Carl Hiassen - Lucky You

"What's your interest in this?" Squires pressed. He couldn't understand why the ATF was snooping around a commercial land deal that had no connection to illegal guns or booze. Gangsters bought and sold real estate in Florida every day. On the infrequent occasions when the government took notice, it was the FBI and Internal Revenue who came calling.

"My interest," Moffitt said, "is purely personal."

The agent sat down and scooted even closer to Bernard Squires. "However," he said, "you should be aware that on May 10, 1993, one Stephen Eugene Tarbone, alias Stevie 'Boy' Wonder, was arrested near Gainesville for interstate transportation of illegal silencers, machine-gun parts and unlicensed firearms. These were found in the trunk of a rented Lincoln Mark IV during a routine traffic stop. Stephen Tarbone was the driver. He was accompanied by a convicted prostitute and another outstanding public citizen named Charles 'The Gerbil' Hindeman. The fact Stephen's conviction was overturned on appeal in no way diminishes my interest in the current firearms trafficking activities of the young man, or of his father, Richard. So officially that is my jurisdiction, in case I need one. You with me?"

A metallic taste bubbled to Squires' throat from places visceral and ripe. Somehow he mustered a stony-eyed demeanor for the ATF man.

"Nothing you've said interests me in the least or has any relevant bearing on this transaction."

Moffitt jovially cupped his hands and clapped them once, loudly. Sinclair jumped.

"Transaction? Man, here's the transaction," the agent said with a grin. "If you don't pack up your lizard valise and your cash deposit and go home to Chicago, your friend Richard the Icepick is going to be a frontpage headline in the newspaper: 'alleged mob figure tied to local mall deal.' I'm not a writer, Mr. Squires, but you get the gist. The article will be real thorough regarding Mr. Tarbone and his family enterprises, and also his connection to your union. In fact, I'll bet Mr. Tarbone will be amazed at the accuracy of the information in the story. That's because I intend to leak it myself."

Bernard Squires struggled to remain cool and disdainful. "Bluffing is a waste of time," he said.

"I couldn't agree more." From a breast pocket Moffitt took a business card, which he gave to Squires. "That's the reporter who'll be doing the story. He'll probably be calling you in a few days."

Squires' hand was trembling, so he slapped the card flat on the table. It read:

Thomas P. Krome

Staff Writer

The Register

"A real prick," Moffitt added. "You'll like him."

Bernard Squires picked up the reporter's card and tore it in half. The gesture was meant to be contemptuous, but the ATF agent seemed vastly entertained.

"So Mr. Tarbone doesn't mind reading about himself in the press? That's good. Guy like him needs a thick hide." Moffitt rose. "But you might want to warn him, Bernie, about Grange."

"What about it?"

"Very conservative little place. Folks here seem pretty serious about their religion. Everywhere you go there's a shrine to one holy thing or another – haven't you noticed?"

Dismally Squires thought of the gimp with the bloody holes in his hands and the weird couple chanting among the turtles.

"People around here," Moffitt went on, "they do not like sin. Not one damn bit. Which means they won't be too wild about gangsters, Bernie. Gangsters from Chicago or anyplace else. When this story breaks in the paper, don't expect a big ticker-tape parade for your man Richard the Icepick. Just like you shouldn't expect the Grange town fathers to do backflips for your building permits and sewer rights and so forth. You follow what I'm saying?"

Bernard Squires held himself erect by pinching the chairback with both elbows. He sensed the agent shifting here and there behind him, then he heard the doorknob turn.

"Any questions?" came Moffitt's voice.

"No questions."

"Excellent. I'll go find the ladies. It's been nice chatting with you, Bernie."

"Drop dead," said Squires.

He heard the door open, and Moffitt's laughter trailing down the hall.

Without rising, Demencio said: "You're early. Where's the lucky lady?"

"She's got an appointment," said Tom Krome.

"You bring the money?"

"Sure did."

Trish invited him inside. It was a peculiar scene at the kitchen counter: she and her husband in yellow latex gloves, scrubbing the shells of JoLayne's baby turtles.

Krome picked up one the cooters, upon which a bearded face had been painted.

"Don't ask," Demencio said.

"Who's it supposed to be?"

"One of the apostles, maybe a saint. Don't really matter." Demencio was despondently buffing a tiny carapace to perfection.

Trish added: "The paint comes right off with Windex and water. It won't hurt 'em."

Tom Krome carefully placed the cooter in the tank with the others. "Need some help?"

Trish said no, thanks, they were almost done. She remarked upon how attached they'd become to the little buggers. "They'll eat right out of your fingers."

"Is that right."

"Lettuce and even raw hamburger."

"What my wife's trying to say," Demencio cut in, "is we'd like to make JoLayne an offer. We'd appreciate the opportunity."

"To do what?"

"Buy 'em. All forty-five," he said. "How's two grand for the bunch?"

The man wasn't joking. He wanted to own the turtles.

Trish chirped: "They'll have a good home here, Mr. Krome."

"I'm sure they would. But I can't sell them, I'm sorry. JoLayne has her heart set."

The couple plainly were disappointed. Krome took out his billfold. "It wouldn't be hard to catch your own. The lakes are full of'em."

Demencio said, "Yeah, yeah." He finished cleaning the last turtle and stepped to the sink to wash up. "I told you," he muttered to his wife.

Tom Krome paid the baby-sitting fee with hundred-dollar bills. Demencio took the money without counting it; Trish's job.

"How about some coffee cake?" she offered.

Krome said sure. He figured JoLayne would be tied up at the real estate office for a while. Also, he felt the need to act friendly after squelching the couple's cooter enterprise.

To give Demencio a boost, he said: "I like what you did with the Madonna. Those red tears."

"Yeah? You think it looks real?"

"One-hundred-proof jugular."

"Food coloring," Trish confided. She set two slices of walnut cinnamon coffee cake in front of Krome. "It took a day or so for us to get the mixture just right," she added, "but we did it. Nobody else in Florida's got one that cries blood. Perfumed blood! You want butter or margarine?"

"Butter's fine."

Demencio said the morning's first busload of Christian pilgrims was due soon. "From South Carolina – we're talkin' hellfire and brimstone, a damn tough crowd," he mused. "If they go for it, we'll know it's good."

"Oh, it's good," Trish said, loyally.

As Krome buttered the coffee cake, Demencio asked: "You see the papers? They said you was dead. Burned up in a house."

"So I heard. It was news to me."

"What was that all about? How does somethin' screwy like that happen?" He sounded suspicious.

Tom Krome said, "It was another man who died. A case of mistaken identity."

Trish was intrigued. "Just like in the movies!"

"Yep." Krome ate quickly.

Demencio made a skeptical remark about the bruise on Krome's cheek – Bodean Gazzer's last earthly footprint. Trish said it must hurt like the dickens.

"Fell off a boat. No big deal," Krome said, rising. "Thanks for the breakfast. I'd better run – JoLayne's waiting on her cooters."

"Don't you wanna count 'em?"

Of course, Krome already had. "Naw, I trust you," he said to Demencio.