Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective (21 page)

“So is hanging out in federal prisons. Also, there is something I forgot to tell you.”

She looked at him. “About being happily married in the Socratic sense?”

“Not about that.”

“The fact that one of the FBI agents is your old girlfriend?”

Tree stared in dumb amazement. “Most days you just surprise me,” he said. “Some days, though, some days you
really
surprise me. How did you know?”

“Could be that you’re not the only detective in the house,” she said impishly. “Or it could be detective Cee Jay Boone called looking for you and accidentally spilled the beans.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I may well be mad,” Freddie said. “Am I angry? No.”

“Why not?” Did he sound somewhat indignant?

“You’re going to run away with some chick you lived with twenty years ago?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Besides, it takes two to tango.”

“How do you know Savannah doesn’t want to run off with me?”

“Because she dumped you. Now she takes one look at you and wants you back? I don’t think so.”

“That’s rather brutal.”

“Not brutal at all, my love. Just realistic.”

“What makes you so sure I didn’t leave her?”

“Incidentally, are you happy or a philosopher?”

Tree thought about it. “Well, I’m no philosopher.”

Freddie leaned over and brushed his lips with hers. “Good answer.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

She gave him a delicious smile before she breezed away. The phone rang.

“Mr. Callister?” It was Tommy Dobbs. Tree groaned.

“Mr. Callister, I need your help.” Tommy’s voice was slurry and scared. “I’m in awful trouble.”

30

N
emo’s poked onto the beach beneath a gold-colored canvas marquee. The usual LCD monitors showed the usual football games to a clientele more interested in the drama unfolding near a wall poster listing fifteen reasons why a beer is better than a woman, including “a beer doesn‘t get jealous when you have another beer.”

Tommy Dobbs, backed against the bar, swung an empty beer stein in the general direction of the three men closing in on him. His white face glistened in the yellowish light. The light transformed the bruise on his right cheek into an India ink smear. Despite the damage to his face, he still managed to retain his Ray-Bans.

“Hey, Tommy,” Tree said.

“Mr. Callister, I never thought you’d come.” Tommy sounded out of breath.

“What are you up to?” Tree had to raise his voice to compete with the hard rock blues of ZZ Top.

“He’s about to get himself killed,” said the biggest of the three, showing a blotchy face and bushy beard beneath a Florida Marlins baseball cap. Tattoos crawled up his thick forearms. The other two, bare-headed, also wore their tattoos where you could see them. Not the sort of hombres you wanted to piss off in a shitkicker bar late at night. But that’s exactly what Tommy appeared to have done.

“Come on, Tommy, time to go home.”

“This clown ain’t goin’ nowhere, except to the hospital,” said the tallest and skinniest of the three. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.

“Leave me alone,” Tommy said in a strangled voice.

“He’s drunk and harmless,” Tree said.

“He’s drunk and an asshole,” the skinny guy shot back.

In the background Dolly Parton’s dreamy country romanticism replaced Billy Gibbons’ fine guitar riffs. It didn’t seem to change anybody’s attitude.

“Got a big mouth on him,” Bushy Beard said.

“He does at that,” Tree said agreeably. “Let me get him out of here.”

Tommy regarded Tree with bleary sadness. “I’m so happy you’re here, Mr. Callister.”

“What are you, his old man or something?” The guy with the beard.

“Just a friend.” Tree removed the beer glass from Tommy’s hand. Tommy seemed barely aware he was giving it up.

The third guy, greasy black hair pushed back from a pimply forehead, raised a meaty fist. Bushy Beard caught the fist in his hand. “Not worth it,” he said. The Greasy-Haired Guy’s eyes flashed. Bushy Beard gave him a hard look. The Greasy-Haired Guy backed off.

Tommy sagged. Tree managed to catch him before he hit the floor.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Tommy mumbled.

“No, you shouldn’t.” Tree hoisted Tommy away from the bar. He caught the eye of the guy with the bushy beard. “Thanks.”

“Tell your friend not to come back.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Tree said.

Tree half carried, half dragged Tommy along a cinderblock corridor past a replica of a vintage red Corvette mounted on the wall. He got him onto Estero Boulevard and across the street to where he had parked the Beetle. He propped Tommy against the side of the car, trying to find his key.

“Why don’t you like me, Mr. Callister?”

“Who says I don’t like you, Tommy?” Tree found his key and unlocked the door.

“You don’t like me ’cause I’m a loser.”

“Tommy, get in the car,” Tree said. “I’m driving you home.”

“Don’t you?” Tommy was more vehement.

“I think you’re young,” he said. “In a business I don’t recognize any more. You want me to be things I don’t think I can be.”

“I want you to be my friend.” A note of desperation.

Tree looked at him, at a loss for words.

“Can’t you be my friend, Mr. Callister? Is that so hard for you? To be my friend?”

Tree put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Sure, Tommy,” he said. “I can be your friend.”

Tommy threw up on the Beetle.

My pal Tommy, Tree thought.

____

The next morning Freddie, summery in a pink floral print, came into the kitchen where Tree was pouring coffee. He handed her a cup.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but there’s someone with pimples sleeping on our couch.”

“That’s reporter Tommy Dobbs. My biggest fan.”

“I thought I was your biggest fan.”

“You are my biggest fan without pimples. At least, I hope you are.”

“Never doubt it, pal.”

“You should have seen me last night. I took on a room full of drunk barflies.”

“My hero,” she said.

“I can’t believe I did it.”

“Life lately is filled with things you can’t believe you did,” Freddie observed.

Yes it is, Tree thought. Yes, it is.

After Freddie went to work, Tree poured more coffee and took it into the living room. In the car after he threw up, Tommy had promptly passed out. Tree decided to bring him home. Just like the old days, dragging drunk reporters back to the house in the middle of the night. Didn’t his first wife just love that.

Tommy lay on his back, still wearing the Ray-Bans, his pale face glistening like the polished death mask of a boy pharaoh.

Tree perched on the edge of the couch. Tommy awakened with a lip-smacking grunt, sitting bolt upright.

“I feel awful,” he said.

Tree offered him the coffee.

“Can’t even look at it.”

“Suit yourself.” Tree sipped the coffee. “So what did you do to piss those guys off?”

“Not sure,” Tommy said.

“What were you doing there in the first place?”

“Don’t know. Can’t remember much.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall.” Tree got to his feet. “Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll drive you home.”

Tommy held his head at an angle. “Gotta go to work.”

“All right. Take a shower. I’ll get you a towel.”

Tommy looked up at Tree with unhappy, bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callister.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

“I’ll bet it never happened to you.”

“Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” Tree said.

An hour later, Tree parked in front of the
Island Reporter’s
office. Tommy looked as though he had just climbed out of a sarcophagus.

“I really appreciate what you did for me,” he said.

“It took me a long time to learn this but it’s something to keep in mind: Ernest Hemingway is dead.”

Tommy looked befuddled. “I’m not very familiar with Hemingway.”

Tree shook his head. “Get out of the car, Tommy.”

31

T
ree got to his office at ten thirty—half an hour before Brand Traven’s messenger was due to arrive with twenty thousand dollars. The prospect did not excite him. Freddie was right. What was twenty thousand dollars in the scheme of things? More money than he earned in a year? He tried not to think about that.

He went toward the back stairs and encountered Rex Baxter on his way down. “I just saw a ghost,” Rex said.

“You’re spending too much time in the bar at the Lighthouse,” Tree said.

“Savannah,” Rex said.

“She’s upstairs?”

“She’s an FBI agent.” Rex made it sound as though she had landed on the moon.

“I know that, Rex.“

“What’s she doing in town?”

“Unless I miss my guess, she thinks I killed someone.”

“You? Killing someone? Get serious. She lived with you for God’s sake.”

“Maybe that was her first clue.”

“Weird thing is, she hasn’t changed. There’s a portrait of her in a closet somewhere that’s getting old, but not her. It’s like I always figured. She’s in league with the devil.”

“You never did like her, Rex.”

“Does Freddie know she’s in town?”

“Freddie knows everything.”

“My advice? Do not go up there. Stay away till she flies out of town on her broomstick.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle this.”

“Where Savannah is concerned, all bets are off.”

Tree took a deep breath and mounted the stairs two at a time. FBI Agent Savannah Trask sat in his chair holding a Starbucks Grande Caffe Latte. Another latte waited on his desk.

“You wear glasses,” she said.

“Only for reading,” Tree replied, removing the telltale specs, kicking himself for forgetting to get rid of them before he entered the office.

“I just saw, Rex.”

“I know. He thinks you’re a ghost.”

“He probably thinks I’m flying around on a broomstick.”

“He doesn’t think you’ve changed since Chicago.”

“He never did like me.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“He probably thinks I broke your heart or something. He certainly loves your latest wife.”

“Everyone loves Freddie.”

“That sounds like the title of a sitcom. Are you all right?”

“A little surprised to find the FBI in my office first thing in the morning, that’s all.”

He reached for the coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Mind?” He wrestled with the plastic top. He never could get the damned things off, and he hated drinking through that little hole.

“The door was open.” She watched him defeated by the plastic coffee top.

“You’re always welcome, Savannah,” he said as amiably as he could. “Particularly when you bring coffee.” He still couldn’t get the top off.

“Do you need help with that?”

“With what?”

“The coffee.”

“No of course not.” He delivered what he considered a disarming grin.

The lid popped off. Foam spilled over the rim and rolled down the side of the cup. He said a silent prayer of thanks and sipped at his coffee, managing to glance at his watch. Less than half an hour. Tree felt a tightening in his stomach.

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“Why would you say that?”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “You’ve got some foam there.”

“Where?”

“At the corner of your mouth.”

He brushed at his mouth.

“That’s better.”

He drank more coffee. It was lukewarm. She watched him carefully, as though anticipating another misstep.

“So Tree, what were you doing up at Coleman yesterday?”

“News travels fast.”

“Tell me.”

“I was seeing a potential client.”

“You’re kidding me. Brand Traven is a client?”

“Potential. If you already know this stuff, why are you bothering to ask me?”

“Because I no sooner tell you confidentially that Mr. Traven is a subject of interest to us than you scoot up to Coleman to meet with him.”

“I didn’t scoot up there,” Tree said.

“Nonetheless, it looks damned suspicious.”

Just wait until someone shows up with a bag full of money, Tree thought. The tightening in his stomach increased.