It Takes Two (29 page)

Bud swallowed again, then said, “You got big ideas, Lieutenant. You want to take on the whole world. But you do give me something to think about. So I’ll chew it over. As long as we both understand one thing, that the deal remains strictly business.”

I said I understood that. But secretly, I wasn’t convinced.

Willene Norris and Mildred Boldt lunched that day at a shaded, poolside table at the Caloosa. Thanks to Carmen’s quick thinking, they were served by Homer Meadows, the most reliably conventional waiter on the roster. Willene ordered grilled mackerel, mashed potatoes and iced tea. Her artistic, fun-loving cousin indulged in a chef ’s salad with shrimp, blue cheese and sliced avocado, tossed in the kitchen and served on a platter. She drank iced tea as well, but told Homer to add a little clubhouse sugar to it. He knew what she meant: a shot of white rum in the glass.

Willene’s mourning eyes and face were hidden behind sunglasses and a Panama sun hat. Her dress was conservative cotton—a dark blue liberty pattern with matching gloves, purse and spectator pumps. Mildred wore a pastel sun suit—à la Betty Grable’s wartime pinup photos. A sketch pad and a sheaf of colored pencils rested next to her purse.

They were choosing between coconut cake and orange sherbet when I came outside after a three-hour bookkeeping session. I wondered what the two of them, but especially the widow Norris, were doing at the Caloosa together. Neither woman looked very happy. But hell, they were supposed to be in mourning.

By contrast, two younger girls in strapless swimsuits at an adjacent table seemed to be having the time of their lives. A much older man wearing a yellow striped cabana suit was hosting their outing. The girls, tanned and with big boobs, sipped cocktails out of coffee cups and noisily slipped in and out of the water.

Carmen, stuffed into a tight pink sweater and tennis shorts and waving an imaginary microphone, loudly entertained the trio with war stories. “So I said to Bob Hope, who was just wonderful to us when he joined our shows, I said, ‘Reach a little farther and you might get your
hand
bitten off!’ ”

The Louisiana foursome played bridge in a poolside cabana nearby. Overhearing Carmen’s punch line, Captain Slidel whooped. “You know what he said to Martha Raye, don’t you, young man? When she was supposed to be looking for the keys to the Jeep? And he told her to reach a little deeper into his pants pocket?”

Mildred Boldt rolled her eyes at this, fanning her face and miming outraged virtue. Willene Norris glanced at her and scowled. She wasn’t kidding. So I stopped by their table first.

After preliminary pleasantries that included not a word about the gunplay at the Royal Plaza Motor Lodge, Willene got right down to business. She’d had a little talk with her close friend the mayor of Fort Myers the previous night, she said. And she had met with her very close friend the publisher of the
News-Press
that morning. She claimed that she wasn’t entirely familiar, and didn’t want to be, with the details of illicit liquor sales and high-stakes poker parties and “probably worse things” that went on at the Caloosa. But she did know that the “lurid misconduct” at the hotel had contributed to the death of her dear, dear husband. And so she felt she had to take a stand.

“I must be able to hold up my head, Mr. Ewing. I have a certain position here, and now I have a business to run. And I’m hardly alone in thinking that your kind of business is bad for our little one-horse town.”

Filling in the blanks in a script Asdeck and I had perfected in Japan, I nodded and smiled noncommittally. I was certainly sorry about her loss. I added that I took a quite personal interest because Hillard had been such a frequent guest at the hotel, although not, I was sorry to say, during the past two months.

“It goes back much farther than that, Mr. Ewing. As does the deplorable, some say deviant, activity here.” She sipped her tea, wiped her lips and continued. “It’s certainly my impression that neither the mayor nor the owner of the newspaper had the least, the very least, idea of what’s been going on right under their noses.”

Not that they’d care
, I thought,
unless the liquor, cards and “probably worse things” were paraded before the public in some undeniable, uncontrollable or unprofitable way
.

Willene and I both knew that politicians and newspaper publishers must at least appear responsive to others’ concerns. And Turnipblossom Ford was a big
News-Press
advertiser. This daughter of a county commissioner and Klan leader was too well connected to be ignored by the mayor. If she demanded that the newspaper and the politicians shut down the Caloosa, I knew they’d have to pacify her in some way—without radically changing anything.

Cousin Mildred was clearly of two minds in the matter. “Honey,” she observed mildly, “People need a safe, friendly place to enjoy a little drink, a nice dinner and a hand of cards.”

Willene wasn’t buying it. “Decent people,” she snapped, “can use the American Legion hall just like they always have.”

I didn’t bother to tell her I was a Legionnaire in good standing. Or that I’d met the man I was sleeping with at a Legion get-together.

“Now, honey,” Mildred drawled, “You always enjoy those limp-wristed artists and dancers I went to school with. Yes, you do. And Miss Carmen is a lot funnier than any of them.”

“Funny?” Willene sniffed. “I wouldn’t let him wash my hair. The innocent boys of Fort Myers should be protected from such filthy perverts.”

“From time to time,” Mildred conceded, “just here and there, a few questionable
women
have been admitted to the cabana club, yes. Those two young misses pawing that fat man? They’re practically falling out of their bathing suits. Girls like that don’t really add much to the Caloosa’s atmosphere.”

“They’re the man’s granddaughters,” I answered, nodding to emphasize my lying words. “On semester break from Bennington College. Both young ladies made the dean’s list, he told me.”

“Made the dean,” Mildred drawled. “The dean of men. Or do they have men at Bennington?”

Willene leaned forward, peering at the ersatz Benningtonians over her dark glasses. “The dean of monkey business. I’ve seen that dishwater blond before. She used to work at Woolworth’s.”

“I could be mistaken,” I said pleasantly.

Just then, a man and a woman entered the pool deck from the changing rooms. Both wore robes and beach shoes. Mildred waved her hand and called them over.

“You know Wanda Limber,” she explained to her cousin, keeping her voice low. “Plays golf, Navy widow, a real lady.”

“Umm,” Willene murmured. “Evidently goes for younger men.” Mildred tittered. “Could be the father of your Woolworth jail bait. He’s hardly Dan’s age!”

“Pretty old,” I agreed, keeping it light.

In fact, Francis Bridge had two years on me. When Wanda introduced us, she added only that he lived in Philadelphia.

“We came for a dip,” she added, loosening the terry-cloth belt at her waist. “Hope it’s no problem, my bringing a guest.”

“The only problem,” Mildred joked, “is if he doesn’t remove his robe and get comfortable.”

Wanda and I exchanged a quick look. Francis Bridge was tall and slim, with thick black hair, high cheekbones and a nose like Abraham Lincoln. When he dropped the robe and turned toward the pool, he looked even better. Clearly no stranger to athletics, he had long, firm muscles in his arms and shoulders and flat, pigeon-toed feet. He might have been a middle-distance runner gone to seed or, as I soon found out, a former swimmer. (I’d have figured Bridge for a swimmer sooner if his firm, tight butt hadn’t been hidden under tent-like knee-length borrowed trunks.)

Wanda invited me to join them in the water. Having finished a long morning’s battle with the books, I decided I might as well enjoy a little exercise, not to mention a nice view. When I got back from changing into trim-cut shorts over a jockstrap, Bridge and Wanda were already in the pool.

“Frank’s in town for research purposes,” Wanda explained as soon as I joined them.

“Looking into labor conditions,” Bridge said, splashing water on his chest and shoulders. “Civic opportunities and so on.”

“For the government?” I asked, trying not to stare, just keeping the conversation going.

He laughed. “No, far from it. I work for a private charity. Nothing like that.”

“Anybody going to give me a race?” Wanda inquired. “Or are we going to talk all afternoon?”

And so the three of us started swimming laps. Wanda dropped out after fifteen minutes. Bridge matched me almost stroke for stroke.

I thought I’d lost him at the end of half a mile. His hands were slapping water and his breath had gotten rough. But the next time I looked, he was right beside me, and he stayed there until we finished sixty lengths.

For me, that was pushing it. But I kept going on adrenaline, testosterone and idealized memories of varsity competition. Of course, it was more than that. Bud and I competed all too often. But when we swam or roughhoused together, there was always the possibility of sex. With a regular guy like Bridge, I just wanted to win.

When I finally hauled out of the water and Bridge followed, we joined Wanda in a cabana. Homer brought us beer and sandwiches.

Wanda had put her robe back on. Bridge didn’t bother, which suited me fine. His baggy trunks fit a lot better wet. Because he was so easy to look at, I monitored my eyes, mostly keeping roving glances at chest level or higher.

Bridge was also easy to listen to. His research turned out to be voter registration fieldwork among young blacks.

“It’s like the old plantation down here,” he observed. “None of your Florida Negroes vote except for a few who hold county or patronage jobs.”

“None of us voted in the service either,” I answered by way of mild rebuttal. “Except maybe in presidential elections.”

“Did someone give you a dollar or a chicken and tell you how to vote?”

I laughed, slightly uncomfortable, yet fascinated. This wasn’t anything I’d thought about. On the one hand, I mildly resented Bridge’s “old plantation” crack. It was right in line with the WASP complaint that visiting Yankees routinely condemn Deep South race relations and then return home to the highly segregated North. On the other hand, I didn’t care much about how colored people voted—or didn’t vote. Bridge was a smart, good-looking Yankee. I was a hotel manager who’d just been threatened by the Klan. So I listened.

“Is that how it is all over the state?” Wanda inquired. “Political bosses and payoffs?”

“That’s how it is just about everyplace below Mason-Dixon. You have a few brave souls. There are young people, though not many, who want to stir things up. It’s definitely going to take time. Years, possibly.”

“Centuries,” Wanda replied. “Unless President Truman issues a fresh set of integration orders. And if he does, the Klan’ll probably declare war.”

“The South will rise again,” I said lightly, still playing the genial host. “So save your Confederate money. That’s what they say down here.”

Bridge smiled back, nodding, his eyes sympathetic but unyielding. “That’s not what the Negro young people say, not when the white-sheeters come calling. Not when some of your leading citizens are all but setting the church door on fire.”

“You mean here in Myers?”

“Tell him, Frank,” Wanda said. “Quit treating Dan like a virgin fresh out of the convent.”

“Last weekend,” Bridge answered. “I spoke very informally to a youth group at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church. A local contact set things up between my organization and the young people. I don’t believe the pastor knew anything about it. Not until afterwards.”

Lights flashed and bells rang. “Last Saturday night?” I asked, just to be sure. “That was you the Klan marched on?”

Bridge swiped his face with a towel. “There were three times as many white men outside stamping their feet as there were scared children inside. Still, I was asked to come back.”

“Another group asked for him. At the Holiness Temple,” Wanda put in. “Isn’t that right?”

Bridge rubbed the towel across the damp black tangle on his chest. “This evening,” he answered. “Lord willing. And maybe we will double or triple our audience, shoot clear up to a congregation of a dozen or so.”

“You’re brave,” Wanda said. “That doesn’t discourage you?”

“I’d be back home in bed if it did,” Bridge answered. “It scares me so bad I think I’m going to go jump in the water again. Anybody with me?”

The man’s audacity and earnest social conscience were as appealing as his muscular shoulders. But given my political naïvété and Florida upbringing, the idea of organizing young colored people to register and vote offered few attractions. I idly wondered if he was married. He didn’t wear a ring.

As Bridge toweled off after his second dip, I invited him to use the hotel pool whenever he liked. “And if you’d like another race,” I added, “just send word with one of the staff and I’ll put on my bathing suit.”

Smiling broadly, he bowed his head. “I’ll do that. Thank you. Please call me Frank.”