Stiff Arm Steal Page 3

  “What something else?”

  Sally looked me in the eye. “The hell should I know?”

  I smiled and shook his hand. His skin was papery and loose. “Thanks, Sally. Say, we should catch a ballgame sometime. I still know the GM up at St Lucie. Get some box seats.”

  “Aach. You, I’d pay money to see. Not these babies today. You were the real deal, kid.”

  “Organization didn’t seem to agree.”

  “The hell do organizations know? You had the stuff.”

  I opened the door and the little bell rang. The girl in the booth looked at me with weary eyes.

  “Appreciate it, Sal. Appreciate it.”

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS A conspiracy. I sat in my office, jeans discarded for a pair of Quicksilver board shorts. I was tossing around the case with Ron. Lizzy, my office assistant, walked in, all pouty lips and jet black hair. She put a steaming glass of something on my desk.

  “Should I ask?"

  "Green tea," she said. "Full of antioxidants."

  "Full of what?” I said.

  Ron laughed.

  “Antioxidants. If I can’t save your soul, maybe I can just save your life."

  "Did Danielle put you up to this?"

  She looked at me, impassive. "Let's just say – for reasons neither of us understand – we both seem vested in saving your life."

  "I'm not dying! It was just a bet, for chrissakes.”

  Ron laughed again. “What was the bet this time?" he said.

  I shook my head. "Sit ups. She bet me I’d fatigue first."

  “And obviously you did."

  "I got forty-four. I used to do over hundred when I played ball."

  "Such a long time ago," said Lizzy.

  "Not that long ago."

  "How many did she do?" said Ron, suppressing a chuckle.

  "She stopped at eighty. Invoked the mercy rule, she said."

  Ron laughed. “That’s one fit lady.”

  "She did the last twenty as crossover crunches, just to make a point."

  “And that point is, you have been enjoying life just a little too much lately," said Lizzy.

  "Jesus doesn't want me to enjoy life?"

  "Jesus wants you healthy."

  "Great," I groaned.

  "Until he's ready for you."

  "Awesome."

  The phone on my desk rang and Lizzy leaned across and picked it up. "LCI," she said.

  "Get me Miami Jones, now!" I could hear BJ Baker bellowing down the line.

  I leaned forward to take the handset, but Lizzy wasn’t finished with Baker.

  "Sir, I am afraid Mr. Jones is presently indisposed. Can he call you back when you have located your manners?" said Lizzy, calm and steely, like an irritated librarian.

  "Excuse me!"

  "Of course, sir. Forgiveness is what I do."

  "Listen lady, if you don't get Jones now, I’ll have your job!"

  "Sir, I think we both know that you couldn't handle my job."

  "I don't mean that. I mean I'll have you fired!"

  "And whisk me away from this middle class urban squalor? Well, bless you, sir. Thank you."

  "Now listen here!"

  “No, you listen. If I can find a notepad, I will write a message that you called. If I can find a thumb tack, I will pin the message to Mr. Jones's corkboard. If Mr. Jones comes in, I will point him in the direction of the corkboard. And if you call here again and use that tone, I will see to it that the archangels rain fire and brimstone down on your soul. Good day, sir." She dropped the phone back in the cradle and walked out of my office, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I looked at Ron.

  “BJ,” he said.

  I nodded.

  "Didn't sound happy."

  I shook my head, and looked at the steaming tea in the glass before me. It smelled faintly of cat urine. I tasted it. Not as acrid as cat urine. It was more like putrid irrigation flow. It was definitely a conspiracy.

  The phone beeped like a hospital heart monitor and Lizzy’s voice broke through the static. "Detective Ronzoni to see you."

  I didn't answer, because Ronzoni wasn't going to wait. He came through my door and closed it behind him. He was average height, a few inches short of me and trim in the face and limbs. His flat chest dropped to a bulb of a belly that didn’t match the rest of him, like he was a healthy guy who had spent too much time sitting on his butt. A cop’s dilemma. He wore a brown polyester suit with an open shirt and loosened tie, to help ventilate. Ronzoni didn't sweat. Literally. It was some gland thing. He had to drink a lot of water to regulate his body temperature. That was the word on the street.

  "Detective Macaroni, can I offer you some water?"

  He clenched his jaw. "It's Ronzoni, and yes I’ll have some water."

  Ron opened the bar fridge and tossed him a bottle. He cracked the top and sucked some down.

  "What kind of name is Miami, anyway?" he said.

  It wasn't fair. He was a decent cop, honest enough. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was as determined as a bulldog. It wasn't his fault glib repartee wasn't his thing.

  "It's a city. Couple hours south of here. You should check out South Beach.” I watched the words filter through his mind like slurry in a gold mining pan.

  "Very funny. I thought you played in California."

  “Couple years at Modesto."

  "So why aren't you called Modesto Jones?" He smiled like he'd delivered a zinger.

  “Because that would be stupid."

  Ronzoni frowned for a moment, like he was processing that. “Well, whatever Jones. I came here to tell you to keep your face out of my case."

  "What case would that be?"

  "You know very well what case. BJ Baker. You and your,” he looked at Ron, "your team, have been calling Mr. Baker's friends and suggesting they are suspects."

  "Everyone who was there is a suspect."

  "No genius, not everyone is a suspect. I say who is and isn't a suspect."

  "You or the Chief?”

  "Me and the Chief. We are a team." He sipped his water.

  "Go team."

  "Just leave Mr. Baker's friends alone. You've upset some important people."

  "Should I send a card?"

  "What? No, just butt out."

  "Mr. Baker has retained me."

  "I wouldn't be so sure about that, hotshot."

  I flicked my feet up onto the desk. My boat shoes were crusty with dried salt. Ronzoni looked at my shoes and my shorts. He ran his hand down his tie, stroking it.

  "This is a PBPD matter, so don't go sticking your nose where it’s not welcome."

  "What's the sheriff say?” I asked.

  "This has nothing to do with the sheriff. Burglary happened inside the city limits."

  “Okay.”

  "Just give me an excuse, Jones."

  “Thanks for dropping by."

  I watched him process that for sarcasm and finding none, he nodded and held up the bottle in thanks and left.

  When he was gone, Ron turned to me. "You want we should call BJ Baker's friends again?"

  "So tempting. But let's hold off for now."

  Ron stood and smoothed the wrinkles in his trousers. "I think it's drink o'clock. Coming?"

  I shook my head. "I can't stomach another tonic water."

  "How long is the bet?" He smiled. He was enjoying my torture.

  "A week. One week of no alcohol. Three long days to go."

  "What'll you do? Work on the case?"

  I took my feet off the desk and sat up. "Not sure where to go with the case. Need to think on it. But if I have to be so damned healthy, I might as well go for run."

  Ron shook his head. "I'll leave you to that." He walked to the door.

  "By the way," I said. “How’d you go with the golf ladies last night?"

  He gave me a huge grin. "You know what they say about girls who play golf. They love to play around with balls."

  "You
didn't really just say that."

  He laughed and closed my office door. I could still hear him laughing as he wandered down the stairs and out of the building.

  Chapter Seven

  I RAN ON the sand, along City Beach, past the Marriott and the Hilton. I got to where the island thins out to a finger at the north end, then turned and ran back. My calf muscles burned before my lungs did. Once my feet left sand and hit pavement, I ambled in the early evening sunshine. I headed along the canal streets that fed out to the intracoastal. Walked past nice homes with big driveways, and pools inside bug proof cages that looked like massive bird aviaries. Headed straight for the ugly house at the end.

  It was a seventies rancher that, unlike its neighbors, hadn't been redeveloped or knocked down to start again. There was no pool, but I was a two-minute run from the beach so I really didn't see the point. I had picked up the place at a tax lien auction, as the property market in South Florida had tanked. I wasn't really Singer Island material and neither was my house. We were both comfortable with that. By the time I got home I was breathing normally but sweating like a fat man eating vindaloo. I dropped my clothes in the hamper and stood under the cold water until my temperature dropped below that of a raging fever. I put on some workout shorts and wandered into the kitchen. I opened a Diet Sprite and found a can of black beans in the pantry and put them on the orange Formica counter. The kitchen was retro, and had been in the 80’s. I looked through to an open living space that was a lot of wood paneling and not much furniture. I didn’t care for the clutter and never had parties. That was what Longboard Kelly’s was for. I’d read something at college that had always stuck with me. It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly. Henry David Thoreau. Or maybe Bertrand Russell. Either way, it spoke to me. Hell, I wasn’t a monk. I’d just bought a Mustang, for crying out loud. But I didn’t own a television, so I figured that made it about even.

  I got out some lemon and garlic and some cuttings of cilantro and whipped up a quick black bean dip. I was done before I realized I had nothing to dip in it. I was pondering eating it with a spoon when there was a knock at the front door. I'd left the door open to let the cross breeze flow through, so I just yelled, "Come in”.

  It was Deputy Castle. If she made a sheriff's uniform look good, she made Levi’s and a white t-shirt absolutely hum. Her hair was damp from a shower and her face was moist from the heat. She dropped a suit bag over the back of the stool at the counter and a paper grocery sack on the Formica. She looked down at the Sprite and bean dip and smiled.

  "You are being a good boy."

  "A bet's a bet."

  "Well, I spoke to the Governor. He's giving you time off for good behavior." She opened the grocery sack and took out a container of olives and a bag of fresh Pita bread.

  “Better than a spoon," I said.

  Danielle frowned quizzically. Then she pulled out a cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  "You are an angel. Anything you want, just name it."

  She arched an eyebrow. "I'll take a rain check on what I want until later tonight. For now, glasses and a corkscrew."

  We sat on the patio and watched boats drift by. The sun sank low behind Riviera Beach in the west. The wine was dry and fruity and the second glass made me forget about tonic and lime. We nibbled olives and didn't speak again until the sun sent deep orange spears into the atmosphere. Danielle let out a loud sigh.

  "World on your shoulders?"

  She gently shook her head. "Thinking about BJ Baker."

  "Gorgeous sunset, sparkling company and delicious wine, and you're thinking about BJ?”

  She arched the eyebrow, then dropped it. "I've spent the better part of the last two days looking for that man's memento. The police are doing the same." She sipped her wine. "I just think it's wrong that one man can demand so many resources for something so unimportant."

  "It's important to him."

  “But in the scheme of things. If you lost something important to you, you wouldn't get to mobilize the full law enforcement capabilities of the county."

  "If I lost something important I’d go find it myself."

  "But not everyone can do that. And some people won't get the attention they deserve because we’re strung out chasing trophies."

  I stood and poured a little more wine. I moved behind Danielle’s chair and rubbed her shoulders. They looked smooth and tan, but felt like a bag full of marbles. I massaged some of the knots out. Danielle reflexed against my hands, as if it hurt.

  "It's the way of things,” I said. “People are self-motivated. You’re working the case because your boss tells you to. The sheriff is telling you to because it's in his interests to help a major campaign donor." Danielle grunted as I pressed a knot the size of a chestnut. "The police chief doesn't get elected but he gets hired and fired by the mayor, and I’ll bet BJ Baker put some cash into his campaign, too.”

  "So everyone's looking after each other and the little people miss out."

  I smiled. "That's why I'm here."

  I stopped working with my thumbs and started with my fingertips, soft and slow. Danielle moaned. When I was done I smoothed out her shoulders with my palms. My hands were cramping. I managed to pick up my wine and look at the lights across the water. The breeze was still warm.

  "Thanks," she said, rolling her shoulders. "That was great."

  "You needed it. You should try some gentle swimming. Helps with the tension."

  "Maybe I should just get a weekly massage."

  "You should. I do."

  She turned to me and frowned. "From who?"

  I smiled. "No one you know."

  "I have the full resources of the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office to find out."

  “Not this week you don't."

  "And I have a sheriff issue sidearm and the training to use it very effectively."

  “From a physical therapist. When you play pro sports you get more rub downs than most people have showers. I learned there were benefits, both physical and mental. So when I quit the game, I kept getting worked on."

  "What physical benefits?"

  I smiled again and sipped my wine. “Where is your mind right now? I’m talking about working out the knots like I just rubbed out of you."

  "This person better be a he.”

  "No."

  “Then three hundred pounds and called Helga."

  "Nope. Michelle, and closer to one-twenty.”

  "She sounds horrific."

  "Blond, and a yoga instructor in her spare time."

  "Remind me why she isn't sitting on this patio with you right now?"

  “Because she isn't you."

  Danielle looked across the water and sipped her wine. "Good answer."

  "And she's gay."

  “Better still.”

  We watched a Beneteau cruiser motor past with its running lights on. Danielle stood and placed her wine glass down to wave at the passing yacht with a flick of her hand. She turned to me and extended the hand, like she was asking a wallflower to dance.

  "This is me showing you what I can do with my hands." She raised her eyebrow again. “And various other parts of my body."

  I put my wine down like it was a tonic and lime, and took her hand.

  Chapter Eight

  THE SECRET TO a good smoothie is dates. I've tried every ingredient in combination, and the common factor in anything that turned out palatable despite a nasty list of ingredients was dates. Like massage, I learned this playing minor league ball. People don't realize it, but the minor leagues are cut-throat. If you can get there, the Bigs are a high tea with Dom Perignon mimosas-on-the-side compared to the Minors. In The Show, lots of guys still have that deer in the headlights look, or have been there so long and done so much that they can be forgiven even a whole season long dry spell.

  But in the minor leagues, guys are either young and desperate to get to The Show, old and desperate to not get cut, or old and
dropped from the Bigs and desperate to get back. No one plans on making minor league ball their career so you look for every advantage you can get. Some I didn't do, like sabotaging another guy's equipment or spiking his All Bran with laxative. Others I did, like steroids, for a few months before I realized that pitching was more timing than muscle and the ‘roids started to monkey with my hand eye coordination. But a big part of the Minors was just staying on the park. Keeping healthy and managing injuries. You take a day off, the guy who takes your slot might pitch a no-hitter, or blast one out of the park in the ninth, and you’ll find yourself selling Craftsman tools before your head can stop spinning.

  Some guys will try most anything to stay healthy. One that made sense to me was eating more fruits and veggies to keep my immune system strong. But I wasn't about to start eating a plate of mustard greens every night. Then I was introduced to smoothies. A high-powered blender and a pound or two of vegetables and fruit and I got all the immune fighting power I could drink. And even the most disgusting mix of kale, flaxseed, and fish oil could be made palatable by a handful of dates. Which was what I had in my hand when Danielle padded out into the kitchen wearing a faded Modesto Nuts t-shirt. She looked at the graphic on the shirt, a peanut holding a bat, and shook her head.

  "I'm really not sure what you're trying to tell me,” she said. I dropped the dates on top of some cut oranges, pineapple, flax seed and kale.

  "The bounty of my youth. They were called the A's when I played there but they changed their name and affiliation the year I got traded. A friend in the front office sent me that. The Modesto Nuts. It's a winner, don't you think?"

  "It's everything a baseball team should be," she smiled.

  I hit the button and the Vitamix screamed to life and the whole house shook. There was no conversing over a Vitamix. When it was done, I poured two glasses and tossed in straws. I handed one to Danielle.

  "How's your shoulders?" I asked.

  She rolled her arms over. "Not bad. How's your..." She finished the thought by sucking some smoothie.

  I didn't get to answer before her cellphone rang. She picked it up and listened. I washed out the blender. Danielle said a couple ahas and nodded. Then she rang off and looked at me like she was ending a scene in a daytime soap opera.