Morning came. I called Kazankis at Redi-flow, the man answering the phone telling me he wasn’t in but he’d tell the boss I called. Trucks rumbled in the background. Kazankis phoned back twelve minutes later, apologizing.
“I’m out of the office until noon. Got to inspect a pour. Then I’m dealing with some business I hope might interest you, Detective.”
“What might that be, sir?”
“A wise man never promises until he can deliver. Might I expect you at half-past twelve?”
“We’ll be there.”
I called Gershwin. He was having breakfast at Tiki Tiki and would meet me downtown. Next I dialed the number that replayed messages on my office phone and had but one, from Roy.
“Hey buddy, how’s the house-hunting going? Good, I hope. Don’t want my favorite psycho-hunting dick sleeping beneath an underpass.”
I hadn’t done anything about a new place. I called Gershwin and told him I’d be delayed a bit. On my way to Miami I pulled into several homes with For Sale signs visible. Most of the signs had attached boxes holding hand-out sheets of the properties’ prices and particulars. A pattern emerged: anything vaguely resembling a decent place to live cost twice what I’d figured I could pay. It seemed that, in the Keys at least, my simple taste far exceeded my wallet. Or maybe I was spoiled by living on Dauphin Island and at my current jungle-equipped address.
The fruitlessness of my pursuit depressed me and I blew it from my head with high-decibel Jimmy Buffet on the drive in. I wasn’t particularly a Buffet fan, but suspected driving without at least one Buffet CD in your vehicle was grounds for a ticket in the Keys.
When I arrived the office was empty, the crew out on various cases and Roy somewhere else. He’d left a stack of real-estate publications on my chair. Gershwin breezed in ten minutes later peeling a banana. He jammed most of it in his mouth, tossed the peel over his shoulder into the trash bin, shot me a thumbs up.
“Whass op, Big Rybe?” he said around a mouthful of banana.
I started to say something, realized the futility, shifted to business. “We have a meeting with Kazankis at twelve-thirty. He said he might have something interesting. We’ll see.”
“What until then?” Gershwin asked, sucking his fingertips.
I tossed him a few of the real-estate mags, kept several for myself. “Go through these and circle anything under three hundred thou that’s not a rathole.”
“The sand about to run out on your tropical paradise?”
“I think I’m down to three grains. Get circling.”