James Hall - Miami Noir

Sirens filled the night like the wails of predatory beasts circling their night’s meal.

“What’s this mean?” Jumpy held up a sheaf of papers.

He was standing in the doorway of Dr. Guy Carmichael’s tiny windowless cubicle. Guy’s office hours were from 4 till 6. At 6:15 his evening graduate fiction workshop started and ran till 9:40. At the moment it was 5:30, so at worst he’d have to deal with Jumpy for fifteen minutes before he could claim he had to rush off to class.

“Could you be more precise? What does what mean?”

“Okay,” Jumpy said. “What the fuck is this? A fucking C minus on my story.”

“Did you read my comments? Is there something you’re confused about?”

Jumpy looked down the hall, then checked the other direction. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and blue jeans and loafers without socks. Trying to fit in with some preppie image of a college student still surviving from his first fling at higher education back in the early ’70s.

“I wrote what happened. You were there. You saw it. This is what happened. And that’s all it’s worth? Not even a fucking C? What’ve I got to do, kill somebody to get an A?”

“It’s the writing,” Guy said. “Not the events you describe.”

“On my paper you said — shit, where is it?” Jumpy started fumbling through the typed pages, looking for Guy’s tiny scrawl.

Jumpy used a battered Royal typewriter and he whited out his mistakes with big glops smeared across paragraphsized portions of his paper. Guy admired his stamina, hunched over the tiny machine, those enormous fingers drilling letter after letter onto the white page. Stamina was one thing. Talent was another. Guy had tried hard with Jumpy, made him a special project, devoted hours and hours to one-on-one’s in his office and in a bar on Biscayne. But after a minute or two of anything short of unadulterated praise, Jumpy glazed over and slid back into the murky grotto inside his bulletproof skull.

Jumpy found the comment he’d been searching for and put a finger on Guy’s words as he read.

It’s not credible that two such dissimilar men would pair up for such an effort. That’s what I mean. Not credible But we did. We paired up. So why in fuck’s name is that a C minus?”

“You have to convince the reader it’s credible.”

“You’re the reader, Guy. You were fucking there. You were fucking standing right there pissing your fucking Dockers. And you don’t believe what happened right in front of your fucking eyes? I’m missing something here.”

One of Guy’s grad students, Mindy Johnston, stuck her head in the doorway and said, “Ooops. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mindy was a poet, aggressively ethereal. Wispy red hair, enormous breasts that defeated her every attempt to conceal them.

“I just came by to drop off my assignment. I can’t be in class tonight. Migraine’s acting up.”

Guy accepted the paper and told Mindy he hoped she felt better soon.

“Try a pop of heroin,” Jumpy said. “Blow that migraine right away.”

Jumpy’s gaze was fixed on Mindy’s bosom. A smile slathered on his lips.

“Heroin?” Mindy said.

“Say the word, and I’ll drop a couple of hits off at your apartment. Special delivery. First two are free.”

She squinched up her face into something between a smile and a scream.

“That’s a joke, right?” Mindy backed out of the office and floated quickly down the hallway.

“Inappropriate,” Guy muttered.

Jumpy said, “You got anything going Saturday night?”

Guy drummed the nub of his red ink pen against his desktop.

“Not more gun dealing,” Guy said. “I’ve had my fill of that.”

“I got so much shit going on I gotta get a bigger appointment book,” Jumpy said. “Name your poison. Something that’ll get me an A this time.”

“I remember one time you mentioned organized crime. That caught my attention. There’s a place in the book I’m working on, I could use some details.”

“The mob,” Jumpy said. Then he looked around Guy’s office at the framed diplomas, the photographs of his kids and wife and two little dogs.

“Might could arrange something,” Jumpy said. “I’ll give you a call.”

“And about that C minus,” Guy said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll read it again. Maybe I missed something the first time.”

“That’s cool,” said Jumpy. “Maybe you did.”

Jumpy picked Guy up in the Pink Pussycat parking lot at 1 a.m. on Saturday. He was driving a green Jaguar convertible, top down. Chrome wraparound sunglasses and a black aloha shirt with red martini glasses printed on it.

Guy got in, and without a word or look in his direction, Jumpy peeled out, slashed into traffic on Biscayne. Once they’d settled down into the flow of vehicles, Guy smoothed his hand across the leather seat. His long blond hair tangling in the wind.

“Car yours?”

“It is tonight.”

“A loaner,” Guy said, smiling, trying to get with the lingo.

Jumpy looked over. His expression was dead tonight, maybe he was working himself up, or he was nervous, Guy couldn’t tell. That had been his biggest challenge, trying to capture the interior life of a man like Jumpy. Was he constantly on drugs and so blitzed there was no coherent thought rolling through his head? Or was he dumb, just incapable of nuanced feelings or thought? Based on the writing Guy had seen, he was tilting toward the dumb option. Jumpy couldn’t string two sentences together without making half a dozen errors of grammar, syntax, or logic. By the end of a paragraph, Jumpy’s ideas were so insufferably scrambled, making sense of his story was impossible.

Guy was getting good detail from these ride-alongs, some nice asshole-puckering moments of violence, but overall, Jumpy wasn’t giving away a lot about his psychodynamics. What pushed the man’s buttons? Who the hell could tell?

After tonight, Guy figured he’d bail on this whole enterprise. He’d had enough of the street for a while. A night or two like the gun-buy last week could keep Guy satiated for a good long time. His wife, Shelly, had no idea what he was up to. But she could smell the fear on him when he returned, the stink of sweat and cigarette smoke and the prickly tang of danger. And she was beginning to make irritable noises.

So after tonight Guy was done. Cash out, walk away with his winnings. Spend the rest of the semester using this brief immersion in the back-alley world of Jumpy Swanson to fuel his imagination for one more crime novel.

He didn’t know how Jumpy would take it, him making his exit. Or what quid pro quo Jumpy was expecting. C minus was already a mercy grade. And Guy wasn’t about to fudge on his own academic values as payback for a half dozen adventures on the South Florida streets. There would come a day, Guy was pretty sure, when Jumpy would stomp out of his office disgusted with Guy’s failure to give him the secret key to the kingdom Jumpy so passionately and unaccountably wanted. Jumpy Swanson, an author? Oh, get serious.

Jumpy headed north off Biscayne into neighborhoods Guy didn’t recognize. Residential, middle-class, or maybe edging down to lower-middle. The cars in the driveways were mostly midsize, newer models. The houses were dark, probably retirees or working-class folks who’d had their fill of TV movies for the evening and had headed off to the sack.

It wasn’t the sort of neighborhood Guy had been expecting. Though Jumpy had revealed only that his mob friends were eager to meet Guy, a professional writer. Guy assumed the gangsters had the customary overinflated sense of their own glamour and the resulting ambition to have their lives portrayed on the screen, or on the pages of some runaway bestseller.