Jeremy Ryder continued through the neighborhood for another hour, holding his excitement in check. He’d never met the man, but had heard the stories – all that Carson had chosen to tell. All Jeremy had to go on was a mental picture bolstered by a few grainy shots in newspapers.
Which was a good place to start looking.
He blew a speck from his crisp Panama Borsalino and flicked it a dozen feet to the hat rack where it caught on a hook, spun twice, and stayed. He smiled to himself and hung his jacket carefully in the closet before climbing the stairs to his office in the third floor of the tower. It was a spare setting, a large desk rounded at back to fit the curved wall, polished-oak floors, a circular and red-intensive Oriental carpet on the floor, the stubby round telescope on its eye-height tripod, currently aimed out the wide window toward the Schrum home.
Jeremy sat in his Hermann Miller chair. The Bloomberg terminals on his desk danced with an array of facts and figures from the global markets but he ignored them to turn on his personal computer, tapping into the archives of the Mobile Press-Register and inserting a name into the Search field.
Searching … the screen said as the word appeared with ellipses blinking behind. Searching … Searching … A list of hits filled the screen, seven in all. Jeremy scanned the descriptions, finding one titled MPD Names “Officers of the Year”. It was eight years old but how much could a man change? Jeremy tapped the link.
Searching …
After several moments an article appeared, Jeremy was after a photograph. The article jumped to the side and an empty box appeared, words beneath the box, the original caption from the newspaper.
OFFICERS OF THE YEAR HONORED – Mayor Lyle Edmunds presents Mobile Police detectives Carson Ryder (left) and Harry Nautilus (right) with Officers of the Year awards at the Mayor’s annual Recognition Breakfast …
The photograph began to load, slowly filling the box from left to right. Five seconds later Jeremy saw the face of his brother, Carson, dark hair overly long and looking like his barber preferred tin-snips to shears, the knot of his tie an inch below the unbuttoned collar, his false smile more akin to a deer in headlights. He was holding some ridiculous plaque, sideways of course, being Carson. At least it wasn’t upside-down.
He sighed as the second human image filled in, an older gray-haired man in a dark suit behind a dais, his mouth wide with vaporous natterings, a politician, naturally. The Mayor.
The third form began appearing, a large man, black, shoulders at the height of Carson’s nose, heavy arms bunching the fabric of a tan suit. Jeremy turned away to let the image arrive, counting down as he waited for the entire photo.
… three … two … one …
He turned back to the picture to see the third figure, clutching its own plaque – right-side up, thankfully – looking into the camera with an expression that read This is all bullshit but I’ll play along. He had a large, square head. Intelligent eyes holding a touch of dare, wide forehead, a trim square mustache.
Harry Nautilus. Carson’s partner for years … And the man who, minutes ago, had been reading a newspaper behind the Schrum house.
Jeremy picked up his phone, tapping the first number on speed dial. Carson answered on the third ring.
“Can’t talk now, Jeremy. I’m on the road and heading into work.”
“I thought I’d deliver an update on the Schrum death festival. I’m thinking about renting a cart and selling hot dogs. Or do you think loaves and fishes might be more appropriate?”
“Busy here, Jeremy.”
“Don’t be snippy, it’s discourteous. I’m organizing my drawers. Not pants, the one where I keep memorabilia. I have several articles about your career over the years, newspaper stories. Your manly, thrilling exploits. I’m making copies. Would you like a set?”
“Uh … sure.”
“Some make mention of your old partner, Harry Nautilus …” Jeremy paused as if stifling a yawn. “Whatever became of him, by the way?”
“Harry just retired. He’s in Mobile and I saw him only last weekend.”
“Mobile?” Jeremy said. “You’re sure he’s not gotten religion and is traipsing around Florida looking for holy sites?”
“Religion? What are you babbling about? Listen, Jeremy, I’m really—”
“Busy, yes, I know. I’ll drop these things off next time I’m by your place, probably soon.”
“Soon?” An anxious pause. “What? When?”
Jeremy hung up, crossed his arms and stared out the window. Carson had no idea his old pal was right now in Key West, leaning against a big bright Hummer and chatting with passers-by.
Why?
It was minutes past noon when the Ferragamo slings of Sissy Carol Sparks again ticked across the pavement of Miami Beach, her client snoring naked on the carpet beside the bed, a fifth of Pappy Van Winkle dead on the floor. Sissy could smell the guy’s nasty, overmusked cologne rising from her breasts and she grimaced as she hailed a cab to take her back to Wynwood, another thirty bucks shot.
It had been a standard night, Mr Car Salesman trying to shape Sissy into configurations he’d seen in porn vids, getting a cramp in his leg at one point, howling and limping across the floor, his pink dick flapping pathetically between his thighs. He’d gotten progressively drunker, passing out at four in the morning. Sissy had slept until ten – the guy a beached whale drooling on the carpet – then called room service for coffee, juice and a fruit plate. He’d paid to have her stay until noon, but snored through what he’d expected would be breakfast in bed, so to speak.
As she waved down a taxi, Sissy winced at a memory, the john patting her hair like she was a show poodle and babbling that she was the mos’ beautiful woman he’d ever seen and how he’d like to take her home and show her off to everyone in Kokomo or wherever.
Sissy had started life in her own Kokomo, a tiny town in rural northwestern Ohio, aptly named Hicksville, and wasn’t going back. It had been a hard climb, chased around the house by her uncle – and occasionally caught – starting when she was fourteen, seduced by a music teacher when she was sixteen, a next-door neighbor at seventeen, passed around by a succession of boyfriends, mostly college types, who promised the world and married women who didn’t talk with a twang and live in a trailer park.
Sissy learned two things from her early life: One, men want one thing, and two, men want one thing only.
She’d ditched Hicksville at nineteen, trading a meth head mother and winters so cold they broke pipes under the trailer for the bright-future sunshine of Florida. There had been only one problem: Sissy arrived on the Trailways bus with one-hundred-seventy-seven dollars in her backpack, tucked within the make-up and the few clothes she could fit in the pack.
She found the cheapest motel in the Orlando area, hoping to work at Disney World, which she’d heard hired attractive young people to perform for tourists. Only one problem: the goddamn place wasn’t hiring.
She started looking south. Then, the ad … in the local paper, small and headlined, CHARACTER ACTORS NEEDED. It promised a good steady job, good money, even a place to live. All you needed was to be “responsible, energetic, outgoing and …”
And blah, blah, blah, Sissy thought. What a fucking bust that turned out to be, at least as far as acting. After a strange interview she’d been made an immediate manager and given special duties, finding that beneath all the promises and glittery up-top bullshit it was just another Hicksville, dark and ugly and full of streets that led nowhere. But she had a feel for the work and the money was good, so she stayed a year before getting bored and bolting south to Miami. She’d intended to sign with an escort service, but fucked up and immediately acquired a heroin habit which detoured her career to a massage parlor, cranking out handjobs like Dunkin’ cranked out donuts.
She fell to the bottom, again. Hicksville with hand towels.
Then the cops raided the place and hauled off all the illegals, leaving only one US citizen: Sissy. She’d called a bail bondsman, got a hard-talking dyke named Michaela. With a bit of subtle encouragement, Mick got the drools for Sissy and ended up paying the percentage and all court costs, then sat up three days while Sissy moaned and puked and trembled the H from her system.
Another lesson learned: Fuck with drugs and they’ll fuck you back harder.
Sissy stayed clean and started exercising, spurred on by Mick, who did a minimum ten hard hours a week at a health club and fronted Sissy the membership fee.
Sissy 2.0 arrived. With Mick’s reluctant help – “This is what I’m gonna do, Mick, you got that? Help me or get the hell out of my way” – she finally signed with a low-rent escort service and began doing outcalls at fifty bucks an hour, half going to the service. She found a better service, moved up, and began trolling the street in her own time, targeting horny johns before they could call a service.
The money was starting to roll in.
Which was why Sissy didn’t much care when the cab-fare was thirty and she tipped the guy ten … Sissy Carol Sparks had figured out how the game worked.
Sissy exited the cab and smiled at her apartment building, a ten-unit rehab in a gentrifying neighborhood, her neighbors young professionals who thought the beautiful young woman in 22-A was a medical-equipment salesperson who took a shitload of overnight sales trips. The men initially buzzed at her like bees, but Sissy bought a flashy diamelle engagement ring to back the story of an engagement to a Delta pilot, the marriage at some nebulous point in the future.
All worked out.
Sissy crossed to her unit to shower the stink from her skin, hit the club for a workout, then take a facial and manicure. She’d had gigs for four days in a row – the convention – and was looking forward to curling up in a terry robe and watching West Wing episodes on Netflix … the call girl in that show made three grand a night!
Something to aspire to.
A flash of motion caught Sissy’s eye and she turned to a white van parked on the street, eyes reflected in the large side mirror, gray eyes tracking her every step across the pavement. Normally she would have put a little more sashay in the trim rear to give some poor working stiff a couple seconds of the show. She was, after all, Sissy Carol Sparks, moving up and moving fast.
But this guy was scary, his eyes horny-hot, sure … but angry at the same time. And why was the looney fuck holding his shirt open to show some purple tattoo or whatever? Her internal alarms went off and Sissy nearly ran the last few feet to her door.