Final Stroke (22 page)

After he said the word, Georgiana seemed on the verge of laughter. “Steve, I don’t think that’s the word I had in mind. It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard you use it.”

When he turned from the doorway and looked at Georgiana and Harold, both were trying to suppress grins. He looked down at the re
corder, saw that the red Record button was depressed and rewound the tape. When he pushed Play, he heard his own voice say, “Fuckhead.”

Fuckhead? Shit, if he ever got caught saying something like that, Tyrone knew he’d get the pink slip. And if he got the pink slip, he’d lose his connections. And if he lost his connections, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Fuckhead? A paycheck was one thing, but if he got canned out of this place he’d lose the extra dough he got from Christ Health Care Supplies by way of Flat Nose. And now he’d bought the DeVille from the classic car shop, so he needed that extra dough more than ever.

Goddamn system. White bastard calls him a fuckhead, then white bitch with her dumb-ass name like a man’s name laughs at him. Good thing that fox speech therapist Bianca wasn’t around to overhear him being called a fuckhead. No way he could ever hope to get into her pants if she heard him being called a fuckhead and being laughed at.

Maybe right now was the time to teach this Babe guy a lesson. Maybe tonight he’d come back and pay the bastard a visit. Shit, this was getting complicated. Coming back to this place on his own free time. Just what the hell did Babe and that old lady talk about all those
times they were in that little room with that Georgiana bitch and her damn tape recorder? Sure, it was good not having the nosy old lady around anymore, but why the hell did she have to leave this Babe guy behind with his dumb-ass name?

Maybe, instead of waiting until tonight, he should deliver a couple cases of toilet paper to the storage room behind the nurses’ station on the third floor and snoop around Babe’s room. Hardly anyone on the floor this time of day. Unless that bitch wife of his is there with all her damn magazines so the two of them can sit down later tonight and point to pictures instead of watching TV and keeping their mouths shut like normal asshole resident families. Yeah, the bastard point
ing out pictures that would probably make his skin crawl. Pictures of glasses, or maybe a water spigot with water coming out, or maybe even an advertisement for janitor closet shit like brooms and mops, or maybe something about door alarms or some damn thing. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Just because the bastard couldn’t talk so good, didn’t mean he couldn’t point to those damn pictures.

As Tyrone got on the service elevator to go down for the cases of toilet paper so he’d have an excuse to be up on the third floor, he won
dered if he might really have to do it. He wondered if he’d have to sneak into the guy’s room late at night and … and what? Twist his good arm behind his back and whisper sweet nothings?

He could say, “Listen to me, motherfucker. And don’t go looking for your call button ‘cause I already got it.”

He’d have to research it. Watch him for a couple days to make sure he really was a right-brainer, which meant his left arm would be the good arm. He could say, “Don’t holler or nothin’ ‘cause it won’t do no good. If you holler I’ll break it. I seen stuff you wrote down in your room. If you don’t stop poking that big nose where it don’t belong …”

No. It’d be better to take another approach.

He could say, “Don’t you understand everybody screws the system in this place? Even you screw it with your damn insurance forms. So how about we reach a little understanding?”

The guy would nod then. And he’d finish by saying, “That’s bet
ter. Now I really shouldn’t do this, but I’m gonna tell you a couple things that’ll help you understand the situation a little better. See, it ain’t just me. There’s bigger cats out there that’ll cut your balls off and throw you down the elevator shaft if they find out you’re trying to put them out of business. These bigger cats, they’re not health care work
ers like me. They don’t give a shit about health. Not your health, and especially not the health of that nice lady comes to visit who drives a nice red Audi. You get my drift?”

Another nod.

“Good. You should get my drift better this time than last time. Maybe the seizure made you forget, maybe it didn’t. Anyway, messing around with this business is like messing with God himself. You’ll get burned and so will your wife. You’re messing with big fish here, man. I mean big fish. You still listening?”

Nod.

Back on the first floor, Tyrone went down the hall toward the storage room to get the cases of toilet paper. But he stopped off at the men’s room to think. He wished he was out with Latoya right now instead of in this place. If he ever told Latoya about all this, she’d probably tell him to get lost. That’s how straight she was. Even when he got the DeVille and made up some shit about a loan, she saw right through him.

If there was any more trouble from this guy Babe, he guessed there was only one way out of it. As he flushed the toilet, he vowed that if this went any further, if Babe kept up his interest in the closet and in Tyrone’s business, maybe it would be best to let Flat Nose or even
DeJesus handle it. Of course DeJesus wouldn’t handle it himself. No, DeJesus would have a flunky do the dirty work, a short-fuse flunky like Flat Nose.

Shit, he was probably lucky Flat Nose hadn’t killed him after the squabble in the car outside Mrs. Babe’s apartment. Must have been a lucky night all around, him feeling his oats at the exact same time Flat Nose was sidetracked sniffin’ beaver. But one thing Flat Nose had was a good memory. Ever since that night Flat Nose obviously had something on his mind, one of those things that won’t let go until he blows his fuse and levels someone. He’d seen Flat Nose like this before, like he’s got a plan and won’t be satisfied until he carries it out. Worst of all was the possibility that Flat Nose and DeJesus might have something going down they haven’t told him about. If that was true, and if they were looking to put him out of the picture, he’d better damn well do something to save himself.

When Tyrone left the men’s room, he continued walking toward the storage room where the toilet paper was kept. Besides needing some on the third floor, he’d have to bring some back where he’d just been because he used the last of it.

CHAPTER

THIRTEE
N

Although it had been only a few days since their last
meeting, Hanley insisted they meet again. Only this time, instead of having to drive across the state to Naples, Hanley arranged to fly into Miami. They agreed to meet at the airport in the bar outside the security area. Valdez was on time and saw by the flight monitor that Hanley’s flight would be late. While he waited, Valdez had a glass of red wine. For several years, since hearing reports of the benefits of red wine, Valdez had made a habit of sipping a red wine at some point dur
ing his day. Usually, because of other commitments, he had to wait until evening. But today, because he did not have to drive to Naples to meet with Hanley, he decided to take advantage of the situation. He’d even turned off his phone. No need to stay in contact with anyone ex
cept Skinner, and Skinner never called him on his cell phone. By the time Hanley arrived, Valdez felt quite relaxed.

Hanley dropped his small carryon bag onto one of the extra chairs at the table and, seeing Valdez’s wine glass, asked, “What are you having?”

“A California Merlot.”

“Perhaps I’ll have one,” said Hanley, raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention.

Valdez turned, pointing to his empty glass, to himself, and also to Hanley. A few seconds later they clinked glasses like old friends and sipped their wine.

Except for Hanley’s white sneakers, both wore casual business at
tire, slacks and button shirts. To airline passengers rushing past the bar, they probably looked like a pair of typical Miami old goats after an early morning round of golf.

“Did you bring your clubs?” asked Valdez, smiling.

“Golf clubs?”

“Yes.”

“You know I don’t golf.”

Valdez took another sip of wine. “No fishing and no golfing make Hanley a dull boy.”

“Right,” said Hanley. “How many of those have you had?”

“This is only my second,” said Valdez.

“If you’re driving you’d better make it your last.”

“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be. Besides, you know what they say about red wine.”

“What do they say?” asked Hanley.

“Helps keep the arteries clear. Less chance of a stroke.”

“If anyone’s listening in we must sound like a couple of old farts.”

Both men smiled and chuckled.

“Seriously,” said Valdez. “I took the afternoon off. And since I knew you’d be here eventually I thought I’d let you drive. I assume you’ll want to stay at the condo tonight.”

“Right,” said Hanley. “I think it best I stay in town until this thing in Chicago is resolved. Have you heard any more news from the rehab facility about our friend with a stroke?”

“I have,” said Valdez. “Contact number one now thinks the stroke patient is aware of more than he is letting on. He and his wife attend
ed the funeral and met with members of the family. Their meeting might have had a purpose beyond simply extending condolences.”

“In what way?”

“Our second contact thinks the detective must have communicat
ed information to his wife. She called an acquaintance in the Chicago Police Department and made implications. Apparently both the fam
ily and the local scam artists have become possible suspects.”

“That’s interesting,” said Hanley, taking a gulp of wine before continuing. “You know what will happen if either the husband or the wife pursues this.”

“The nephew?” asked Valdez.

“Right,” said Hanley. “Max the Fly will buzz around until some
thing blows up in someone’s face. You know we can’t let that happen.”

“I know,” said Valdez. “What do you suggest?”

“I’ll stay in town,” said Hanley. “Tell the office to have a plane to Chicago ready.”

“You’re going to Chicago?”

“Not only me,” said Hanley. “Both of us. If the elderly lady re
peated things to another stroke victim that we’re not aware of, we have no choice. And who better to pay a visit to a rehabilitation facil
ity than two old farts? If we do go, by the way, get yourself a pair of sneakers or at least lighter-colored shoes. We’ll need to be in charac
ter. And even though I don’t golf, perhaps we’ll take along a couple sets of clubs.”

“We’re taking clubs to Chicago?” asked Valdez. “The weather’s lousy there.”

“We’ve been on a golf excursion and we’re heading home to see how our wives are doing at their rehab. Wear a golf jacket with deep
inside pockets. I’ve got a golf cap to wear. Old guys always wear caps, so maybe you could come up with one.”

“Deep inside pockets,” repeated Valdez. “Well, I guess if someone has to go it might as well be us. We’ll fit right in.”

“By the way,” said Hanley. “What’s the name of our number two out there?”

Valdez smiled. “You old goat. It’s Maria and you know it.”

Hanley downed his wine and stood. “We’d better get going. We can speak in more detail at the condo and I’d like to have time for a workout at the health club and get a good night’s sleep in case we have to fly out tomorrow.”

The two men walked down the long hallway toward the park
ing lot. Their gaits were noticeably slower and somewhat bowlegged compared to the younger people passing them in both directions. The only two older than the pair was an elderly couple being transported by a skycap in a beeping electric cart. At the conveyor walkway, both men paused, the younger of the two taking the carryon while the other rubbed his arthritic hands together. On the walkway they stood one behind the other as men, women, and children rushed past them.

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