The Big Bout Page 6

  “We have not threatened to kill anyone,” Miles said. “It’s bad for business.”

  “Why threaten to break his hand so he can’t box if you want nothin’ more than for him to fight?” I said. “Seems a contradiction.”

  “Reminding him he can’t fight with a broken hand is not the same as breaking it. That is not to say that I would not break it if I had to, but Freddy is an, ah, associate of mine, and I wish him nothing but the best. Now, I know you’re young and you look like you been through a war of your own, but you got a lot to learn, and you need to know a good deal more than you do before you aha up to the grownups table. Understand?”

  I did, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “And one more thing,” he said. “Call it a free tip from your Uncle Miles. The only person your client needs protecting from is himself.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Walking back to my office from Child’s, I noticed a tall, too-thin man with a subtle limp moving toward me.

  His gate was slow and deliberate and somewhat self-conscious. He worked hard to conceal the limp, but there was only so much he could do.

  It was obvious he was a cop.

  Based on Henry Folsom’s description of him, I’d say he was David Howell, the new cop who reminded Folsom of me––and who Folsom had assigned to help with my Japanese problem.

  We met on the sidewalk in front of J.C. Penney’s.

  “Jimmy?” he asked.

  I nodded and extended my left hand, which he took without awkwardness or hesitation.

  My guess was he’d spent enough time around one-armed and injured men while recuperating from his own war wounds to be comfortable with loss of nearly every kind. I didn’t know the story behind the limp and according to Folsom it wasn’t something he ever spoke about.

  “David Howell,” he said. “Henry Folsom sent me over to talk to you.”

  "Howell," I said. "Any relation to Frank?"

  Frank Howell had been the mayor before Harry Lewis.

  "Distantly," he said.

  "Small town," I said.

  We stepped out of the middle of the sidewalk to the front of the building, pedestrians passing around us like river water flowing around the bases of cypress trees.

  He glanced back down toward my office. “German’s attack your office?”

  I smiled. “For all I know.”

  “Well, looks like whoever it was, was committed.”

  “Germans are certainly that.”

  “But I guess we’re meant to be talkin’ about Japs not Germans, right?”

  I nodded.

  Through the windows behind us, customers, mostly women, were making purchases from Penney’s through a cable pulley system that transported payment from customers at various locations throughout the sales floor to the office in the back.

  “What’d he tell you?” I asked.

  “To do whatever I could to help you,” he said. “To do it with discretion and make sure no one gets hurt. Didn’t give me a lot of details.”

  I took care of that, filling him in on everything he needed to know.

  “So,” he said, “you don’t show at eight tonight, they come after you, we grab ’em.”

  “Before they shoot me,” I said.

  “Before they shoot you,” he said, nodding. “That’s right.”

  David Howell had a relaxed ease about him that was appealing. He was still and quiet––economical with his words and actions, and self-contained the way most men who did what we did were. He seemed somewhat scathed, perhaps even shell-shocked, but self-assured nonetheless.

  “I take it Folsom feels like he owes you.”

  I didn’t say anything, just waited.

  “He tells me to help you, you can count on my help––and after hearing your story . . . I want to help. Hell, it’s why I’m a cop.”

  I nodded.

  “But . . . you need to know . . . I won’t do anything illegal. I enforce the law. I catch those who break it. I don’t break it myself––or even bend it. Not even in the pursuit of criminals. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Too many good men dying for what’s right. I won’t dishonor them. I won’t dishonor my department or myself.”

  “If that’s true, and I hope it is,” I said, “it’ll be a welcomed surprise.”

  Back in my office, I took a quick look at Jeff Bennett’s papers.

  There was much in them that didn’t make sense––documents and notes I couldn’t decipher.

  From what I could gather based on the little I could understand, he was working on a story about war profiteering and the thriving black market in our area.

  I saw a few names I recognized––including that of Lee Perkins, who until his recent demise had ruled all things black market in the region from his lair in the Floridan Hotel in Tallahassee.

  Perkins’s name had a line through it. Above it was scribbled: Who takes over now that he’s dead?

  I had wondered that myself. I hadn’t lost any sleep over it or anything, but I had been curious as to whether another predator had already taken his place, stepping into the vacant position my actions had created.

  Would he, like so many other dictators, crime bosses, and kingpins, be replaced with someone or someones worse? Had my dishonorable actions made the world better––even a bit, even marginally––or had they led to something that was, like the actions themselves, degrading and despicable?

  My plan had been to study the papers a bit and then take them to Jeff, but as I left for his mother’s place in the Cove where he was said to be, his things were left behind once again––this time hidden beneath some boxing magazines in a bottom drawer of my desk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lady Bird Bennett, Jeff’s mother and the woman many claimed was the mother of Panama City, lived in a Spanish-style home only slightly smaller than a football stadium on Bunker’s Cove overlooking the bay.

  The house, which was beautiful, would have looked more at home in St. Augustine than Panama City––and, in fact, it had been designed and built by one of the leading architects who brought the Spanish Colonial Revival style to St. Augustine, Tampa, and Miami.

  Large enough to be a hotel instead of a house, the enormous structure was all pristine white smooth plaster walls and chimneys, low-pitched clay tile roofs, small second- and third-floor balconies, double-hung windows with canvas awnings, terra-cotta ornaments, and decorative iron trim.

  By the time I had walked up the brick drive, Lady Bird Bennett was waiting for me in between the enormous wooden doors of the open entryway.

  She was as vibrant as any sixty-year-old woman I had ever encountered––tall, but not too, solid, but trim, erect with perfect posture, but not rigid.

  Beneath coarse, stylishly long gray hair, her big blue eyes were bright and penetrating.

  She extended her left hand even before I did and we shook like men, her grip firm, strong, but not in the overly so manner of some men trying to signify something from the jump.

  “Good of you to come,” she said, though I had requested the meeting.

  “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “It’s only a little nippy,” she said. “If it’s agreeable with you, I thought we might sit out here and enjoy the crisp air.”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering if it were just a way to keep the cheap detective out of the nice house and off the expensive furniture.

  She indicated a set of wooden chairs to her right and we walked over and sat down in them. Between them was a table with a tray of what looked to me like an English tea and biscuits––something as uncommon in the deep South as Spanish Colonial Revival mansions and boxing war correspondents.

  “I much prefer tea to coffee,” she said. “Hope that’s okay by you.”

  “Sure. Tea is fine.”

  “I don’t take mine with sugar, but I’m sure I could find some on the premises if you required it.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I
put tupelo honey in mine,” she said.

  “Sounds good,” I said, and it was.

  “Now,” she said, “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but it’s a small town and one hears things.”

  “From what I hear, it’s your town and you hear everything.”

  She smiled at that, seeming to find my comment more ingratiating than insulting.

  “You’re the hero cop that lost his arm saving that woman and her child,” she said. “The one who ran off with Harry Lewis’s wife and had some trouble. Everyone thought both of you were dead, then you showed up and were suspected of all manner of . . . of murder and various crimes, then that somehow blew over. Now I hear Mrs. Lewis is back from the grave too, but Harry’s no longer with us. You worked with the former Pinkerton . . . What was his name? Parker. He too is no longer among the quick. And as I understand it, though it seems quite incredible, you’ve taken over his agency and are a private detective.”

  “Why do you find that incredible?” I asked.

  “Does our little town really need a private detective? Are we big enough? Are we crime-ridden enough to need the services of a––”

  “Well, Mrs. Bennett––”

  “Call me Birdie,” she said. “Mrs. Bennett will always be my late husband’s mother.”

  “––take for instance your son dropping out of the bout and going missing,” I said. “Someone’s got to look into that.”

  “But he’s merely believed to be missing,” she said.

  “Either way.”

  “And the police?”

  “There’s a lot they don’t have time for,” I said. “Or are uninterested in pursuing past a certain point.”

  “I see. Very interesting. I find it all so fascinating. I really do. I find you fascinating, Mr. Riley.”

  “Jimmy, please,” I said. “Mr. Riley will always be my late father.”

  She smiled and something mischievous danced in her eyes and twitched at the corners of her lips.

  Down the driveway, past landscaped beds and small gardens, in the opposite direction from the one I had entered and parked, a hundred feet or so from the house, a man in a white uniform complete with hat was cleaning a car in front of a three-car garage that matched the house.

  The car was a ’42 black Nash Ambassador with plenty of chrome––including a wraparound grille, above which were the three signature horizontal bars, and matching side trim. Even in the dull daylight, the car gleamed as if beneath perfect summer sunlight.

  “So, if I could just speak with your son, Mrs. . . . Birdie, I can get all this cleared up and be out of your way and get back to my other cases.”

  “You actually have other cases?”

  “I do.”

  “Really? That’s . . . Can one actually make a living being a private eye in Panama City?”

  “The verdict is still out on that one,” I said.

  “I just can’t imagine,” she said. “I really can’t.”

  “The thing you have to remember, Mrs. . . . Birdie . . . is people define making a living very differently. Take you and me for instance . . .”

  She smiled again. “Well, you’ve won me over, Mr. . . . Jimmy. If I’m ever in need of the services of a shamus, you’re who I’m calling.”

  “That’s good of you,” I said. “Now about your son.”

  “Yes,” she said, “down to business. I need to know I can trust your discretion.”

  “You can,” I said.

  “But––”

  “What have you heard about the Callahan case?” I asked.

  The Callahans were another wealthy family living in the Cove.

  “Why nothing,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  She smiled again––the same smart, self-amused smile.

  “I couldn’t do what I do,” I said, “couldn’t keep doing it, if I was a blabber mouth. Telling me something is like telling it to your priest.”

  “Mr. . . . Jimmy, I’m Protestant, as I’m sure you know.”

  “It was just an analogy.”

  “The thing is, my son is sick, and I want to keep that out of the papers and out of the wagging tongues of the silly women who make up the gossip guild of the grapevine of our small community.”

  “What kind of sick?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “It’s not just one thing,” she said. “It’s one cause––the war, the things he’s been through over there––but it’s affecting him in a variety of ways. He’s mentally exhausted. He’s physically frail.”

  “May I speak with him?” I asked. “I’ll be brief.”

  “He needs to rest, to be away from all stress and pressure and even activity for a while. Then he’ll be back, then he’ll be right as rain again.”

  “I won’t upset him,” I said. “I won’t tire him. I’ll just––”

  “He’s not here or I’d let you,” she said. “I’ve arranged for special treatment for him in a relaxing setting. Do you know why? Do you know what his most important job is, Mr. Riley? It’s not reporting and it’s certainly not boxing. It’s having an heir, making sure the future of our family and all we do is secure.”

  “Where is he? Could I visit him there?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just not possible. I wish it were, but . . . I’d be happy to set up a time for you to come see him once he’s home.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I’m not sure. It will depend on how he responds to the treatment, how much time he needs to heal and . . . I just don’t know. But given the good stock he comes from, I can’t imagine it will take long.”

  “Is Mrs. Bennett with him?”

  “Oh, you mean Rebecca? I thought she was who hired you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Then I don’t know where she is. I’m afraid part of what’s going on are some marital difficulties. Oh, of course. I know who hired you—it’s that correspondent. What’s-her-name Hudson.”

  “I can’t say,” I said. “I never reveal anything about a client.”

  “Then it sounds like I need to be one of your clients,” she said. “You’ve gotten me to reveal all sorts of things I didn’t intend to today. Tell you what, let me hire you to find Rebecca. Can’t very well have an heir without getting these two back together. How does a five-hundred-dollar retainer sound?”

  Like a bribe, I thought but didn’t say to her.

  “And Jimmy . . . you should know . . . Miss Hudson’s intentions toward my son are not honorable. Don’t let her manipulate you. Any marital issues brought on by the stress and trauma of the war pale by comparison to the assault of Kay Home-wrecker Hudson. Ask around. She has a reputation.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Okay,” I said, “we have a new plan.”

  I was back in Lauren and Miki’s room in the Dixie Sherman.

  Lauren seemed weaker and more tired than before, Miki bored, restless.

  “We don’t show tonight,” I said. “Your uncle and his gunsels come after me. The cops arrest them. Leaves your mom out of it. No one gets hurt––except maybe one of your uncle’s little gun boys.”

  Miki was nodding. “Much better plan, Soldier Boss Man.”

  Lauren said, “But won’t they just turn on Miki? All they have to do is tell the––”

  “Folsom gave me his word they wouldn’t come after her.”

  “What? You told him? You trust him again?”

  “No, but I do believe him––on this.”

  She shook her head and frowned. “I hope you’re right. Think about the consequences to Miki if you’re not.”

  “I have. I am. Not thinking of much else at the moment.”

  Eight o’clock came and went.

  I didn’t show. I had broken my word again––something I was doing with far too much regularity these days.

  Clip, David Howell, and I were in my office.

  We were waiting.


  One of Clip’s cousins, a big, bad middle-aged man who was good with a gun and better with a knife, was taking a shift with Freddy tonight. The man’s name was Franklin. He had worked as a bouncer at the only black club in town and could handle himself just fine.

  I didn’t have any such cousins, so a retired cop who was only okay with a gun and didn’t own a knife was posted near the door to Lauren and Miki’s room at the Dixie.

  “Where you from?” Clip asked David.

  “Carrabelle.”

  “Best seafood I ever had was in Carrabelle. Best few other things too.”

  David smiled. “A woman,” he said. “Man says somethin’ that way, he can only be talking about a woman.”

  “Not just any woman,” Clip said.

  “The best woman,” David said.

  “She ain’t the best at everything, but damn if she ain’t the very best at a few things.”

  “Is your experience of Carrabelle women similar?” I asked David.

  He shook his head. “None I ever knew were the best at anything. Hell, I can’t say they were particularly good at anything.”

  “Carrabelle where you got that little hitch in your giddyup?” Clip asked.

  David shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

  “Guess that happen when you’s off seein’ the world with your uncle,” Clip added.

  David gave the slightest of nods.

  We all fell silent for a while.

  Eventually Clip said, “Be hell of a lot easier they come tonight when we expectin’ them. Get it over with.”

  “Would,” I said.

  “But it ain’t lookin’ all that good for that, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said.

  “Now no matter what else we doin’, we got to keep an eye out for them.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “You got any idea how hard that shit is for a nigger with only one eye?”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” David said. “I’ll be around when they do come. We’ll get them.”

  Ultimately it didn’t matter that they didn’t show, or that everything else we were doing would be made more difficult while we waited for them to make their move, or that the gunshot wound in my gut hurt like hell, or that I was raw-boned and marrow-weary—because later that night I got to crawl into a soft, warm bed beside Lauren Lewis. Next to that, nothing mattered. Nothing in the world.