the outdoor
shower a few yards away, casually washed off the salt water residue on her
shoulders, and winked.
Bud smiled back, checked
his watch and gazed beyond the mahjong ladies to a gap in the row of efficiency
apartments at the end of the block where the weathered bungalow sat a few yards
back. The one with the fading sign fronting the bamboo porch railing that read
Walk-ins Welcome: Services Unlimited.
He crossed over, hurried
past the row of squat apartments, pivoted by the sign, noted the rear end of
the rusty Studebaker sitting in the carport, and nodded. It was all the
same-old same- old promising more of the same. He bound up the steps, called
out “Hello?” opened the screen door and walked right in.
And, sure enough, there
Rick was ready and waiting, sporting that signature Charlie Chaplin mustache,
flowered short-sleeved shirt and white linen slacks. The first worrisome
signal, however, was his bleary, blood-shot eyes as he over-poured a carafe of
steaming black coffee into a mug. He whipped out a handkerchief, plunked the
carafe and mug on the edge of the desk in the center of the room, and mopped up
the spill. At the same time, Bud took in the rest of the place and saw that it
hadn’t changed a bit, starting from the girlie calendars on the walls, milk
boxes full of paperbacks on the floor; the cluttered desk topped by a scuffed
black rotary phone, notary stamp, and the Smith-Corona typewriter flanked by a
hat stand with a random display. To complete the picture, there was the rack of
glossy magazines so that Rick could keep up with the latest, plus a wooden
perch that once accommodated a talking parrot on the near side of a shaded
window and a sun-bleached deck chair.
Everything was the same
and not at all the same.
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