P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis trudged up the steps and pushed open the screen door.

It was dark as a cave inside, except for a lighted refrigerator case. Behind the frosted glass, Louis could see slabs of fish and piles of pink shrimp. The weathered plank walls were covered with bumper stickers, pictures, and junk.

“Howdy.”

The voice was husky female. Squinting, Louis made out a figure silhouetted against the far open window. He went forward and she came into view.

Medium height, shapely, blond hair piled on her head, hand propped on cocked hip. And very large tanned breasts barely covered by a bright pink bikini top.

He had to struggle to keep his eyes on her face. She noticed and gave him a smirky smile.

“You want something?” she asked.

He pulled out Quick’s photo. “Have you seen this man around here?”

She didn’t even look at the picture. Her smile faded. “I got fish. You want fish?”

“Not really. I-”

She turned away, grabbing a remote and aiming it at the wall. The place filled up with the sound of Charlie Parker’s buttery sax.

“Okay, okay!” Louis yelled.

She punched the remote, lowering the volume, and looked back at him.

He glanced at the glass fish case. “Give me some shrimp.”

“How much?”

When he hesitated, she sighed. “How many you feeding?”

“Three,” he said.

“What size? We got small, medium, and jumbo.”

“You decide.”

She smiled and moved languidly to the case. He could see her breasts clearly in the light of the case as she shoveled the shrimp, but not her face. She plopped a plastic bag down on the counter. “That’s forty-five bucks.”

“What?”

“They’re jumbos, hon.”

Louis dug into his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. “Keep the change,” he said.

She gave him a smile as she deposited the money in a drawer. His eyes were getting used to the dim light. She wore her ponytail high on her head like that little girl in the Flintstones cartoon. She could have been eighteen or forty; he couldn’t tell.

“I hate cops,” she said.

“Most people do,” Louis said. He held out the photo. “This man might have been here about two weeks ago. Did you see him?”

She glanced at it, shrugged, and turned away, bending down to pick up some paper, making sure Louis got a prime view of her ass in the tight cutoffs.

“How’s business?” he asked.

It took a moment, but she smiled. “Beats flipping burgers in a hair net at Wendy’s. I get a lot of men customers off the boats.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Louis held out Quick’s photo again.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m here every day and I notice things.”

“How do you know it was him?”

She shrugged. “We don’t get many black guys coming in here. But this guy I remember. He had just come in off a charter and he came in here to buy some fish to ship home.”

“Why would he buy fish?”

She smiled. “ ’Cause he didn’t catch anything and he wanted to send a big fish home to impress his kids.”

“Do you know what boat he chartered?” Louis asked.

She shook her head. “They all get back in around four-thirty or so.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back.” Louis picked up the bag of shrimp. At least he’d have something to take back to Margaret for dinner. He started to the door.

“You’re the first, you know,” she said.

“The first what?”

“The first cop I told this to.”

Louis stepped back toward the woman. “Did the sheriff’s deputies come talk to you?”

“They talked to me. But I didn’t talk to them.”

“Why not?”

She smiled. “They didn’t buy my jumbos.”

Louis walked in the door to the Sereno Key station and paused, looking around for somewhere to put the shrimp. Greg Candy looked up from his desk, spotting the bag in Louis’s hand.

“Those look good. Where’d you get them?” he asked.

“From the shrimp woman at the wharf. Cost me forty-five bucks to find out Quick stopped there after his fishing trip. You guys got a fridge?” Louis asked.

“Yeah.” Candy came forward and took them from Louis.

Louis headed toward the bathroom to wash his hands. He walked into Wainwright’s office, still drying them. He stopped short at the door. Wainwright was seated at his desk and two black men stood in front of him, both in dark suits and ties. The taller of the two was slender and bald, with an earring in his right ear. The other one was built like a wrestler.

Wainwright caught Louis’s eye and waved him in.

“Kincaid, this is Oscar Mills,” Wainwright said, motioning toward the taller one. “And Wallace Seaver. Southwest Florida NAACP. Gentlemen, Louis Kincaid.”

Mills looked back at Wainwright. “And his position is?”

“Consultant.”

Seaver and Mills gave Louis the once-over as he came farther into the room.

Wainwright handed Louis a newspaper, folded to an inside page. Louis scanned it quickly. It was an editorial that took all the local law enforcement agencies to task for their failure to officially acknowledge the two murders as hate crimes.

Louis looked back at Seaver and Mills. “I see their point,” he said. “But right now, we’re not sure what we’re looking at.”

“The chief already made that point,” Mills said. “We disagree.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright.

“We’re doing all we can,” Wainwright said. “We’ve committed as much manpower as we can to the case, and we’ve got a couple of solid leads we’re pursuing.”

It wasn’t true. They didn’t have anything really, and Louis resisted the urge to look at Wainwright again.

“We’re not here to bust your chops, Chief,” Mills said. “We’re here to offer our help.”

“How?” Wainwright asked.

Mills set his briefcase on the desk and withdrew a file. He held it out to Louis, who stepped forward to take it. It was filled with computer sheets, mailing lists, bad copies of white supremacist literature, and photos of white men.

“We’ve compiled this over the last few years,” Mills said. “We like to know who’s hiding under the proverbial rocks, if you get my meaning. There are a hundred and five names there, all confirmed to be members of various white power organizations or convicted of race-related crimes.”

Louis looked up from the file, glancing at Wainwright. He looked mildly annoyed.

“Have you shown this file to anyone else?” Louis asked Mills.

“No. We hoped you would act on it first. We don’t want to have to release these men’s names to the media. But we will if we have to.”

Louis stared at Mills. “They’re not suspects yet, Mr. Mills,” he said. “At least not in these murders.”

“We just want you to do your job.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. It was obvious Wainwright was going to let him take the lead on this.

“We’ll check into all of them. You have our word,” Louis said.

Mills nodded and snapped his briefcase shut. He extended his hand. Wainwright rose and shook both men’s hands. They left.

Louis waited for Wainwright to say something. Wainwright moved to the watercooler.

“Do our jobs,” he muttered.

“They’re just doing theirs,” Louis said.

“I know, but I just hate outside interference, especially from people who don’t know a damn thing about police work. Everything’s so damn political with them.”

“Them?”

Wainwright turned. “Outsiders. District attorneys. Civil liberty groups. Activists. Bleeding hearts. Reporters. Mayors. All of them.”

“You getting more pressure?”

Wainwright came back to the desk and slid into his chair. “Mayor Westoff called this morning. Said he’d been hounded by reporters and he’s tired of listening to Hugh Van Slate. Wanted to know if we had any suspects.”