Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle (3 page)

At the wheel of Manfred’s rented Mustang, Harry hadn’t counted on this traffic: Tourists captained convertibles idling alongside hot rods cranking brass-brittle Latin tunes; family wagons stuffed with dusky chiquitas, lacquered and spritzed for a night of clubbing. Waiting through three light changes at Espanola, Harry saw the same valet jog past him twice, once coming, once going, and it took half an hour to drive ten blocks.

Traffic didn’t start to flow till Harry hit the mid-20s, rolling past hotels that lodged legitimate Manfreds. He cruised into the 40s, where non-divorced Manfreds lingered whole seasons. From there it was another ten or fifteen minutes, prowling a hushed suburb, before Harry had to pay attention to the street signs. The address wound up being an efficiency motel designed in the classic South Florida style, an L-shaped two-level affair that boxed a drained pool and parking spaces.

Neon letters spelled out CANCY. The building was a charmless knock-off on the Fiorella theme. Harry headed for the north wing of the L and scaled a staircase to a catwalk, pink and pea-green paint chipped off in splotches. Where they weren’t flickering or blown out, florescent tubes crackled outside each room. The door to 206 was thrown open. Harry flinched behind TV gunplay, glanced at a man in Bermudas, smoking and watching a cop show. He didn’t look up as Harry walked by.

Room 202 occupied the northernmost tip of the L. Electronic disco thumped behind the door. Harry gave it three sharp raps. The noise cut out and the door flew open on a muscular man about Harry’s age.

His arms and shoulders were swollen like a lot of guys in the joint who pumped massive iron. If there was ever any hair on his chest he’d had it shaved smooth. He knew what Harry was there for, but his eyes betrayed a nervous, scheming gleam. He was obviously expecting somebody else.

“You are not Leo,” he said, in some kind of accent from Scandinavia. The guy could’ve been a Swede. Possibly a Dane. He had both nipples pierced with thickgauged pewter rings.

“You got me there, pal. I’m not Leo. My name is Harry. Manfred sent me.”

“We don’t know you.” He skipped a beat. “Did you bring the stuff?”

Harry had the package hidden under his jacket, rewrapped in a brown paper sack. He showed it to the guy. “Be better if we did business indoors, wouldn’t it?”

The Swede stepped aside, wearing leather hotpants that laced up the crotch. He had a partner, a bald black man with a charcoal complexion who must’ve gone 6’6”. He was built like an unraveled wire hanger and sported a baby-blue negligee over a matching bra and briefs. He gave Harry the up and down and said, “Bon soir.”

Harry said, “How you doing.”

The black guy told him his name was Javier, and introduced the Swede as Sven. Sven. Harry bit back a laugh.

Sven was tugging a nipple ring, antsy. “Let’s have the stuff,” he said.

“You have to forgive my husband,” Javier said, “for being so impatient. You are quite late, but I understand South Beach traffic is positively murderous, especially on these high season evenings. Make yourself at home.”

Harry scanned the room. He would’ve sat on one of the two chairs, but both were stacked high with laundry, some of it clean and, from the smell of it, some from an afternoon at the beach.

“You know, I’d stick around, but with that traffic, I should get back to Manfred. He’s probably already wondering what happened to me.”

“Manfred can wait,” Sven said. “He can wait and so can you.”

Okay, so he’d caught a pair of aces. Leo hadn’t said a word about these two. Presumably he’d been able to handle them. Maybe Leo wasn’t such a creampuff after all.

The Swede was the one to watch, jonesing heavy for his blow, getting edgier by the second. Harry figured he’d have his hands full with this guy, who outweighed him by twenty pounds and, judging by the muscles, had to be strong. He took a glance, to see what he could use as a weapon, then lit a cigarette, the last of Manfred’s, which could always be ground into an eye or a pierced nipple. He looked over at Javier. Hard to imagine this skyscraper drag queen as an ally, but that was the way it was shaping up.

Harry handed Sven the package. Sven took it out of the sack, dropped the sack on the floor, and unraveled the baggie. He held up the coke to the naked light bulb, kneading it, but the bulk of the ounce was one rock, and it didn’t break.

Sven said, “Hmmmm.” He set it on the table. “You first.”

Javier was on the bed, his back against the headboard, his ridiculous spider legs double-crossed. He dangled a backless slipper from the biggest foot Harry had ever seen. “Your drama is boring. This is our Dutch Uncle. All the boys are very dear to Uncle Manfred.”

“This is not Manfred,” Sven said. “This is not Leo. This is somebody we’ve never seen, and you want to hand him a thousand dollars for a product we haven’t even tested. You stupid faggot.”

Javier gave him a stricken look, then stared at his giant feet.

Harry was done being polite. “Listen, sport, you either want the shit or you don’t. In fifteen seconds I’m walking out the door with this package or a thousand dollars. Your move. Make up your mind.”

“My mother always said it,” Javier said. “Rudeness begets rudeness.”

“Shut up,” Sven said. He took three steps to the dresser, and reached into the back of a drawer. Instead of the bundle of bills Harry was hoping to see, the Swede was holding a pistol, a Colt .45 automatic, and he was pointing it at Harry’s chest.

Harry said, “Terrific,” and Javier started a gasp that got stuck in his throat.

Sven wagged the Colt toward the chair that was cluttered with beach gear. “Move that shit and sit down. Javier,” he said, “get up. My hands are full.”

Javier teetered on his mules. He dumped the one big stone and whatever shake there was onto a mirror, working the smaller pieces with a razor blade, slicing and dicing, a rhythmic clicking. His pink tongue poked through his lips in concentration.

Harry eyed the gun, the hand that held the gun, the arm attached to the hand that held the gun. Here he was, kept at bay by a muscle queen in leather panties. Two comic book fags making him look bad. No getting around it.

Javier chopped three lines. An entire half of him bent over the table, he had a straw to his nostril, about to suck up the powder.

Sven stopped him. “He goes first.”

Harry kept quiet about blow not being his thing, how it always got him in trouble. He already was in trouble. He huffed half the line into his right nostril, the other half into his left. A little sting, the coke was up his nose and into his head, trickling down his throat. He gagged. Too much. He gagged again. A-1 product. His heart was thumping and his palms remoistened.

“Outstanding product,” he said, feeling brotherly toward the Swede threatening his life. “Excellent.”

Sven looked unconvinced. He cocked one blonde eyebrow, flipping his gaze between Harry and Javier. He gestured to Javier, who deadpanned, “I know what to do. Trust me.”

It was a long line, about five inches, and fat. Javier horked it all in one short sniff. He pinched his nostril closed and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Ho, yes, child,” he said. “Ho, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together and smiled a jack o’ lantern smile, except he had straight white teeth. Every single one.

Sven took his turn hunched over the powder. He snorted. Half the line went up. He straightened and smacked his lips, both eyes looking left, like he was trying to remember something. On the return trip, Harry slammed both forearms down on his neck, driving his face into the mirror. Cartilage crunched, and glass. The gun hit the carpet. Harry dove for it and tumbled, rolling crouched to his feet.

Javier froze flamingo-like, one knee pulled up, screeching. Two hands, enormous hands, waving. Six feet six and fucking useless in a beef. Unbelievable.

Harry faced off against the humbled Swede, palms overlapping his beak, blood running onto his hairless chest. Harry was stunned, realizing this was all the fight he was going to get, but once he figured it out he leaned in and cracked Sven over his left ear with the Colt. Sven dropped to his knees. Harry fed him another short sweet one. He sank to all fours, then crumpled, nighty-night, to his side.

Javier’s eyes, locked on Harry’s, darted down to the gun. Two yips from hysteria, the perma-howl of joy or fear an inch from his throat, Javier did not scream, and for this, Harry was grateful. A chuffing sound came from Javier’s lips, forming words. “Did you?” he managed. “Is he?”

“His nose might sit a little to one side, and he’ll have a headache with some genuine staying power, but he’s far from dead. Listen.” Harry wound up and kicked the Swede square in the gut. He coughed and sputtered, moaning low.

“See?” Harry said. “Told you. Now you, Javier, are who I’m interested in. A fully conscious, able-bodied individual, holding Uncle’s money. You are going to find Uncle’s money and you are going to give it to me now, right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off. I don’t see you moving.”

“I cannot allow you to use that vile language in the same sentence with the name of my personal Lord and Savior.”

A tremendous piece of work, this Javier.

“You’re a decent guy, Javier. You’re a freak but you’re a decent guy, and as a decent guy, I know you’re determined to do the right thing. Do me a favor, buddy. I need to get that money, and I need to get out of here.”

Javier sifted through the pockets of a suede carcoat and pulled out a knot that was probably hundreds. With shaking hands, he tried to count out a thousand, or whatever it was Harry was supposed to get. It was almost like it didn’t matter anymore.

Harry said, “Javier, get in the bathroom.” He leveled the gun. “Now.”

Javier obeyed, walking toward the toilet, the stack of bills in his fist.

“Javier. Stop. Leave the money on the table. Okay, now go on, get in there.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Why don’t you just let me worry about that?” Harry said. “When a man aiming an automatic weapon at you tells you to do something, you don’t debate him. You fucking do it. Are you with me?”

Harry dragged a chair across the floor and wedged it under the doorknob. Once Javier was scared enough, he’d find all the strength he needed to break out of there, but Harry would be miles away before that happened, or before the Swede scraped himself off the carpet.

He stuffed the Colt into his jeans and leafed through the bills. Seventeen hundred and change. The change, two twenties, a ten and a five, he left on the table. The rest he put in his pocket. Thinking twice about ripping off their ounce, too, he carved a thick line and sucked it up with a twenty. Sven whimpered in Swedish. He rolled from his side to his belly, but that was as far as he got.

For a guy with fairly good intentions three days out of stir, Harry was having no trouble racking up the felonies. Let’s see, you had possession, intent to distribute, and sale of narcotics, for a start. Robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and the all-time classic number-one no-no for any ex-con, concealing a handgun, although not too well, in his waistband.

Steadying the wheel with his knee, Harry twisted out of his jacket and wiped down the Colt. He was about to cross a bridge on some back road that ran parallel to Collins Avenue. He pulled over. He could smell the ocean. No streetlights, not a single car or the dimmest headlamp in any direction, just a crescent moon waning against a star-splattered sky. He held the gun by its trigger guard and dropped it into the canal.

Harry ran through his story to Manfred. Basically, there was no story to Manfred. It all went smooth. Here’s your cash, I got lost on the way back. Take care and thanks. I am so gone from this miserable town, the man you see before you is but a hallucination.

He drove on, fighting South Beach traffic all the way back to Manfred’s hotel.

On the way up in the elevator, Harry thought about his trip to New York. Seven hundred dollars to the good, the bus was out. Harry would be flying. He was going to report to that parole officer, all ready to be good, and he was going to say, Hey, I’m right here.

Only something wasn’t right. It wasn’t adrenaline or nerves or cocaine jitters, though Harry was feeling all of those. But something wasn’t right and he didn’t know what. From behind Manfred’s door, he could hear a Pasty Cline song blaring, a recording of the real thing this time. Nobody answered when he knocked, so Harry tried the knob and let himself in.

Manfred was sprawled in the center of the room, one leg pulled in, the other stiffening straight out from his torso. He’d been shot with a small caliber pistol, once real close from what Harry could bring himself to see. Powder burns rimmed a wound at the base of his skull. The satin bathrobe was thick with blood. His mouth and eyes were set in mischief, like Manfred had been poised to float one of his idiotic suggestions before the bullet went in.

Harry’s forehead was wet at the hairline and his breath got short, fear choking off his air. He’d better figure out what to do quick, and get out. He tiptoed around the pool of blood and shut up Patsy Cline. The silence made it easier to think. He swallowed three thirsty pulls of Ballantine, and wiped down the bottle and both glasses with a towel. Bringing up one acidic belch, he switched off the lights. He walked out and shut the door.

A drunk couple nattering in French fumbled with their keys, oblivious as Harry went past.

Leaving the scene of a murder. Another felony. No question.

The upside was this: He had just made a considerable accidental score. The down: If they caught him they’d try him for murder, and he’d have a bitch of a time talking his way out of it. And they’d catch him. Nobody had seen him on the way in, but there was Leo, and Jennifer, and the Surfside fags, and the fact he was registered under his real name at the Fiorella. They’d find out about him, and then they’d come for him. He’d have let the whole roll ride on that. The question was when, and where.

He took the Mustang and immediately regretted it. He was on the Interstate headed north, putt-putting in the right hand lane, every car on the road whizzing past him. The Florida Highway Patrol car tailing him for the last ten minutes changed lanes, gaining speed. The trooper closed to an eighth of a mile. His lights flashed silently and Harry closed his eyes. You stupid motherfucker. What were you thinking?