Beneath the bright glare of the lamp he’d set up, Carver sat at the breakfast counter in his cottage, carefully unwinding and studying the ribbon from the cartridge he’d removed from Raffy Ortiz’s typewriter. He played the ribbon gingerly through his smudged fingers and tried to imagine spaces between words so he could decipher the steady stream of typing. It was more difficult than he’d imagined to make sense of the impressions on the flimsy ribbon.
After a while it became grinding work that made Carver’s back ache and his vision swim. Raffy used his typewriter to send routine household correspondence and countless of his terse reminders to himself. There were dozens of addresses with zip codes. Also a few phone numbers, but a check of Carver’s Del Moray cross-directory showed them to be numbers of merchants in the vicinity of Executive Tower.
His own phone rang, causing his body to jerk and his mind to bob up from the depths of concentration. He pinched a slight kink in the ribbon to indicate where he left off, then grabbed his cane and crossed the cottage to snatch up the phone on the fifth ring. He said hello and stared through the wide front window at the glimmering Atlantic and at distant sails leaning against the wall of a stiff easterly breeze. A few high, white clouds were racing each other out to sea.
“McGregor here, Carver,” came the assertive voice over the line. “Thought you oughta know we got a call about a break-in over in Executive Tower on Ponce de Leon.”
“That the tall, ritzy condo looks like an office building?”
“Looks like all the other beachside condos in Florida,” McGregor said.
“Right across the street from a shopping center?”
“Now you got it. Somebody was in there prowling around Raffy Ortiz’s unit.”
“No kidding?”
“Uh-hm. His girlfriend phoned us. Blond cunt name of Melanie Star. Real name, too, though she said it used to have two r’s in it.”
“So Raffy’s place was burglarized. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving victim.”
“When I heard the squeal,” McGregor said, “I got myself over there like a good public servant while the uniforms were still making the prelim and taking information. Raffy was there, all angry and ugly with his muscles bunched up and fire in his eye.”
“Well, can’t blame him. Somebody break in and steal your whips and chains, you’d feel the same way.”
“Oh, nothing was taken. I could tell that what Raffy was actually sore about was two things. First, that somebody’d been nervy-and stupid-enough to B and E his condo. Second, that the Star bitch was dumb enough to phone the police.”
“He’s got an aversion to the law, that guy.”
“Like so many. Hey, Carver, what were you doing late this morning, say about eleven or quarter after?”
“Vacuuming dust balls behind my sofa. You sure nothing was taken from Raffy’s?”
“I’m sure ’cause he’s sure. He looked around very, very carefully. Whoever broke in there didn’t try to disguise the fact. Smashed the shit outta the door. Then left things in mild but unmistakable disarray, you might say. I mean, didn’t really tear up the place, but left it just messy enough so Raffy’d know somebody’d been there rooting around. Almost like the guy that busted in didn’t mind if Raffy got pissed off. Mighta even wanted it. Got some kinda death wish, I guess, not to leave poison like Raffy alone. Our housebreaker oughta know better, huh? Always a chance the victim’ll come up with a name and inflict great bodily harm on whoever it was broke in the place. Wouldn’t be surprised what Raffy’d do. For that matter, I wouldn’t wanna be in that Melanie Star’s shoes.”
“I doubt they’d fit,” Carver said. He noticed, far out at sea, a huge oil tanker. It was fixed on the horizon like a motionless gray island, but he knew it was making its way south along the coast. It was like a different world passing by, without the problems of this one. He wondered if the residents at Sunhaven could see it.
“Real reason I phoned,” McGregor said, “was to tell you I saw a few people, made a few phone calls about Brian Macklin. He’s a painter, all right. Supposed to be real talented and gets his stuff displayed all over the state. He’s sixty-four and got an arrest record from back in the sixties and seventies when he was mixed up in the peace movement.”
“Anything interesting on the record?”
“Yes and no. Fucking commie sympathizer’s what he was. Maybe still is. Usual garbage on his sheet: resisting arrest, destruction of government property, that kinda thing.”
“What sort of government property?”
“Hah! Everything from a fence around a missile site to his tax form. He was one of them longhairs that stirred up so much shit back then. Now they’re artists and lawyers and whatever. Got secret drug habits and live in expensive condos with their wives, who used to wear love beads and fuck everything had pants with a zipper in front. Sophisticated, they call themselves these days. Junkies is what I call ’em.”
“I heard he had a drug problem.”
“Word I get is he does, but not a big one. Mostly pot. A little crystal meth. What the hell you expect, Carver, guy’s an arteest. Makes me wonder, too, what a used-up ex-hippie like that’s doing with a young goodie like the Macklin cunt.”
“You mean Dr. Lee Macklin.”
“Yeah. Sure as hell he ain’t hitting it like he should. Old pothead probably can’t even get his dong up anymore. Way I see it, theirs is a marriage for appearances only and hubby’s actually a closet fruit wants a sharp wife to show off to the world and help him financially with his career. I mean, hey, she’s a doctor; she’s busy looking down throats and up assholes and ain’t interested in sex anyway, so it works out nice for both of them.”
“Sound reasoning,” Carver said. He rolled his eyes. “Give me a call if you find out anything else about Brian.”
“Sure. And you call me if you find out anything about anything. But I guess you ain’t interested if we catch the guy broke into Raffy’s condo.”
“Only if it’s Brian,” Carver said, and hung up.
He plucked a Budweiser from the refrigerator and sat down again at the counter, where the ribbon from Raffy Ortiz’s typewriter was unfurled and draped onto the floor. He took up where he’d left off.
Near the end-or what to Raffy would have been the beginning-of the ribbon, his attention was heightened by a series of numerals, one of which had a slash typed through it: 50 3 4543–9876.
It didn’t take Carver long to figure out he was looking at a phone number preceded by an area code. The “3” key had been mistakenly struck instead of the “4” and then crossed out. The area code was 504.
Carver phoned the long-distance operator and was told the 504 area code included the city of New Orleans. He depressed the cradle button, then direct-dialed the area code and phone number.
The phone at the other end of the connection in New Orleans rang six times.
When it was answered there was music in the background, a trumpet solo. And voices. A shout, a woman’s laughter.
Then a vaguely familiar male voice said, “Melba’s Place in the Quarter.”
Carver said, “Oops, wrong number,” and hung up.
But his harsh features wore a predator’s smile. It hadn’t been a wrong number at all.
It couldn’t have been more right.
There was a subtle change of light in the cottage, the faintest of sounds from the front porch.
Carver grabbed his cane, went as quietly as possible to his dresser, and removed the Colt. 38 from where he’d placed it beneath his socks in the top drawer. He worked the action and there was a solid metallic double click as a round was fed from the clip into the chamber, then he moved toward the front of the cottage.
For an instant he caught a glimpse of someone peering through a window, then the image was gone.
Footsteps on the porch.
The doorknob rotated.
The door opened.
Edwina.
“I’ve been trying to catch you here,” she said. She noticed the gun but didn’t change expression. Always so cool.
“You and maybe somebody else,” Carver said.
“You’re in a shitty line of work,” she told him. She’d been working her own job; she was wearing a tailored gray business suit with a white blouse and oversized black bow tie. The skirt was short and slit up one side, showing off the fullness of her calves and a neat turn of nyloned ankle. In her right hand was her blue leather attache case. No doubt stuffed with hot contracts.
Carver said, “Maybe we both work too hard.”
Edwina smiled. “Not tonight, though, okay? We go have a quiet dinner someplace, then we go home-to my place.”
“I’m staying here because I don’t want to be seen at your place,” Carver explained. It sounded lame. He suddenly felt as if he’d been caught by a grown-up while playing a child’s game. It seemed absurd and adolescent. He was scared of a bully and didn’t want his girlfriend hurt if there was a showdown. Very dramatic.
But he knew that Raffy Ortiz and whoever else was involved in the Sunhaven deaths were more than mere bullies playing schoolyard games. Something other than a bloody nose was at stake.
“A motel, then,” Edwina suggested.
No child’s game there. Carver looked at Edwina and she looked back with those direct gray eyes that saw to the pit of his soul. They were two people closer to each other than either of them might have preferred. She knew what he was thinking. He could see the material of her white blouse, taut between her breasts, quake faintly with her breathing.
She said, “Trying to make up your mind?”
He imagined her breasts, her thighs, the soft and secret places of her body. Her flesh would be damp from the heat and humidity, smooth and yielding and the slightest bit sticky beneath his fingertips. She would taste like butterscotch and salt. She would be eager.
She was eager.
It was contagious.
He put the gun back in the drawer and went with her.