John Lutz - Hot

Just after one o’clock the van’s taillights flared bright red as it slowed and made a left into the lot of what a large red and green neon sign proclaimed to be Guzman’s Drop Inn Motel.

Carver parked the Ford on the gravel shoulder and left the motor idling. He watched while Davy checked in at the motel office, then drove the van to an end room and parked it. After carefully locking the van, Davy went into the room carrying a small duffel bag.

This was all fine with Carver. He drove back to a phone booth he’d noticed and called Van Meter.

Lloyd Van Meter was one of the more prosperous private investigators in Florida, with offices in Orlando, Tampa, and Miami. He was almost as fat as Walter Rainer, and he dressed expensively but in the depths of fashion. He’d been expecting Carver’s call, and when Carver arrived at the shopping mall lot where Van Meter said he’d be waiting, Van Meter was standing outside his white Cadillac, wearing a yellow suit that looked luminous in the moonlight. Carver hadn’t seen him for a while. He still had his full white beard, which lent him an oddly biblical look even in his bizarre clothes, an overweight Moses with an Elton John wardrobe.

Theirs were the only cars on the lot. Carver got out from behind the steering wheel, slammed the Ford’s door behind him, and limped over to Van Meter. He saw that up close the suit had a checked pattern.

Van Meter grinned as if about to change water to wine. Or maybe he could cure Carver simply with the laying on of pudgy hands. He said, “You step in some shit, Fred?”

“Just working a case, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Not like an independent soul such as you to ask for help.”

“I knew you were in Miami,” Carver said, “and you’re the most progressive investigator I could think of. A leader in our field.”

“Meaning I’d have whatever kinda electronic gizmo you needed.”

Carver smiled, stood facing him and waiting.

Van Meter turned around and with great effort reached in through the Cadillac’s lowered window and straightened up with a shoe box in his beefy hand. The box was lettered genuine cherokee moccasins. Carver glanced at Van Meter’s feet and saw huge two-tone leather moccasins with oversized silver-tipped tassels. Surely no Cherokee had ever stalked game in such footwear. “What you asked for’s in here,” Van Meter said, and lifted the box’s lid as if it were hinged.

Carver saw among wadded white tissue paper the square black receiver with coiled black cord wrapped around it.

“This ain’t like the one I loaned you once before,” Van Meter said. “You do what I told you and rent a car with a cigarette lighter?”

“Car’s got every toy made,” Carver said.

“Except one of these.”

“True.”

Having made his point, Van Meter said, “You just plug this gizmo into the lighter socket. It’s your receiver and’ll sound a kinda high-pitched beeping, gets louder and closer together as you get nearer to this gadget.” He held up a metal disk the size of a quarter only slightly thicker. “That’s your transmitter. Magnetic, or it’s got stickum on the back if you peel away the paper. I put a spare in the box for you, just in case, though the damned things never go wrong. Pretty simple, really, this little watch-battery-powered disk is your signal sender, like a miniature radio, and the box is your receiver. Basic as a kid’s toy. Activate the disk like so, stick it on whatever it is you wanna follow, plug the receiver into your cigarette lighter, and you’re off and away on your big adventure.”

Carver said, “You make it sound like fun.”

Not smiling, Van Meter said, “Don’t shit me, Fred. You know it can be fun, once you get the transmitter in place. But planting it on the subject’s car can be the nasty part. You need any help with that? A diversion? That kinda thing?”

“I don’t think so. My guy’s sacked out in a motel over on Route One.”

“You hope.”

“Well, that’s life, hoping, running the risk. I think I’d be better off just walking up and sticking the transmitter to the bumper of his parked van than having you set fire to the motel for a diversion.”

“Maybe you got a point. I get accused sometimes of doing things too flamboyantly.”

“It’s true, Lloyd, but then that’s you.”

Van Meter frowned as if he might cast fingertip lightning Carver’s way. He really would look at home on a stained-glass window. “Meaning?”

“Well, there’s not much about you that screams accountant.”

“That a compliment?”

“Sure, unless you’re an accountant.”

Van Meter stroked his long white beard. “I ain’t some accountant, and I can cover your back if you need it. I’m serious about the offer, Fred. Don’t be too proud to accept, wind up hurt bad or dead. Hell, I might call on you sometime. Buddies, fellow pros, that kinda stuff, hey?”

“You are helping me, Lloyd. Lending me the latest in secret agent paraphernalia.” Carver held up the shoe box. “For which I’m grateful.”

“That’s old, old technology, Fred, like the microphone in the martini olive. You worry me, the way you don’t keep up with things. World’s gonna pass you by on microchip skates.”

“I like being old-fashioned.”

“Yeah, like the town marshal without deputies.” Van Meter shook his massive, shaggy head and opened the Caddy’s driver-side door. Bathed in the glow of the courtesy light, his gigantic pseudo-Indian moccasins took on a yellow hue that matched his suit. Had he found color consciousness? “I’m driving home and going to bed, Fred,” he said somberly, “maybe read about you in tomorrow’s papers.”

“I’ll get this receiver back to you soon as I can,” Carver told him. “Thanks, Lloyd.”

Van Meter waved a pudgy hand. “Sure, stuff it in a padded envelope and put it in the mail, if you can’t come by the office in the next few days. And if it gets shot or somebody breaks it over your skull, don’t worry about it; it’s already depreciated out for tax purposes.” The big Cadillac’s engine turned over and it glided away, white and ghostly in the deserted parking lot.

Carver used his cane to wave good-bye to Van Meter, then lowered himself into the Ford and drove back to the motel.

Boldness would be the right tactic here, he decided, after parking the Ford on the street near Guzman’s Drop Inn. He could see Davy’s van still squatting on its oversized tires at the far end of the row of rooms. Light from a sign in the next block shone on its smooth black surface. The glow from the motel’s neon sign illuminated the near side of the van so there were no concealing shadows.

The lights were out in Davy’s room. Carver sat in the Ford sweating and waiting until another hour had passed. When he figured Davy would surely be asleep, dreaming whatever dreams a man like that dreamed, he climbed out of the car and limped along the edge of the motel lot, where he wouldn’t be visible from the office. The slight breeze that played over him was warm, and he began perspiring more heavily. He was hotter than he’d been today in the lounge chair; his shirt was molded like shrink-wrap to his body.

Still in deep shadow at the edge of the lot, he stood for a few seconds listening to the hum of distant traffic, the chirping and droning of night insects. Then he drew one of the quarter-sized transmitter disks from his pocket, twisted its rim as instructed to activate it, and limped quickly, but not too quickly, directly to Davy’s van.

He felt totally exposed and vulnerable on the wide lot, unable to maneuver with the cane. If the motel desk man or a guest saw him and suspected something was going on, there was no way to flee. If Davy saw him, it would be stand and fight time. Tonight, right now, Carver didn’t feel like fighting.