hotel staff and life-guards. This vast army resided in Secomb, a mile drive from the city.
Secomb is not unlike West Miami: a compact town of walk-up apartment blocks, tatty bungalows, cheap eating-places, tough bars and a number of sleazy nightclubs.
Macey Street led off Seaview Road, which is the heart of Secomb's busy shopping centre.
I was lucky to find a hole in which to park my car. I looked for No. 7 and No. 9. While I looked I was jostled by a steady stream of shoppers: white, black and yellow. Secomb was as active as a kicked-over ant-hill.
No. 7 proved to be a small, shabby tailor's shop. The owner, a Chinese, standing in his doorway, gave me a hopeful smile. I moved on. No. 9 looked more promising: a shabby door, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a drugstore.
On this door was a sign that read: Rooms To Let: Vacancies. I walked into a dimly lit lobby that smelt of stale cooking, cats and garbage. To my left was a door on which hung a sign: Rental Office. I rapped on the door, pushed it open and walked into a small office. At the shabby, chipped desk sat a black man, reading a racing sheet. He was well into his seventies, woolly white hair, dressed in a dark blue aged suit. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a small black hat rested on the back of his head.
Laying down the racing sheet, he regarded me and then gave me a sly, inquiring smile.
"What do you fancy for tomorrow's three o'clock, mister?" he asked.
I moved up to the desk.
"I wouldn't know. I'm not a racing man."
He nodded.
"I didn't think you were, but it's always worth a try." He eyed me over, then went on, "And you're not looking for one of my rooms?"
"No. I'm looking for Mrs. Stella Costa."
He lifted shaggy eyebrows.
"Now, what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"
I gave him a friendly smile.
"She'll tell you if she wants you to know."
He thought about this, taking of his spectacles, then putting them back on.
"She wouldn't give me the time of day."
"That's sad. Where's her room?"
"Mrs. Stella Costa?"
I gave him my cop stare.
"I haven't time to waste. Where do I find heir."
"Not here. That's for sure. She moved out years ago." I pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat astride it. "I didn't get your name."
"Just call me Washington. My dear and departed parents had a sense of humour."
"Well, Mr. Washington, can you tell me where she moved to?"
He produced a grubby handkerchief, took off his spectacles and began to polish them.
"We folk in Secomb, mister, have to be careful about giving out information about folk," he said, squinting at me. "I would like to repeat my original question: what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"
I had experienced this approach often enough when working for my father. I knew the key that opened the door. I took out my wallet and produced a $20 bill. I fingered it, folded it, then looked at him.
By this time he had replaced his spectacles. He eyed the bill, then me.
"I see you are an intelligent young man," he said. "A little oil always makes a machine run better."
"Where do I find Mrs. Costa?" I asked.
“That's a good question. Where do you find her? I am an honest man, and I would very much like to earn that offering you are showing me, but I believe in giving value for money. Frankly, young man, I don't know where she is, but I can tell you some of her history. Would that interest you?"
I dropped the bill on the desk before him. He regarded it, then picked it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket.
"Now, mister," he said, smiling, "we're in business. You are asking about Mrs. Stella Costa?"
"Yes, Mr. Washington. What can you tell me about her?" He held up a pink-black hand.
"Please don't call me Mr. Washington. That gives me a superiority complex and at my age, that is bad for me. Call me Wash, as everyone does around here."
"Okay, Wash. She lived here and she's gone . . . right?"
"That is correct."
"How long did she
Secomb is not unlike West Miami: a compact town of walk-up apartment blocks, tatty bungalows, cheap eating-places, tough bars and a number of sleazy nightclubs.
Macey Street led off Seaview Road, which is the heart of Secomb's busy shopping centre.
I was lucky to find a hole in which to park my car. I looked for No. 7 and No. 9. While I looked I was jostled by a steady stream of shoppers: white, black and yellow. Secomb was as active as a kicked-over ant-hill.
No. 7 proved to be a small, shabby tailor's shop. The owner, a Chinese, standing in his doorway, gave me a hopeful smile. I moved on. No. 9 looked more promising: a shabby door, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a drugstore.
On this door was a sign that read: Rooms To Let: Vacancies. I walked into a dimly lit lobby that smelt of stale cooking, cats and garbage. To my left was a door on which hung a sign: Rental Office. I rapped on the door, pushed it open and walked into a small office. At the shabby, chipped desk sat a black man, reading a racing sheet. He was well into his seventies, woolly white hair, dressed in a dark blue aged suit. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a small black hat rested on the back of his head.
Laying down the racing sheet, he regarded me and then gave me a sly, inquiring smile.
"What do you fancy for tomorrow's three o'clock, mister?" he asked.
I moved up to the desk.
"I wouldn't know. I'm not a racing man."
He nodded.
"I didn't think you were, but it's always worth a try." He eyed me over, then went on, "And you're not looking for one of my rooms?"
"No. I'm looking for Mrs. Stella Costa."
He lifted shaggy eyebrows.
"Now, what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"
I gave him a friendly smile.
"She'll tell you if she wants you to know."
He thought about this, taking of his spectacles, then putting them back on.
"She wouldn't give me the time of day."
"That's sad. Where's her room?"
"Mrs. Stella Costa?"
I gave him my cop stare.
"I haven't time to waste. Where do I find heir."
"Not here. That's for sure. She moved out years ago." I pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat astride it. "I didn't get your name."
"Just call me Washington. My dear and departed parents had a sense of humour."
"Well, Mr. Washington, can you tell me where she moved to?"
He produced a grubby handkerchief, took off his spectacles and began to polish them.
"We folk in Secomb, mister, have to be careful about giving out information about folk," he said, squinting at me. "I would like to repeat my original question: what should a well-dressed, non-racing young man want with Mrs. Costa?"
I had experienced this approach often enough when working for my father. I knew the key that opened the door. I took out my wallet and produced a $20 bill. I fingered it, folded it, then looked at him.
By this time he had replaced his spectacles. He eyed the bill, then me.
"I see you are an intelligent young man," he said. "A little oil always makes a machine run better."
"Where do I find Mrs. Costa?" I asked.
“That's a good question. Where do you find her? I am an honest man, and I would very much like to earn that offering you are showing me, but I believe in giving value for money. Frankly, young man, I don't know where she is, but I can tell you some of her history. Would that interest you?"
I dropped the bill on the desk before him. He regarded it, then picked it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket.
"Now, mister," he said, smiling, "we're in business. You are asking about Mrs. Stella Costa?"
"Yes, Mr. Washington. What can you tell me about her?" He held up a pink-black hand.
"Please don't call me Mr. Washington. That gives me a superiority complex and at my age, that is bad for me. Call me Wash, as everyone does around here."
"Okay, Wash. She lived here and she's gone . . . right?"
"That is correct."
"How long did she
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