Read Online Men in Miami Hotels by Charlie Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlie Smith
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guy.”
“Are you going to get in the car?”
He loaded his bike in back and got in beside her. The leaves of a big kapok tree above their heads rattled and seemed about to break into speech—muddled and distraught speech, he thought.
“Ordell said you got a phone call from Miami. It sounded, so he said, like someone named Crotch.”
“Crodge.”
“The usual desperate character?”
“We’re all desperate characters.”
“Existentially speaking.”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to Ordell.”
“I’m not. But we talk anyway. Like you and me.”
People, folks who knew her, who knew them both, who had known everything about them since the day they were born and their parents had put a conch shell out on the front porch rail to tell everybody about it, waved or bopped the horn as they passed. Crook and Countess—that was what they had called them in high school. You could spend a lifetime feeling rosy and accomplished about such matters. He leaned down and placed his head against the dashboard, caught himself, and jerked back. She pressed deeply into her seat, looking at him. A line of tension showed like a scar along her jaw. He was losing his sense of the elaborated moment. Thought this and said it to her.
“I’m on my way to get some shrimp,” she said.
They drove out to the docks on Stock Island and she bought three pounds of pink shrimp and half a dozen dorado fillets.
“Having a party?”
“An impulse.”
Jocko Brainard, the counterman, looked at them as he looked at everyone who appeared before him—as if he knew all there was to know.
“You ever go out on the boats, Jocko?” Cot said.
“You asked me that the last time you was in here,” Jocko said, pushing against his bad eye with the back of his hand.
“I can’t think of anything else to say.”
“You used to be real talkative.”
“You seen my mother lately?”
“She comes in here about onc’t a week.”
“When you see her would you tell her I said would she please go up to Aunt Mayrene’s?”
“You going to have to tell her that yoself.”
“I would, but she won’t listen.”
Marcella had drifted out the big warehouse-style doors onto the docks. He followed her, and they walked along looking at the high-prowed shrimp boats rusting under their painted skins. “They still go out,” Cot said.
“It’s like the Japanese growing rice.”
“You mean government subsidy making sure a ritualistic jot of rice—the historic symbol of the outfit’s once great mythos—is still grown in-country.”
“You bet.”
“About a washtub full I reckon.”
“It’s awful. Birds falling out of the sky. Fishes washing up on the beaches—what few fishes there are. Raccoons wandering into the yard coughing like smokers. Manatees sink to the bottoms of ancient springs, never having uttered a single word of protest. Children rock with allergies. Gunmen stagger retching into the undergrowth.”
Her voice almost gleeful, the energy, the synthesis, like a mixture turning red to blue, making her happy.
“That’s what’s happening to you,” she said. Brooks Dublin, fat shrimper captain, stood in the door of his wheelhouse looking down the channel where nothing but a few gulls, tough as old prizefighters, wheeled and complained. They both waved at him, but he didn’t wave back.
“It’s for the best,” he said.
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“If only that were true.”
“Cot—damn.” She dashed a single tear—it could have been a tear—off her cheek, quickly, with her finger tips, as if it were a bug. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“Ah, honey, it’s not time yet to bring out the fun-destroying facts.”
She skipped a beat into silence. “I apologize.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be off somewhere lawyering?”
“There was a bomb scare at the courthouse and Judge Tomlane sent everyone home.”
“You mean besides the one I called in?”
“So funny.”
“I have to find out who
“Are you going to get in the car?”
He loaded his bike in back and got in beside her. The leaves of a big kapok tree above their heads rattled and seemed about to break into speech—muddled and distraught speech, he thought.
“Ordell said you got a phone call from Miami. It sounded, so he said, like someone named Crotch.”
“Crodge.”
“The usual desperate character?”
“We’re all desperate characters.”
“Existentially speaking.”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to Ordell.”
“I’m not. But we talk anyway. Like you and me.”
People, folks who knew her, who knew them both, who had known everything about them since the day they were born and their parents had put a conch shell out on the front porch rail to tell everybody about it, waved or bopped the horn as they passed. Crook and Countess—that was what they had called them in high school. You could spend a lifetime feeling rosy and accomplished about such matters. He leaned down and placed his head against the dashboard, caught himself, and jerked back. She pressed deeply into her seat, looking at him. A line of tension showed like a scar along her jaw. He was losing his sense of the elaborated moment. Thought this and said it to her.
“I’m on my way to get some shrimp,” she said.
They drove out to the docks on Stock Island and she bought three pounds of pink shrimp and half a dozen dorado fillets.
“Having a party?”
“An impulse.”
Jocko Brainard, the counterman, looked at them as he looked at everyone who appeared before him—as if he knew all there was to know.
“You ever go out on the boats, Jocko?” Cot said.
“You asked me that the last time you was in here,” Jocko said, pushing against his bad eye with the back of his hand.
“I can’t think of anything else to say.”
“You used to be real talkative.”
“You seen my mother lately?”
“She comes in here about onc’t a week.”
“When you see her would you tell her I said would she please go up to Aunt Mayrene’s?”
“You going to have to tell her that yoself.”
“I would, but she won’t listen.”
Marcella had drifted out the big warehouse-style doors onto the docks. He followed her, and they walked along looking at the high-prowed shrimp boats rusting under their painted skins. “They still go out,” Cot said.
“It’s like the Japanese growing rice.”
“You mean government subsidy making sure a ritualistic jot of rice—the historic symbol of the outfit’s once great mythos—is still grown in-country.”
“You bet.”
“About a washtub full I reckon.”
“It’s awful. Birds falling out of the sky. Fishes washing up on the beaches—what few fishes there are. Raccoons wandering into the yard coughing like smokers. Manatees sink to the bottoms of ancient springs, never having uttered a single word of protest. Children rock with allergies. Gunmen stagger retching into the undergrowth.”
Her voice almost gleeful, the energy, the synthesis, like a mixture turning red to blue, making her happy.
“That’s what’s happening to you,” she said. Brooks Dublin, fat shrimper captain, stood in the door of his wheelhouse looking down the channel where nothing but a few gulls, tough as old prizefighters, wheeled and complained. They both waved at him, but he didn’t wave back.
“It’s for the best,” he said.
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“If only that were true.”
“Cot—damn.” She dashed a single tear—it could have been a tear—off her cheek, quickly, with her finger tips, as if it were a bug. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“Ah, honey, it’s not time yet to bring out the fun-destroying facts.”
She skipped a beat into silence. “I apologize.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be off somewhere lawyering?”
“There was a bomb scare at the courthouse and Judge Tomlane sent everyone home.”
“You mean besides the one I called in?”
“So funny.”
“I have to find out who
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