Read Online Miami Blues by Charles Willeford - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Willeford
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some beer. Then, after they ate, the women would all sit in the living room and talk about how difficult their deliveries had been, and the men would sit in the kitchen and play poker. The big kids would watch TV, and the smaller kids would be put to sleep in the bedroom. That had been real Florida living, but now all the white families were moving away. There were six different detectives Hoke had known who had left Miami in the last year alone. And now Farris--that was seven. Of course, Henderson could get out for a night once in a while, but Bill Henderson was married, and he always worried about staying out too late.
Hoke looked out at the river, never the same river. He wanted another double shot of Early Times, but not at these prices. Hoke left the bar and got his car from the parking ramp. As he checked the window locks, the smell of the vomit on the back seat was almost overpowering. When he got to the Eldorado Hotel, he'd get one of the Marielitos who lived there to clean it out.
7
The one-way street was narrow after they left the well-lighted area of the Columbus Hotel on Biscayne. The sidewalk was cracked and broken from recent roadwork, and there were few pedestrians.
"Where's the parking garage?" Freddy took Susan's thin arm as they skirted a Bob's Barricade horse and a flaming kerosene pot.
"Up about four blocks. I didn't want the detective to see my car. I'm sorry now I even mentioned it to him. If he lets it slip out to daddy that I've got it, he'll take it."
"That prick detective's pretty sharp. Unless he does it on purpose, he won't let anything slip out. He sure picked up on me in a hurry. I think I had him fooled on the dessert business, because I really was in a foster home in Santa Barbara. But he knows that a man can't hold down a regular job and still work out six hours a day building up muscles like mine."
"Why'd you tell him your name was Ramon Mendez? You don't look nothing like these Cubans." She pointed to four ragged Marielitos across the street. They were unwrapping a large bundle of clothes between two parked cars.
"I told him Mendez because I checked into the hotel under the name of Gotlieb with a stolen credit card. Wait. Let's go over there and see what they've got in that bindle."
"Let's don't! You don't want to have nothing to do with these people, Junior. It's just something they stole, anyway." She tugged at his arm.
"Okay. But it's always interesting to look into a bindle. You never know what you'll find."
"You mess with these Cubans and they'll pull a knife on you." At the next corner, they waited for the light to change. "If your name isn't Gotlieb, and it isn't Mendez, what is it?"
"Junior, like I told you. My last name's Frenger. I'm really German, I suppose, but I don't remember my parents. I was in four different foster homes, but no one ever told me anything about my parents. They said I was an orphan, but they could've been lying about that. They lied about everything else, so it's possible my parents are still alive somewhere. I've always thought my father must've been an important man, though, or he wouldn't've named me Junior. At least that proves I'm not a bastard. You don't name a kid after yourself if you aren't married. What d'you think?"
"I'm too upset to think right now. On top of everything else, I think Mr. Turner's going to make us write a haiku, and I don't think I can do it."
"It seems simple enough to me. There're only seventeen syllables. Five, seven, and five. I'll write some for you, and you can keep 'em in your purse. Then, if he gives you a makeup paper in his office, you can just copy them in your own handwriting."
"Suppose I have to explain what they mean?"
"I'll tell you what they mean after I write them."
"Would you?"
"Sure. We're engaged, aren't we?"
"Did you really mean that? When you told Mr. Turner we were engaged?"
"Why not? I've never been engaged before."
"Me neither. I've never even gone steady before."
They reached the
Hoke looked out at the river, never the same river. He wanted another double shot of Early Times, but not at these prices. Hoke left the bar and got his car from the parking ramp. As he checked the window locks, the smell of the vomit on the back seat was almost overpowering. When he got to the Eldorado Hotel, he'd get one of the Marielitos who lived there to clean it out.
7
The one-way street was narrow after they left the well-lighted area of the Columbus Hotel on Biscayne. The sidewalk was cracked and broken from recent roadwork, and there were few pedestrians.
"Where's the parking garage?" Freddy took Susan's thin arm as they skirted a Bob's Barricade horse and a flaming kerosene pot.
"Up about four blocks. I didn't want the detective to see my car. I'm sorry now I even mentioned it to him. If he lets it slip out to daddy that I've got it, he'll take it."
"That prick detective's pretty sharp. Unless he does it on purpose, he won't let anything slip out. He sure picked up on me in a hurry. I think I had him fooled on the dessert business, because I really was in a foster home in Santa Barbara. But he knows that a man can't hold down a regular job and still work out six hours a day building up muscles like mine."
"Why'd you tell him your name was Ramon Mendez? You don't look nothing like these Cubans." She pointed to four ragged Marielitos across the street. They were unwrapping a large bundle of clothes between two parked cars.
"I told him Mendez because I checked into the hotel under the name of Gotlieb with a stolen credit card. Wait. Let's go over there and see what they've got in that bindle."
"Let's don't! You don't want to have nothing to do with these people, Junior. It's just something they stole, anyway." She tugged at his arm.
"Okay. But it's always interesting to look into a bindle. You never know what you'll find."
"You mess with these Cubans and they'll pull a knife on you." At the next corner, they waited for the light to change. "If your name isn't Gotlieb, and it isn't Mendez, what is it?"
"Junior, like I told you. My last name's Frenger. I'm really German, I suppose, but I don't remember my parents. I was in four different foster homes, but no one ever told me anything about my parents. They said I was an orphan, but they could've been lying about that. They lied about everything else, so it's possible my parents are still alive somewhere. I've always thought my father must've been an important man, though, or he wouldn't've named me Junior. At least that proves I'm not a bastard. You don't name a kid after yourself if you aren't married. What d'you think?"
"I'm too upset to think right now. On top of everything else, I think Mr. Turner's going to make us write a haiku, and I don't think I can do it."
"It seems simple enough to me. There're only seventeen syllables. Five, seven, and five. I'll write some for you, and you can keep 'em in your purse. Then, if he gives you a makeup paper in his office, you can just copy them in your own handwriting."
"Suppose I have to explain what they mean?"
"I'll tell you what they mean after I write them."
"Would you?"
"Sure. We're engaged, aren't we?"
"Did you really mean that? When you told Mr. Turner we were engaged?"
"Why not? I've never been engaged before."
"Me neither. I've never even gone steady before."
They reached the
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