SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (20 page)

Chapter
TWENTY-NINE

THE JOURNAL

R
eevis crossed the newspaper’s lobby and approached the security desk. “He’s with me.”

“Name?”

“I’m Serge A. Storms! . . . Oooo, can I keep the visitor’s badge as a souvenir? . . . No? Can’t blame me for asking . . .” Serge pulled out his camera. “Where do you keep the Pulitzers?”

Reevis led him into the paper’s auditorium. “I thought Coleman was coming.”

“On a bender back in Miami. It starts innocent enough, and then the motel room is full of his ‘new friends from the underpass.’ ” Serge stopped and watched a loud mass of people file down rows of folding chairs. “When I asked if I could attend your libel seminar, I was expecting a small classroom.”

“No,” said Reevis, heading for a long table against the back wall. “It’s the quarterly libel tutorial conducted by the big Shapiro law firm.”

“But I thought the paper was slashing costs everywhere.”

“It’s no charge because we have the firm on permanent retainer.” Reevis grabbed a Styrofoam cup. “And the lawyers don’t mind because all the new inexperience at the paper has created a windfall of libel suits and billable hours.”

Serge raced for his own cup. “Free coffee!”

They filled to the brim and took seats in the back row.

“Who’s that guy?” asked Bilko.

“A friend,” said Reevis. “He’s going to be a lawyer and wanted to observe our libel class.”

The veterans disapprovingly appraised Serge’s tropical shirt with hula dancers, but didn’t say anything for Reevis’s sake.

An index finger tapped the microphone, signaling that it was time.

“Good afternoon. My name is Kent Pickering, and I’ll be conducting our seminar today. As you probably know, some of your co-workers have been keeping our firm pretty busy . . .” He stopped to chuckle and the audience laughed with him.

Danning elbowed Mazerek. “Check out that Italian suit.”

“It’s half my salary,” said Bilko.

Pickering walked out from behind the podium and leaned casually against its side. “I’d like to begin with two specific cases that we handled for the
Journal
in the last few months. The first involves a little mistake in a story about a vehicular homicide, which was generally correct except the article identified the driver as the suspect’s son, Junior. Now, we could have argued that reasonable people would recognize it was actually the father, and the ‘Jr.’ at the end of the name was a simple clerical error. Except the reporter, armed with the wrong name, also interviewed neighbors and printed quotes about the son, including his fondness for the
Fast and Furious
series of street racer movies . . . That last part was a nice detail, especially since it made my firm a nice chunk of change . . .” Chuckles rippled through the audience.

Danning folded his arms. “I fail to see the humor.”

Bilko folded his own. “This is what happens when you make photographers write stories.”

Pickering strolled around to the other side of the podium. “Now, I can’t stress enough the extra care we need to take concerning minors, as well as insulating ourselves with official police reports instead of just talking to bystanders. As an aside, please ask to see the driver’s license of any witness who says his name is Mike Hunt or Dick Swells. They’ve been quoted nine times in the last year and I’m guessing it’s not just two guys . . .” Another wave of chuckles. “ . . . Anyway, in the case I was talking about, we had to set up a little college fund for Junior . . .”

Danning looked around at his laughing colleagues. “What is this, a comedy club?”

“I agree,” said Serge. “It’s a pox on your whole profession. Would you like me to take action?”

The trio looked down the row with twisted expressions. “Reevis, who exactly is this guy?”

“Relax, he’s harmless.”

Back up front: “Our second case went a little better. It involved your highly rated TV news segment, ‘Gotcha Live!’ . . .”

“Oh, this ridiculousness,” said Bilko. “We can’t write any more investigative pieces because they take too much time . . .”

“Except TV still can,” said Mazerek. “Because they only take ten seconds.”

Serge leaned toward Reevis. “What are they talking about?”

“Here’s TV’s idea of investigative reporting,” said Reevis. “Hide a film crew, then throw a wallet out in the middle of a mall and see what people do.”

Pickering slid back behind the podium. “. . . As you know, our ticket-scalping report . . .”

“Scalping?” asked Serge.

Reevis leaned and lowered his voice. “Another gem. Two of our TV reporters stood fifty feet apart outside the stadium. The first was selling fifty-dollar tickets, and the second wanted to buy tickets for a hundred. So some guy who is just taking his kids to the game notices them and takes the bait, buying from one reporter and selling to the other. Of course we also contacted the police in advance so we’d have great footage of them swooping in to arrest the dad . . .”

Pickering wrapped up the story from the podium. “ . . . After our story aired, the case was thrown out of court for entrapment, but the father had already been fired from his job and sued us. Unfortunately for him, there’s a little thing we call the First Amendment.”

The attorney smiled and laughed, and the audience laughed with him.

When the laughter died down, a hand went up in the back row.

“Reevis,” snapped Danning. “Put your arm down!”

“Are you crazy?” said Bilko.

Pickering peered over the podium. “Yes, you in the back row. What’s your question?”

Reevis stood up. “Why are you laughing?”

“What?”

“You were laughing. Why?”

Mazerek covered his eyes. “Jesus, kid.”

Pickering was stumped. “I don’t understand your question.”

“I appreciate that you have to represent us, even when we’re wrong,” said Reevis. “But do you have to make jokes about shoddy journalism that embarrassed an ordinary citizen in front of the entire community and cost him his livelihood?”

“Well, I, uh . . .”

“Have some shame.” Reevis sat down.

The auditorium was uncomfortably silent, especially the stage. The collective thought:
Holy shit.

A
n hour later, a crowd had gathered around Reevis’s desk: Danning, Mazerek and Bilko, plus Serge and an equal number of security guards.

Reevis quietly emptied the belongings from his desk and placed them in a cardboard box.

“We’re real sorry, kid,” said Danning.

“Anything you need,” said Bilko. “References . . .”

“Are all the libel classes like that?” asked Serge.

Reevis examined a small plaque for third place from some forgotten article, then into the box it went. “I’ll be fine. I just couldn’t work here anymore if it meant keeping quiet.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Mazerek.

“Don’t know.” Reevis picked up the box. “Maybe freelance.”

“I got an idea,” said Serge. “Follow me down to my car.”

“Why?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

SUGARLOAF KEY

A married couple strolled down a secluded path, arguing about the husband watching too much football.

“But it’s the play-offs!”

“I have needs, too!”

“We’ll go out to dinner tonight. Someplace nice.”

“Are you going to wear that stupid Giants jersey again?”

“You don’t like it?”

From another direction. “Mildred, what are you doing?”

“Watching
Law & Order
.”

“You watch that stupid show too much. Come out here.”

“It just started. This couple is arguing in Central Park.”

“That’s how it always starts. Get out here!”

“But they’re just about to find a body in the bushes.”

“Mildred!”

Mildred and Gerard Lapierre, seasonal residents from Canada, owned a stilt house on the channel overlooking Cudjoe Key. It was a balmy day and all the Bahama shutters were propped wide. Mildred stepped out onto the wraparound porch. “What’s so important that I have to miss my show?”

“Will you look at that!” Gerard said with disgust. “Even way out here in nature, some jerk has to litter.”

“Where?”

“Those shoes down in the mangroves.”

“That’s what’s so important?”

“To me it is. The pristine view is why we picked out this place—”

“Gerard . . .”

“Then some idiot—”

“Gerard!”

“What?”

“Those shoes. They still have feet in them . . .”

An hour later, the Lapierres watched from their veranda as crime-scene technicians swarmed the shore. A black bag was zipped up over a face. A detective from Key West arrived and approached the medical examiner. “What are the details?”

“Adult male about thirty, single gunshot to the left temple.”

A police diver rose from the water. “Got something.” He held up a clear bag with a .38 revolver.

The coroner turned to the detective. “The stippling at the wound indicates the muzzle was in contact with the head. I’m guessing we’ll find residue on his left hand.”

“Suicide?”

“Here’s his wallet. Three hundred in cash, which pretty much rules out robbery,” said the examiner. “We won’t be missing dinner over this one.”

Chapter
THIRTY

THAT AFTERNOON

R
eevis Tome sat with a cardboard box in his lap, staring out the windshield of a ’76 Ford Cobra. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace cheerful!” Serge hit the gas and slalomed through city traffic. “You just got fired, so I’m on the case . . . Coffee?”

Serge poured himself a cup and passed the thermos. The car shook from an overhead roar as the shadow of a United jet swept across the road.

Serge smacked the steering wheel with joy. “Don’t you just love it when you time the airplane shadow perfectly?”

“Are you okay?”

“Drink more coffee. Life will snap into focus.” The Cobra whipped around a cement mixer on Belvedere Road. “Oooo! Oooo! Over there! The sign! Check out the sign!”

“You mean the old neon thing on Airport Liquors?”

“No, the other excellent sign. That retro job with interlocking orange shapes over a galloping greyhound. I
love
the Palm Beach Kennel Club!”
Click, click, click.
“Oh my God! They opened a poker room!”

“You play poker?”

“No.”

The Cobra skidded up in front of the entrance, and Serge killed the thermos. “Let’s get our cheer on!”

Serge ran inside, and Reevis raced to catch up, finally reaching him in a sprawling card room crammed with type A personalities and fevered intrigue. Cowboy hats, sunglasses, bolo ties.

Serge stood at a cashier’s window and removed a single dollar bill from his wallet. “I’d like a chip please.”

The cashier paused. “Just one? How do you expect to win?”

“It’s all I’ll need.”

She shrugged and handed over a round piece of plastic.

Serge held it over his head. “I won! I won!”

Reevis caught up again as Serge sprinted down a grandstand aisle and out onto the open spectator apron surrounding the track. “Hurry up!” Serge yelled and waved. “The only way to watch a race is standing right against the fence at the finish pole. I’m always surprised everyone isn’t down here.”

“What’s the deal with the poker chip?”

“The new card rooms have been a game changer in my life.” Serge opened his palm in reverence. “Instead of buying some expensive keepsake from their gift shop, these chips are durable, with all the requisite imprinted data of a righteous souvenir find. And I trick them into giving it to me for only a dollar. Then I walk away. They never expect that.”

Handlers emerged from the paddock and led a parade of athletic dogs with colorful numbers on their sides.

“Now
this
is Florida!” Serge waved an arm across the milieu. “Old-growth palms towering over the manicured infield with majestic lake and fountains. The rest of the world is making themselves crazy, stuck in office buildings and turning fluorescent under fluorescent lights. But we’re out here in paradise, the sun on our necks, enjoying fresh air and the smell of cut grass with hundreds of other people who don’t have jobs.” He turned and grinned awkwardly. “Sorry, that topic’s probably still a little raw for you. My point is, there’s something special about Florida’s betting palaces—horses, dogs, jai alai—frozen in time, like the old days when the Social Register would dress up and make a night of it. Can you believe that four thousand people packed this place on February seventeenth, 1932, to watch Broom Boy win the first race ever here? True story: Later that night one of the dogs actually caught the mechanical rabbit, causing parimutuel chaos and emotional turbulence.”

“Serge.” Reevis stared down at his shoes. “I know you mean well, but I really need to get going on résumés. Reporters don’t get paid enough to have savings—”

“Your résumé’s already in.” Serge squinted at passing greyhounds for clues. “And you’ve already been hired.”

Reevis looked up. “By who?”

“Me!”

The journalist sighed. “Listen, and don’t take this wrong, because I actually find you entertaining in a charmingly eccentric way. But I have to start getting serious about this.”

“Is this serious enough?” Serge pulled a fat wad from his pocket and peeled off large bills. “How’s five hundred to get you over?”

“I can’t take that!”

Serge shook his head and peeled off more bills. “Okay, seven hundred. And I’d heard beggars couldn’t be choosy.”

“No, I mean it’s too much,” said Reevis. “And you don’t have any work for me.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely got some work for you!” Serge tucked the cash in Reevis’s shirt pocket. “Consider that a bridge payment until you land another newspaper gig. You can start with me this afternoon.”

“Start what?”

Serge climbed up on the fence and pointed at a dog with a yellow flag on its side. “What do you think of number six?”

“I don’t know anything about greyhounds,” said Reevis. “This job you mentioned—”

“I don’t know greyhounds either.” Serge began doing jumping jacks. “So I never bet on the dogs. Instead I study the odds board and bet
against
the crowd.”

“Win much?”

“What? Why am I jumping?” He stopped. “The dog business is extremely delicate. Everyone huddled with programs and pencils, performing complex logarithmic calculations, then on the way to the starting gate one of the dogs poops, throwing the odds board into pandemonium, people leaping out of their seats screaming in terror, clawing each other on their way back to the ticket windows, time ticking down like an H-bomb: ‘For the love of Jesus, don’t close the booth yet!’ ” He nodded to himself with the wisdom of experience. “That’s when you make your move.”

“Serge, back to this new work I’m supposed to do . . .”

“Requires your specific investigative skill set.” Serge got out his poker chip for luck. “Involves some kind of big legal case. This private eye I know named Mahoney needs some legwork for an attorney in Hialeah . . .”

Number six pooped. Horrified screams. Serge winked. “Wait here.”

He ran back in the clubhouse and quickly returned with a newly printed stub. “They’re loading them in the gates! This could be the race of my life!”

Reevis took a saddened breath and joined Serge at the railing. “So what’s the name of your dog?”

“No idea.” Serge craned his neck toward the gate. “I always make up my own names anyway. That’s the key to respect at the track: calling out nicknames not on the program like you have inside dope from knowing the dog socially . . . Here comes the rabbit . . . And they’re off!”

“I guess we’ll talk later about the new work.”

“What work?” Serge pushed himself high up on the fence to see the back stretch.

“You just gave me seven hundred dollars.”

“I did?”

“Look, if you want it back . . .” Reevis reached for his pocket.

“No, no, no. I’m sure it was about something . . . They’re in the final turn! Number six takes the lead!” Serge hopped down in excitement and pulled hard on Reevis’s shirt. “He’s three lengths ahead . . . Come on, Turds O’ Plenty! . . .”

“I don’t believe it,” said Reevis. “He’s actually going to win.”

“I know how to pick ’em!” Still hopping and pulling the shirt. “Fifty yards to go! . . . Come on, Turds!”

Thunderous cheers rose from the crowd as the dogs neared the finish line.

Then silence.

Serge hung over the fence. “What the hell just happened?”

“Your dog tripped and went nose down in the dirt,” said Reevis. “Taking out the next three behind him.”

Quiet was replaced by boos and other mob sounds. A blizzard of torn-up tickets fluttered down.
“Son of a bitch!” “This is fixed!” “Why did I bet on that dog?”

Serge headed back to the clubhouse. “So anyway, Mahoney gave me this supposedly important legal file that allegedly is the key to some big case, but it just looks like mundane documents to me. Figured I’d give you a look-see before I gave up. Something called Grand-Bourg Holding . . .”

Serge stopped at a ticket window and handed over his stub.

Reevis’s eyes widened as large bills were counted out in Serge’s hand. “But number six lost.”

“Exactly.” Serge pocketed the cash. “I didn’t bet on six.”

FORT LAUDERDALE

A thirtieth-floor conference room filled with concerned people. Ken Shapiro was on the phone.

“I know it’s difficult, but try to calm down. I can’t understand anything you’re saying.”

Brook did her best. Through sobs: “I just know Shelby didn’t kill himself!”

“Brook, you’re upset,” said Ken. “I talked to the police and all evidence points to suicide. Found the gun with his body in a tidal channel off Cudjoe Key. They say it’s open-and-shut.”

“I’ve been with him all week,” said Brook. “He was in great spirits. Something’s not right.”

“I think we should take you off the case,” said Ken. “At least temporarily.”

“And leave it to Ziggy?”

“If you’re worried about— . . . Listen, nobody at the firm will question this. We couldn’t expect anyone to continue under these circumstances.”

“But the trial is the whole reason he got killed,” said Brook. “I’m sure of it!”

Someone at the conference table: “She’s hearing hoofbeats and seeing zebras.”

Ken made a slashing gesture across his neck to shut up. “Brook, if it helps you accept it, something else was going on. He lied to us when he called and said he had a family emergency. His mom was home and fine.”

“Did you talk to Shelby?”

“No, he texted me.”

“See?” said Brook.

“See what?” said Ken. “I want you to come back here.”

Brook took deliberate breaths. “Okay, I promise I’ll be fine. It’s just that I only heard the news a few minutes ago. I’ll get a good night’s sleep. Shelby would want me to continue the case—he felt so strongly about it.”

Ken closed his eyes for a long thought, then opened them. “All right, but if you feel the slightest reservation, contact me immediately. Take care of yourself.”

He hung up and dialed again. “Who are you calling?” asked Shug Blatt.

“Our investigators. They have carry permits.”

“What for?”

“It’s nagging me. I talked to Shelby all week, everything upbeat. And I did only get a text.”

“You really think she’s right about a connection to the case?”

“Doubt it, but I’m not taking any chances,” said Ken. “We’re sending someone to watch her back.”