James Hall - Miami Noir

He caught his breath and coughed on a snore when I grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“Daddy! Daddy, wake up. I heard something, Daddy.”

He groaned and tried to push me away.

“Daddy, wake up. There’s a man out there. He broke into Mrs. Murphy’s trailer.”

I helped him to his feet and buttoned his pants for him.

“Kate, what you saying? You seen what?”

“Daddy,” I said as I helped him to the door to our trailer. “I seen a man nosing around Mrs. Murphy’s place. You better go see if she’s okay.” I pressed the key into his hand and he started across the dirt toward her trailer.

It was only a few steps from my bed to the front door. The trailer wasn’t big, not like the movie star mansions out in California, but it was home. I wondered, as I crawled under the covers, if Pattie’d give me his job. Then I tipped my head so’s I could see the lights on the tower, and I started counting. Fifty-nine flashes. Six shots.

North Miami

The moment he saw Eustace Green, Dr. Vernon Lemaistre knew his job interview wasn’t going to work out as planned. Green, dressed in his trademark sleeveless flannel shirt and battered jeans, stood next to a man with a leonine halo of hair and academic loafers. Was it too late to walk away?

The crowd pushed past Vernon, heading for craft booths lined up like boxcars in the thin shade of the Australian pines. A breath of air fluttered the white vinyl banner:

Vernon wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Why Green, why here, in Out of the Way University, Miami? Last he’d heard, Green had a cushy endowed chair somewhere in Massachusetts.

You simply didn’t see him, Vernon told himself. Like many academics, Vernon was familiar with the application of tactical ignorance. He turned away to search for Dr. Wallace Mackenzie. The interview wasn’t officially till tomorrow, but he wanted to make a good impression today. I have the best years of my career before me, Vernon told himself. I have a lot to offer this university. He had a page with several other affirmations folded in the breast pocket of his jacket — and with Eustace Green around, he felt pretty sure he’d need them.

“Vernon!” That familiar gravelly boom.

Too late. Vernon groaned, turned, tried to rearrange his face into something like a greeting.

“The woods are just full of old friends and acquaintances today,” Green said. He offered his hand, which, after a moment’s hesitation, Vernon took. Eustace’s knuckles felt like steel ball bearings wrapped in leather.

“Quite a surprise,” Vernon said. He smiled at the loafered man and then asked Eustace, “How are you?”

“Full of piss and vinegar as ever,” Eustace said. “Wall, meet Vernon Lemaistre.”

“Dr. Lemaistre?”

To Vernon’s dismay, Eustace and Dr. Wallace Mackenzie, he learned, went way back. Grad school at Cornell. Shovel-bummed around the continent together. Vernon waved at a swarm of gnats that seemed to be attracted to either his sweaty face or his rigid smile.

“So, you here for the festivities? Going up against the world atlatl champ this afternoon?” Green said.

“Yes — uh, I always try to...” Vernon said.

“Dr. Lemaistre’s applying for our opening,” Wallace said. “The interview’s scheduled for tomorrow. Right after yours, Eustace.”

Vernon froze. Eustace grinned at him. “Reckon I’ll see you in the lobby, then.”

Vernon excused himself and wandered away through the crowd. What the hell was Eustace doing here? Applying for the opening — was that a joke? Eustace Green was the reason Vernon needed this job. They’d both been struggling post-docs interested in lithic tech, Stone Age weaponry. Vernon had discovered the true nature of the atlatl, an ancient spear-throwing device that was little more than a stick with a notch on the end. Eustace helped him refine his theories and offered encouragement, an occasional insight. And then Eustace published everything under his own name and never returned another of Vernon’s phone calls.

Now Eustace had an endowed chair at Blueblood U somewhere in Massachusetts, while Vernon held a sufferance post at Lake Okechobee Community College where he taught five introductory classes each semester. He lectured to students who thought evolution was a leftist conspiracy. He worked far too hard to do the kind of research that’d lead to a better job — banished for eternity to the fringes of academia and archaeology.

He watched Eustace saunter through the crowd carrying his atlatl. The forearm-long piece of wood had been used by ancient mankind for millennia to launch slender arrow-like darts at their prey. Archaeologists had discovered hundreds of atlatls with odd stones — “banner stones” — attached to them, presumably as good-luck charms. Vernon had proven that the banner stone kept the atlatl from vibrating from the force of a throw, acting as a Stone Age silencer. Archaeologists theorized that only a heavy, rigid spear would have sufficient momentum to bring down an animal. Vernon and Eustace put the lie to that theory by proving that a slender, flexible dart was much more efficient.

Go on, Vernon told himself, talk to him, ask him to put in a good word for you — why would he want this job anyway?

Not far from the booths and the milling crowd, a long strip of lawn had been set up with hay bales and tacked-on paper targets fluttering in the faint breeze. Along the side, propped-up white signs ticked off the distance from the target: 50, 100, 150.

Eustace nodded to him. “Need to warm up for this afternoon,” he said.

Vernon’s own atlatl — a fine Nanticoke he’d made himself — and two four-foot-long darts lay in the trunk of his dusty gray car. He’d thought of participating in the atlatl throw himself — thought it’d be worth a few brownie points with Mackenzie, show off his skills with the tools of his trade — but if Eustace planned to join the contest, there wasn’t much chance of winning.

Vernon watched Eustace settle his dart along the atlatl. “You really here for this job?”

Eustace glanced at him. “I miss the Everglades,” he said. “Nothing like ’em up north.”

“But it’s only an assistant professorship.” Vernon tried to keep from whining. “Wouldn’t that be a big step down?”

A shrug. Eustace turned to the distant target and flung the dart downrange with barely a hiss. Despite everything else, Vernon still felt vaguely amazed when he remembered he’d been right about the banner stone’s function.

“Why’d you do it? Why’d you take all our work and publish it as your own?” Vernon asked. A question he’d wanted to put to Eustace for so long — but the words just fell out of his mouth. Not at all the delivery he’d imagined.

Eustace looked at him. “The fact that you’re asking that question should be answer enough.”

In that moment, all Vernon’s disappointment and out-rage blazed like a lightbulb filament in his brain — he hated Eustace Green more than he’d ever hated anyone, would’ve gouged those narrow black eyes out with his thumbs and... Eustace raised a bushy eyebrow at him. Then deliberately turned his back on Vernon and strolled toward the target.

Vernon followed him, his mind white-hot and completely empty. He watched Eustace put a filthy sneaker against the hay bale and tug the dart. The wooden shaft slid free but the stone point remained stuck.

“Goddamnit,” Eustace said.

“Can you at least give me a good recommendation?” Vernon said, and hated himself for asking.

Eustace walked away laughing. Vernon stood beside the target, fists clenched, took long deep breaths until his heart-beat eased. He turned to the hay bale and used the blade of his Swiss Army knife to work Eustace’s arrowhead free. The onyx point gleamed black in the bright sun. Vernon remembered how particular Eustace was about his tools — perhaps it would make a good peace offering.