Jonathon King - A Killing Night

I was up in north West Palm Beach, three blocks from the hotel where Rodrigo was staying, waiting for him to meet me under the huge poinciana near the corner of Twelfth and Wright streets. The "flame tree" Rodrigo called it, because it was the time of year when the poincianas bloomed and the trees' blossoms were thick and the color of fire feeding off an unlimited supply of clean, dry wood.

I parked my truck in the shade of the tree's canopy and watched as the earliest blossoms, already leached of their life, fell on my hood like splotches of paint. The soiled orange color made me think of the scar on Rodrigo's face and then there he was across the street. He was walking with his eyes down, hands in his pockets in the unobtrusive but wary manner that people other than beat cops will never notice.

"Mr. Max," he said, climbing into the cab.

"Rodrigo, Kumusta ka?"

"OK," he said and immediately, wanting to please, pulled a sheet of ruled notebook paper from his jacket pocket and smoothed it on his thigh before handing it to me.

"For Mr. Manchester. Names of others hurt in the fire," he said and his eyes looked up through the windshield into the blossoms and he blew a short whoof of air from his nose at the irony of meeting under an umbrella of flame to discuss the matter at hand.

"But they are afraid," he said. "For the jobs they are afraid to talk to you, Mr. Max."

"Has anyone been scaring them, Rodrigo? Has there been anyone talking about organizing some kind of labor union or threatening you not to?"

The small man averted his eyes and his short, thick fingers went nervous.

"There is always talk. But only in whispers, Mr. Max. And we are only a few here now and we know it takes numbers, this union."

I reached into the space behind his seat and took the manila folder Billy had given me and showed him the DOC photos of the Hix brothers.

"Have you seen these men? Talking with the workers or just hanging around?"

He studied the faces, holding them side by side.

"This is the one," he finally said, fluttering the picture of David Hix, whose jaw I had broken with the top of my head.

"He is big, like you. Yes, Mr. Max?"

"Yeah, he's big. Where?"

"He big here." The little Filipino patted his stomach with both hands. "Fat, here."

"No, no," I said, unable to keep from smiling. "Where did you see him?"

"I see him at the food stand. Not talk to nobody. Sit and watch. Just watch."

I wondered if Hix had seen me with Rodrigo and his friend the week before, if that had been enough to put him on to me by someone who had hired him to look big and ugly in front of the workers.

"I watch him follow the, the, what you say?" Rodrigo said, putting his fingers to his thumb and finger to his mouth.

"Smokers," I said. "He followed the guys when they went for a smoke?"

"Yes, to the alley."

Bat Man liked the alleys.

"And he hit someone?"

"No hit. Push and threaten. With huh! Huh! Mouth not work."

My cell phone rang and I took the folder and replaced it while answering.

"Yeah?"

"Freeman? It's O'Shea."

"Don't tell me you're already in jail."

"No. Not yet. I took a few days off work and I'm trying to lay low. Did you ask your man Manchester about me? I mean, I don't have a lot of cash, Freeman, but I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I had some back-up on this."

Rodrigo was staring out at the tree shade, trying to be invisible. Unlike in the new American cell phone society, conversations between individuals were still considered private events in his world.

"I talked to him. You can call his number if they arrest you," I said to O'Shea.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But he doesn't do this thing often, O'Shea. So it's a favor to me and since you've got some time, you might be able to help me to help you."

"Name it."

"Meet me in the parking lot in front of Big Louie's in the Gateway Shopping Center at eight," I said.

"All right. You, ah, need me to be carrying?"

"Not that kind of help," I said.

"I've got a carry permit, for the security job," he said, getting defensive.

"You really think it's a good idea to be carrying a gun when you're waiting for the sheriff's office to pick you up on an arrest warrant?"

He didn't answer and Rodrigo was cutting an occasional look at me. He knew enough English to be uncomfortable with what he was overhearing.

"Just meet me, Colin. I'll give you what you need to carry."

I punched off the phone and apologized to Rodrigo, who now had his hands folded on his thighs, holding his nervous fingers down as if he were trying to keep a small bird from fluttering off his lap.

"OK. If you see the big man again, stay away," I said. "And try to call me or Mr. Manchester. All right?"

He was nodding like a bobble-head doll.

"OK, Mr. Max. OK."

I smiled at him and told him to be careful and he nearly sprung out of the seat when he popped the door. I watched him walk away with the same gait, but using a different route. I sat staring out at the empty lot in front of me and two more spent blossoms of flame hit with a wet smack on my hood and I wondered if I was doing O'Shea or anyone else any favors with the next plan I'd concocted. I took US Highway 1 to Fort Lauderdale. In South Florida US 1 is boringly homogeneous. Driving south you can pass through a dozen municipalities and never tell when the string of car dealerships, strip shopping centers, pastel business buildings and gas stations fall into another jurisdiction. It matters little to anyone except maybe a speeder whose city P.D. pursuers will actually give up the chase when he crosses into another town's turf. The sameness of the landscape and the parochial attitudes of the cops are a dichotomy for a road named US 1, which Billy the historian points out stands for Unified System 1 and not United States 1.

I'd called ahead and stopped at Billy's office and Allie had one of the firm's cell phones with a digital camera on it waiting. I then went on to Fort Lauderdale and swung down to the beach and parked near the Parrot Lounge and walked out to the sand. In the salt air and purpling sky I sat on the low beachfront wall and tried to figure out the cell phone camera. I took a shot of the Holiday Inn by mistake. I got a nice shot of a couple walking their pit bull on a silver chain leash. A young woman came off the sand and propped one foot on the wall near me and bent to wipe the grains from her ankles and calves. While faking a call I covertly took a photo of her. She looked up once at me and smiled politely and I said something about refinancing a mortgage to my nonexistent phone caller. Hey, it was a test.

By sundown I had the camera figured out. I attempted a couple of low-light shots that were adequate. When the darkness deepened I tried to capture "the disappearing blue." But even the digital quality couldn't do justice to the mystery of the melding colors and at seven thirty I walked back to my truck and drove back across the intracoastal bridge. At the shopping center I parked in the lot, facing Kim's, and did a quick eyeball. Plenty of cars. Busy over at the Thai restaurant across the way. Pickup orders coming out of Big Louie's. And a patrol car parked nearly in the same spot as last time. My angle was better, but still I could only see a silhouette of the officer's head. He appeared to have a phone to one ear and he was facing the other way. A knuckle to metal rap on my truck bed fender made me jump. O'Shea was in my side mirror and then at my window.

"How's it hangin', Freeman?"

"Take a seat, O'Shea," I told him, reaching over to pop the lock on the passenger door.

I had not seen him pull in. Maybe he had walked. I realized I still didn't know where he lived or what kind of vehicle he drove. And still I was taking his side in a possible string of homicides. Maybe I was the one who wasn't being a very thorough cop.