said Sugarman. “She could’ve been out there. Seen a bale floating by, picked it up, and the owner might’ve wanted it back. Or she’s out there with somebody fishing, here comes a bale. Her charter hauls it out; she tells him no; they argue. Bang. It doesn’t have to be she’s running dope. But the fact is, Thorn, there’s some high-quality pot scattered all over that boat.”
“It’s a plant then.”
“It could be that.” Sugar shook his head, went over to the couch facing the Atlantic.
“She had money,” Thorn said. “What would she be doing running dope?”
“She talk to you about her money situation ever?”
“No.”
“Well ...”
“She owned Vacation Island. That place is worth millions. She and Dr. Bill had investments all over. What kind of shit is this?”
“OK, OK,” Sugarman said. He shifted around on the couch, glanced back at the wall of photographs. “I’m going to have to talk to Sarah. You know how to reach her?”
“Yeah,” Thorn said. “I have a number for her.”
Sugarman said, “Look, I hate this. I hate the whole thing. If Kate was killed by somebody in the drug business down here, we’ll find out. If it was something else, we’re going to find out. But we will find out. And, Thorn, we got to go where it leads us. I can’t rule out something just because I don’t want to think about Kate running grass. Christ, man. Last month I had to bust the Baptist minister. Drying out a bale in his backyard. The sucker found it fishing, just brought it on home. I mean, it gets so nobody thinks of the stuff as illegal. It’s just this thing, like broccoli; only it’s worth a bunch of money.”
“I need a minute,” Thorn said. “Give me a minute, Sugar.” Feeling it coming now.
Thorn got up and walked down the main hall. His old bedroom. A view north into Hurricane Lagoon. He closed the door and lay on his old bed. He shut his eyes. Let it rise inside him, flood up into his throat. A kind of panic. Dry at first. Almost an experimental sob. Then it came. Like an old friend back from a voyage. He covered his face with the pillow and let it take him.
Outside, the usual summer afternoon buildup off the Everglades was darkening the sky above Miami. Blue-black clouds. In Hurricane Lagoon a barracuda was feeding on the glassy minnows, the calm water boiling in spots as though someone had thrown a handful of buckshot into it. Then it was quiet.
10
R ICKI T RUMAN PROPPED HERSELF UP with a pillow, watched Grayson. He was in the rattan chair, the throne kind, his eyes on the view out that third-story window. La Concha Hotel, treetops, the old Coca-Cola plant. When the wind was strong from the east, brushing back the trees, a slab of the Atlantic was there. Grayson watched the view, recovering from the view he’d just had.
She didn’t like this, letting him watch her with another girl, but it was rent. Or it had started as rent, a monthly thing. She’d tried to keep it to just once a month, but lately Grayson was around every weekend, fixing things, always seeing if he could catch another session. She didn’t like it, but she liked what it gave her, more than rent, a good tight clutch on Grayson’s short hairs.
Maybe, just possibly, this was the last time. Kate’s will should be settled soon. Grayson had said six to eight weeks was considered normal. Cases like this one, without any problems. Only when there was a large family, squabbling, dissension. That could last for years. Or like Howard Hughes, somebody so rich and known every hitchhiker thought he should be made a baron of some little corner of the kingdom. Kate never picked up hitchhikers. Unless you counted Thorn.
Ricki certainly didn’t count him. For one thing, he wasn’t blood family. And anyway, Christ, what would he want with money, land, any of it? He’d been wearing the same shorts, sandals, the same exact pair for fifteen years. No, Thorn was no problem.
Grayson brushed the pants of his banker suit.
“It’s a plant then.”
“It could be that.” Sugar shook his head, went over to the couch facing the Atlantic.
“She had money,” Thorn said. “What would she be doing running dope?”
“She talk to you about her money situation ever?”
“No.”
“Well ...”
“She owned Vacation Island. That place is worth millions. She and Dr. Bill had investments all over. What kind of shit is this?”
“OK, OK,” Sugarman said. He shifted around on the couch, glanced back at the wall of photographs. “I’m going to have to talk to Sarah. You know how to reach her?”
“Yeah,” Thorn said. “I have a number for her.”
Sugarman said, “Look, I hate this. I hate the whole thing. If Kate was killed by somebody in the drug business down here, we’ll find out. If it was something else, we’re going to find out. But we will find out. And, Thorn, we got to go where it leads us. I can’t rule out something just because I don’t want to think about Kate running grass. Christ, man. Last month I had to bust the Baptist minister. Drying out a bale in his backyard. The sucker found it fishing, just brought it on home. I mean, it gets so nobody thinks of the stuff as illegal. It’s just this thing, like broccoli; only it’s worth a bunch of money.”
“I need a minute,” Thorn said. “Give me a minute, Sugar.” Feeling it coming now.
Thorn got up and walked down the main hall. His old bedroom. A view north into Hurricane Lagoon. He closed the door and lay on his old bed. He shut his eyes. Let it rise inside him, flood up into his throat. A kind of panic. Dry at first. Almost an experimental sob. Then it came. Like an old friend back from a voyage. He covered his face with the pillow and let it take him.
Outside, the usual summer afternoon buildup off the Everglades was darkening the sky above Miami. Blue-black clouds. In Hurricane Lagoon a barracuda was feeding on the glassy minnows, the calm water boiling in spots as though someone had thrown a handful of buckshot into it. Then it was quiet.
10
R ICKI T RUMAN PROPPED HERSELF UP with a pillow, watched Grayson. He was in the rattan chair, the throne kind, his eyes on the view out that third-story window. La Concha Hotel, treetops, the old Coca-Cola plant. When the wind was strong from the east, brushing back the trees, a slab of the Atlantic was there. Grayson watched the view, recovering from the view he’d just had.
She didn’t like this, letting him watch her with another girl, but it was rent. Or it had started as rent, a monthly thing. She’d tried to keep it to just once a month, but lately Grayson was around every weekend, fixing things, always seeing if he could catch another session. She didn’t like it, but she liked what it gave her, more than rent, a good tight clutch on Grayson’s short hairs.
Maybe, just possibly, this was the last time. Kate’s will should be settled soon. Grayson had said six to eight weeks was considered normal. Cases like this one, without any problems. Only when there was a large family, squabbling, dissension. That could last for years. Or like Howard Hughes, somebody so rich and known every hitchhiker thought he should be made a baron of some little corner of the kingdom. Kate never picked up hitchhikers. Unless you counted Thorn.
Ricki certainly didn’t count him. For one thing, he wasn’t blood family. And anyway, Christ, what would he want with money, land, any of it? He’d been wearing the same shorts, sandals, the same exact pair for fifteen years. No, Thorn was no problem.
Grayson brushed the pants of his banker suit.
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