The old money in Jacksonville lived in Ortega, a riverside neighborhood three miles from Little Vegas. Lawyers and judges lived there and doctors who left home for medical school and came back to occupy the family houses. Live oaks whose trunks had fattened on summer rains for two or more centuries shaded the yards. In the past thirty years realtors had sold houses to families from the North in almost every neighborhood in the city, but not Ortega. If Ortega families had no children who wanted their houses, they sold them to the children of friends and the neighborhood was as corrupt as ever and smelled like jasmine blossoms.
Darrin held his gun against my ribcage and directed me through the dark streets until we reached McGirts Boulevard, which abutted the muddy banks where the Ortega River spilled into the St. Johns. When we reached a long brick wall, Darrin pointed at an open gate and said, ‘In there.’ A black driveway snaked past oaks to a large orange-brick house. Heavy branches shaded the yard against the moonlight and soft floodlights, positioned in a garden, illuminated the exterior walls from beneath as if the house were a painting that the owner wanted visitors to admire.
On the front porch Darrin rang once and the door opened to a large man with a heavy face, straight salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes. I recognized him. His name was Don Melchiori. He was a city councilman who managed to position himself next to the mayor whenever news cameras covered a press conference. The newspaper had featured him recently in a series on historical preservation.
He looked me over and nodded into the front hall. We followed him into a living room with a white carpet, a large sofa and matching chairs upholstered in blue seersucker. An ornate mirror hung over a marble fireplace. He held his head forward and low, the way large men sometimes do as if the weight of their big skulls has become burdensome. ‘Now what’s this all about?’ he said.
‘I’m William—’
‘I know who the hell you are,’ he said. ‘Why were you at my bar asking about Tonya Richmond?’
‘Little Vegas is yours?’
He said, ‘I own a piece of it. Is this a problem?’
‘Only if you tell the manager to hire a girl for a sex party and then the girl gets killed.’
He stepped close to me. He was at least a hundred pounds heavier than I was. Suddenly he butted his forehead into mine. The blow staggered me and when my vision cleared he was crossing the room to the fireplace and a warm trickle of blood was running from my head on to my cheek.
Melchiori spoke to Darrin. ‘I’m sixty-one years old and still on a daily basis people surprise me with their stupidity. I wake up every morning and I think, “There’s nothing difficult here. Nothing complicated. A man with a third-grade education should be able to figure it out.” But inevitably before lunchtime someone manages to prove that I’ve overestimated humankind. Often it happens before breakfast. Then all day long it happens again and again and again.’
A drop of blood fell from my cheek on to my shirt. I asked, ‘What happened in Jamaica that got Tonya Richmond killed?’
Melchiori spun and fixed his eyes on me. He looked at my forehead and my cheek, then dug a white cloth handkerchief out of his pocket and threw it at me. ‘Don’t bleed on the carpet,’ he said.
‘What happened in Jamaica?’
He came to me, got close again, and I guessed he expected me to back away but I didn’t. ‘Nothing happened in Jamaica,’ he said. ‘We had a party. We had a good time. Then we came home.’
‘Why was Belinda Mabry there?’
He glanced at Darrin. ‘Same reason as the rest of us. For the party.’
‘And now she’s dead and Tonya Richmond’s dead and—’
Melchiori’s fist shot into my stomach and the air punched from my lungs. I sank to the white carpet and sat looking up at the big man. A hard kick in his knees would put him on the carpet next to me. I glanced at Darrin. His gun pointed at my head.
Melchiori said, ‘Tonya Richmond was a prostitute, the lowest kind. Sooner or later a girl like that gets killed. Belinda Mabry liked risky sex, the riskier the better. Sooner or later she had to get hurt. I don’t like coincidence any more than you do, Mr Byrd, but they both put themselves in harm’s way. That’s not coincidence. That’s bad judgment.’
‘And how about Ashley Littleton?’
He stared at me with icy eyes and said, ‘I know nothing about her.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ I said.
Melchiori stood over me and shook his head sadly as though I were a small and bothersome creature. ‘You show bad judgment too.’
‘Who did Belinda Mabry come with to your party?’
A little smile formed on his big mouth. ‘Now why would I tell you that?’
‘Because you don’t want me to break your knees?’
For a big man he moved quickly. He kicked me in the ribs. I tried to grab his foot but was much too slow and the air punched out of my lungs again. As I fought for breath, he said, ‘You want to know about Belinda Mabry, you should ask her son. He spends all his time begging free drinks at Little Vegas.’
Belinda’s son, I thought. And mine. I said, ‘He drives in all the way from the Intracoastal to go to your club?’ Talking hurt.
‘Comes in four or five nights a week.’
‘Why would he do that?’
He looked at me again like I was slow. ‘Jesus, I kicked you in the ribs, not the head. I suppose he likes the girls.’
‘He could find better clubs close to home. Clubs where girls actually show up.’
‘Maybe he likes to slum. Like his mother.’
I lunged for his legs but he neatly sidestepped me.
I looked up at him. ‘Did you kill my cat?’
He glanced at Darrin with a smile. ‘Maybe I did get him in the head.’ He glared down at me. ‘Why in the world would I kill your cat?’
‘I don’t know. Why in the world would you headbutt me and punch me in the stomach?’
‘Because you’re a pain in the ass, Mr Byrd. You ask questions you shouldn’t ask.’
‘Who brought Belinda Mabry to the party?’ I asked.
‘Ah, fuck you.’ He turned to Darrin. ‘Get rid of him.’
But as Darrin came for me another man stepped into the room, an old man with tear-stain scars under his eyes and a spotless white shirt buttoned up to his neck. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ Charles said.
Melchiori looked annoyed. ‘Who are you?’
Charles nodded toward me. ‘His friend.’
A deep laugh erupted from Melchiori’s chest. ‘This old man is your backup?’ he asked, then said to Darrin, ‘Get these scumbags out of my house.’
Charles reached down, unzipped his zipper and pulled out his penis.
‘Huh,’ Darrin said.
Melchiori was furious. ‘I’m going to tear your head off.’
‘He’s crazy, Mr Melchiori,’ Darrin said but Melchiori was already coming at Charles.
Charles started to piss. Melchiori froze, so angry he couldn’t move, and watched a heavy stream of urine splatter on his white carpet. Charles pissed for a full minute and more. Then he shook his penis and tucked it into his pants.
Melchiori, his face flushed, looked at the ruined carpet, made a choking sound and came at Charles again. But he’d lost his inner balance. As Melchiori stepped up to him, Charles shot a fist into his stomach and an elbow into his face. A bone cracked – Melchiori’s nose or jaw – and he started to fall. Darrin fired his gun at Charles. The bullet hit Melchiori’s shoulder.
Charles caught Melchiori against him, hoisted him to his chest. Melchiori was twice Charles’ size but Charles held him as though he were stuffed with cotton. If Darrin wanted to shoot at Charles again he would have to shoot through Melchiori’s body.
Charles whispered something in Melchiori’s ear and stepped toward Darrin, clutching the big man to him. Darrin tried to get an angle on Charles but couldn’t find the shot. Charles stepped closer. ‘Put the gun down,’ he said calmly.
‘Fuck you,’ Darrin said and dodged to the side.
But Charles turned with him, dancing with Melchiori. Melchiori’s eyes had turned glazy and saliva was running on to his chin.
‘Fuck,’ Darrin yelled and turned for the door.
‘Run,’ said Charles calmly. ‘Run, run, run.’
Darrin did.
Charles laid the big man on the carpet. Melchiori’s leg rested in the pool of urine. He stared at the air above him and rasped to no one in particular, probably Charles and me both, ‘I’m going to kill you.’
Charles came to me. ‘You all right?’
‘Scratches and scrapes,’ I said.
‘Then get up.’
He gazed around the living room, spotted the handkerchief Melchiori had thrown at me and used it to lift Melchiori’s phone off the receiver. He dialed 911 with a knuckle. When the operator answered, Charles said, ‘Gunshots on McGirts Boulevard,’ gave Melchiori’s street address and hung up.
He looked down at Melchiori. ‘You’ll live,’ he said, ‘though you might regret it.’
Melchiori rasped, ‘Fuck you.’
Charles asked me, ‘You want to burn down the house?’
Melchiori flinched but said nothing and we left him and went outside to Charles’ car. Darrin’s pickup truck was gone. As we pulled out of the driveway I rolled down my window and listened to the night. Tree frogs chirped in the branches. A small airplane, invisible in the darkness, tore gently across the sky. There were no sirens.
I asked Charles. ‘What did you whisper to Melchiori when you caught him?’
‘I told him I’d kill him if his blood stained my shirt.’
‘You’re a crazy old man.’
‘That’s what makes me so lovable,’ he said.
‘Yeah, to other wolverines.’
As we turned from McGirts on to Grand Avenue and crossed the Ortega River, a police cruiser flew past, its lights flashing.
‘Melchiori says that Terrence Mabry hangs out at Little Vegas,’ I said.
‘Then we’ll need to talk to your boy again.’
‘Don’t call him my boy.’
‘OK.’
We rode quietly for a while and I said, ‘The pissing thing. I’ve never seen that before.’
‘I’ve never done it before. I wanted Melchiori to know this city isn’t his own. Not even his house.’ He turned the corner on to Roosevelt Boulevard and squinted up at a road sign. ‘And besides’ – he shrugged – ‘I needed to piss.’