Read Online Men in Miami Hotels by Charlie Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlie Smith
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laundromat Billy Gomes, a guy he knew, was entertaining some tourists with stories about free diving in the Tortugas, a place Cot felt sure he’d never visited. Cot wondered if anyone ever dreamed when they were knocked out. Last night he had dreamed of jealousy and ordinance. Of Marcella revising her opinion of him downward, of his pulling a trick gun, a gun made of horehound candy, and of being forced by elemental but crazed powers to eat it. Everything in the dream had been a bad sign. He pulled Billy off to the side. Billy was sipping pineapple juice out of a green coconut. “What you got?” he said.
“I need you to help get my mother out of town.”
Billy’s eyes shipped fear like a summons. It was amazing how that went—eyes instantly alerting the universe to a change in mode. “OK,” he said.
“I mean I need you to make a suggestion or two.”
“I don’t know if I can ever do that.”
It was as if they had been talking an hour, fruitlessly. Maybe the head blow had done more damage than he thought. Wright Sunderson pedaled by on his bike, pulling his little cart filled with flowers he’d gathered in people’s yards for sale to the tourists. Down the street a large man in a faded orange shirt crossed and climbed the steps to the old Stampen house, now empty so long it looked abandoned. Maybe the house had finally been sold. The man—that was what was sticking to his mind—looked like Bert. “Come on,” he said and started off down the street. He wanted to pull his gun but thought better of it. Billy came along behind, apologizing to the tourists as he left—the tourists, decked in tourism finery, looked relieved he was going—and caught up with Cot in front of the Big Wreck Hotel. He and Marcella had tried when they were thirteen to get a room there but the management—Cooper Nutall, an extremely short man in a blond Elvis haircut—had called their parents.
“What is it?” Billy said, loping along. He was wearing white calypso pants, a striped blue-and-white shirt, and a gray weathered sailor cap.
“This guy sucker punched me.”
“Just now?”
“Almost.”
Cot sent Billy around behind the Stampen house—tall, weathered to a tallowy gray, two-storied with double galleries, rusted weather vanes depicting ships under full sail and lightning rods like spearheads on top—and he ran up the front steps and into the front hall. There he stopped and listened. Nothing but the creaks and frets of an old empty house. Here he had played poker with the Stampen twins when he was eight, on rainy days up on the second-floor gallery, once losing his favorite Aloha shirt to Benny. The twins were gone now, one dead of a blood disease, the other, a drunkard he’d heard, just hanging on, in Panama City or someplace, selling used boats. He held himself carefully and loosely quiet. He could hear breeze fiddling with the roof tiles, the shake and swish of palm fronds. “Bert,” he called.
“You want me?” Billy called from out the back door.
“Bert.”
“I’m out here,” Billy called.
Cot heard a noise, maybe footsteps going down the back outside stairs. He ran through the house to the back side door, opened it—no one there. Maybe a slight agitation in the molecules. Not six feet away a gray-and-white cat gazed at him from a closed window in the house next door. “What now?” he mouthed to the cat who just stared.
He went back into the house and out through the big back double doors. Billy was sitting in an old rocking chair next to the swimming pool that was covered with brown stained canvas. “D’jou want me?” he said.
“Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Big guy in an orange shirt.”
“Nobody came by here. Were you calling me?”
“Your name Bert?”
“I thought you were playing with me.”
They walked back through the house, out the side yard and down the lane that ran through the middle of the block. At the street entrance there was no sign of the operative in either
“I need you to help get my mother out of town.”
Billy’s eyes shipped fear like a summons. It was amazing how that went—eyes instantly alerting the universe to a change in mode. “OK,” he said.
“I mean I need you to make a suggestion or two.”
“I don’t know if I can ever do that.”
It was as if they had been talking an hour, fruitlessly. Maybe the head blow had done more damage than he thought. Wright Sunderson pedaled by on his bike, pulling his little cart filled with flowers he’d gathered in people’s yards for sale to the tourists. Down the street a large man in a faded orange shirt crossed and climbed the steps to the old Stampen house, now empty so long it looked abandoned. Maybe the house had finally been sold. The man—that was what was sticking to his mind—looked like Bert. “Come on,” he said and started off down the street. He wanted to pull his gun but thought better of it. Billy came along behind, apologizing to the tourists as he left—the tourists, decked in tourism finery, looked relieved he was going—and caught up with Cot in front of the Big Wreck Hotel. He and Marcella had tried when they were thirteen to get a room there but the management—Cooper Nutall, an extremely short man in a blond Elvis haircut—had called their parents.
“What is it?” Billy said, loping along. He was wearing white calypso pants, a striped blue-and-white shirt, and a gray weathered sailor cap.
“This guy sucker punched me.”
“Just now?”
“Almost.”
Cot sent Billy around behind the Stampen house—tall, weathered to a tallowy gray, two-storied with double galleries, rusted weather vanes depicting ships under full sail and lightning rods like spearheads on top—and he ran up the front steps and into the front hall. There he stopped and listened. Nothing but the creaks and frets of an old empty house. Here he had played poker with the Stampen twins when he was eight, on rainy days up on the second-floor gallery, once losing his favorite Aloha shirt to Benny. The twins were gone now, one dead of a blood disease, the other, a drunkard he’d heard, just hanging on, in Panama City or someplace, selling used boats. He held himself carefully and loosely quiet. He could hear breeze fiddling with the roof tiles, the shake and swish of palm fronds. “Bert,” he called.
“You want me?” Billy called from out the back door.
“Bert.”
“I’m out here,” Billy called.
Cot heard a noise, maybe footsteps going down the back outside stairs. He ran through the house to the back side door, opened it—no one there. Maybe a slight agitation in the molecules. Not six feet away a gray-and-white cat gazed at him from a closed window in the house next door. “What now?” he mouthed to the cat who just stared.
He went back into the house and out through the big back double doors. Billy was sitting in an old rocking chair next to the swimming pool that was covered with brown stained canvas. “D’jou want me?” he said.
“Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Big guy in an orange shirt.”
“Nobody came by here. Were you calling me?”
“Your name Bert?”
“I thought you were playing with me.”
They walked back through the house, out the side yard and down the lane that ran through the middle of the block. At the street entrance there was no sign of the operative in either
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