Start Screaming Murder Page 4

  In any slum, there are children of questionable parentage. The slum area of Ybor City was no exception. The homeless kid had attached herself to a couple named Cardezas. Without officially adopting her, Mr. and Mrs. Cardezas shared their bean pot and sausage roll with Tina.

  In later years, the Cardezas had four children of their own who attached no particular importance to Tina’s size because she’d always been that way to them.

  In late afternoon, I drove out to the Cardezas house.

  It was a cramped, unpainted structure with a drooping front porch. On a street of such houses, a street swarming with noisy kids, the house was faintly lopsided on its cement block pillars, as if a long-ago hurricane had nudged it hard.

  My new car drew looks from laboring men with empty lunch pails. No husband would return to the Cardezas house. An animal handler, he’d been killed two years ago while trying to handle his charges during a circus fire.

  I crossed the hard-packed yard and knocked on the flimsy door. When opened, the door framed a big, warm, bosomy woman of middle age. Her thick hair was in jet coils, stranded with silver, about her head. Her face was full and fleshy and smiling. I suspected that the smile was a natural expression. It gave a glow to the big, open face, which was dusted with misty perspiration, and extended to the large, liquid eyes of striking black.

  She was dressed in simple cotton and held half a dozen dinner plates in the crook of her arm.

  “Mrs. Cardezas?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Ed Rivers.”

  “Oh, I know of you. Please come in.”

  I glanced at the dinner plates. She laughed. “Oh, that can wait. Or perhaps you’d eat with us?”

  In the house behind her, a young voice said, “Bang, bang, you’re dead, Miguel!” And another screeched, “No, I’m not, you missed!” And the first yelled, “Mama, make Miguel play right!”

  Mrs. Cardezas called over her shoulder, “Miguel, you must die when properly shot. Now some manners out of you! We have company.”

  She stepped aside for me to enter. “Poor Miguel,” she clucked. “Always he is the one to get shot.”

  I stepped into a living room that was barren, but clean. On a table against the far wall rested a large Bible. Over the table hung a crucifix.

  “Are you looking for Tina, Mr. Rivers?” Mrs. Cardezas asked as she sat on the edge of a wicker chair and rested the plates on her knees.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I only suspected. She said she was going to you for advice—about that one. That Bucks Jordan.”

  “You know that Jordan is dead?”

  “Oh, yes. I heard.” She nodded toward the dilapidated television set in the corner. As if that were a signal, an olive-skinned, black-haired girl of seven or eight skipped into the room. With a curtsey of apology she crossed in front of me and turned the set on.

  “Muchacha,” Mrs. Cardezas said quietly, “we have a guest.”

  “But I’m hungry, mama, and …”

  “The television will not feed you.”

  “But, mama …”

  “And neither will your rudeness hurry your dinner. To the kitchen with you!”

  “Yes, mama.”

  Mrs. Cardezas returned her attention to me. “I heard that he was found in her cottage,” she said, a sudden heaviness in her voice. “Poor Tina. Always the life so hard. And with the big heart. The little income from my husband’s death—it is not enough. Tina provides us the rest. Did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I must stay home with the children,” she said. “This is only right for the children. Children should not be abandoned even while a mother works. Tina would take us from here, but I refuse. I accept what I must. That is all. We have a good home, good food, good love. Tina is … Oh, you must help Tina, Mr. Rivers!”

  “I want to, but I’ve got to find her first. Can you tell me where she is?”

  “Ah, if I only could…. That one. Jordan. You must find his enemy, Mr. Rivers. We will find a way of paying.”

  “When did you last see Tina?”

  “Two days ago. She was upset, talking of going to you.”

  “And Jordan? What did she say about him?”

  “A very bad man.”

  “Only that?”

  “What more to say for him?” she shrugged.

  “Nothing about his connections? What he was doing?”

  “He worked on the boat.”

  “The Sprite?”

  “Si. Yes, that is it. The girl there, she chased Bucks. Would that she had caught him!”

  “Is her name D. D.?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Rivers. Tina said she was the daughter of the owner.”

  She followed me to the door, repeating her invitation to dinner.

  The aroma of her cooking was a spicy temptation. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’ll grab a sandwich. I’m going to be busy.”

  She laid her hand over mine. “I’m glad Tina has such a friend as you, Mr. Rivers. I feel better now.”

  I wasn’t too sure of the friendship bit, not until I learned what omissions, if any, Tina had made when she suckered me into a job that resulted in a corpse. I hoped Tina was as clean as Mrs. Cardezas thought.

  I nodded and let it go at that. There was no point in telling her that I was working primarily for myself, or that no other client’s interests had ever been so close to my heart, Tina not excepted.

  The sun was scalding the Gulf and bleeding all over the western horizon when I got to the bait camp.

  The leathery, sinewy young proprietor padded the length of the plank pier, preceding me. He slipped the line on a flat-bottom.

  “Is Miss Lessard out there?” I asked, motioning with my head toward the Sprite.

  “Could be,” he said. He kept the line taut as I stepped into the boat. When I picked up the oars, he pitched the line into the hull.

  I pointed at the skiff bobbing a couple slips away. Weathered letters spelled Sprite on the small boat. “She didn’t come ashore in one of the schooner’s small boats?”

  “Look, mister,” he said, scratching his naked, bony chest, “I don’t keep track of their comings and goings.” He spat over the edge of the pier, wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans. “Snug her up when you come in. I’ll prob’ly be over to the house.”

  In my control, the flat-bottom was a cantankerous jackass with a perverted sense of humor. She balked and rolled as I wrestled her out to the Sprite.

  I let the sloppy job of rowing give me the angle I wanted, a stern view of the schooner. The lettering was faded, the lighting none too good.

  I made out the registry. The Sprite’s home port was below the equator, in Peru.

  I splashed the flat-bottom to the starboard hull, grabbed the ladder, snubbed the line, and climbed aboard. A radio was softly emitting dance music from the cabin.

  I called out, “Hello, the Sprite.”

  A girl came out of the cabin. The deepening, hot twilight sizzled with shock. I thought she was wearing only her birthday suit. Then I saw that the color of her playsuit did it, a deep tan like her skin.

  She was tall, supple and sinewy, but she didn’t have a pared-down look. The flare, swell, rise and fall of the curves of her body added up to an impression of sinuousness that was almost illegal. She had ash blonde hair, short cut, tousled about her small face.

  She studied me gravely, not saying anything.

  “May I come aboard?” I asked.

  She giggled without losing her mock gravity. “Aren’t you already?”

  “I like to have permission,” I said. “Is Mr. Lessard here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you D. D.?”

  “For sure now.” Her voice suggested birth and childhood in southeastern United States, not Peru. She started forward, stubbed the toe of her guaraches, grabbed the rail. She stood holding the support with both hands and giggled again.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to help me,” she
said. “It’s a damn stormy sea.”

  She smiled as I neared her. She had a broad mouth, very red lips, nice teeth. Her forehead crinkled as she worked at getting her green eyes in focus.

  “Where have we met?” she asked.

  “We haven’t.”

  The fumes of hard liquor made a heavy incense about her. “You a seaman?”

  “No.”

  “You look like one. Like a big, ugly Spick or Portugee first mate on a rusty tub out of Dakar or some place. You sure we haven’t met?”

  “Certain, I’m sorry to say.”

  Her eyes crossed a little. “We can remedy that, can’t we? I’m Miss Delphelia Dorchester Lessard—ain’t it hell? Better known as D. D. Lately of Virginia, suh, Bora Bora, Capetown, Peru and a backwater town or two. Who might you be?”

  Her brows quirked as she got the images of me unfuzzed and melted together.

  “The name is Rivers,” I said. “Ed to my friends.”

  She straightened, took aim with her green eyes, and headed for the foredeck without assistance. She made it to a chair, dropped into it, and gasped. “There! But now I’m away from the cabin and drinking liquor. Will you be a pal and fetch me a drink if I need one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you’re Ed to me. Golden friend. Good old Ed. You married, Ed?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. It stinks.”

  “Sometimes maybe.”

  “All the time, old friend. There’s always a kid or two. They got no choice. Any dirty crud can be a father, and the kid’s got no say-so. Let’s pass a law, Ed.”

  “Okay. What kind?”

  “Giving kids the choice of cruds for a father. Or maybe you don’t agree?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re working for Alex, aren’t you? Isn’t that why you came here?”

  “Honey, you can feel as you like about your old man.”

  “Thanks, pal. What’s your official capacity in our little party?”

  I hesitated. “Your father wanted Bucks Jordan located.”

  “I’ll say!” She gave me a goofy grin that managed to be cute. “The local talent looks capable. You capable, Ed?”

  “I try to be.”

  “Where is Bucks?”

  I searched her face. She had trouble keeping me in focus. She seemed to be one of those with a cell, deep in the gray matter, that continues to function even when alcohol has turned the rest of the anatomy to rubber.

  I decided she hadn’t heard. She would have remembered, drunk as she was.

  “In the morgue,” I said.

  Chapter Six

  She sat thinking about it for so long that I began to wonder if she’d heard me.

  Then she said in a sobered tone, “You’re not working for Alex at all. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

  “I give you my word, sweetheart….”

  “I don’t think I’d better talk to you any more until Alex gets back.”

  Her mind was made up. That small, cute chin had a stubborn tilt.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll level with you. I was, in a way, working for your father. I was trying to locate Bucks and came out here to inquire around. Mr. Lessard asked me to let him know if I found Bucks.”

  “So you found him.”

  “No. Somebody else found him in the way that you mean.”

  “Then why trouble yourself further?”

  “I’m a private detective. I have my reasons.”

  “I’ll bet you have.” I saw anxiety growing in her eyes. She stood up with much difficulty. “Go away,” she said, “you got no business here.”

  “You don’t seem very put out by Bucks’ death.”

  “Why should I? He was another crud.”

  “You didn’t seem to feel that way about him.”

  She stood swaying, holding the back of the deck chair with one hand. “Now who in hell could have told you that? A Tampa female he was trying to make jealous?”

  “Was there room for jealousy?”

  “Oh, cripes, he thought every woman was gone on him. I annoyed him a little because I was bored.”

  “The Tampa police might like to hear about it.”

  “You’re not scaring me any, old pal Ed.”

  “That sounds like a denial.”

  She moved away from the chair. Her mind mustered dignity, but her legs refused to go along. She tipped toward the rail.

  When I sprang and caught her, she screamed softly. The sensuous contours of her lithe body writhed around. Her nails flashed across my cheek.

  She wheeled away dizzily, came in contact with the rail, and pinwheeled over the side.

  I rushed to the rail and looked at the darkening water. The last drops of the shower caused by her fall rasped back to the surface.

  As the water stilled, I saw the shadow of her under the surface. She was rising slowly, limply.

  I plunged in feet first, grabbed her around the waist when the water quit roaring over me. Threshing, I somehow got us both to the surface. Gagging on sea water, blowing it out of my nose, I used a combination of dog-paddle and dirty wrestling tactics against the water.

  I made it the few feet to the ladder, grabbed and held on. The dead weight of her draped across my forearm tried to pull us back. As soon as I got breath, I decided she was lighter in the water.

  I ducked under, shoved her across my shoulder, and pulled again at the ladder. The rope stretched with a small sound like clean, thoroughly rinsed hair.

  I hoisted her on deck, stretched her out face down. She didn’t need artificial respiration. Already she was groaning sickly.

  She turned over slowly and looked up at me. Droplets of water were on her face, her lashes. With the playsuit plastered to her, it was hard to keep my mind on business. I kneeled beside her and picked her up. She lay against me in limp exhaustion, arms and legs dangling. The liquor and shock of the water had sapped her. With the dew of the warm, salty bay on her face, she looked vulnerable and incredibly tired.

  I moved aft, stooped, and carried her down the hatchway. There was a lounge of sorts, a small galley, and beyond that a companionway. The first door I tried was locked. The second opened as my fingers, extended from under her, turned the knob.

  I pushed the door with my foot. The cabin was small, with a bunk down one side, a built-in sort of combination dressing table and storage compartment down the other. The single porthole stood open. An exhaust fan was humming softly somewhere in the boat, bringing a continuous wash of air from outside.

  I placed D. D. on the bunk and stepped back to get my breath. A glanced showed me that the cabin was like the rest of the schooner, worn from hard usage and lacking in the finer points of meticulous care, but sound and serviceable.

  “Thanks,” she said, very quietly.

  “What did you expect me to do? Where are some towels?”

  “There. That top drawer.”

  I got out a towel, pitched it to her, and helped myself to a second.

  She acted as if she wanted to sit up, but she was too weak.

  “Maybe you need a doctor,” I suggested.

  “Nope. Another drink will get the old corpuscles in motion.”

  “Don’t you think …”

  “Uh-uh, Ed. No lectures. You just saved my life. Want to kill me by refusing me a drink?”

  “I’ll go topside and dry out,” I said. “Give you a chance to change. You can get your own drink.”

  “Mean old bear, aren’t you?” She was able to giggle again.

  I went on deck, took off my shirt, and wrung it out. I pressed my wallet between folds of the towel. The rest of my clothes would have to dry where they were. I used the towel to dry my face, arms, back, and chest, and then I put the shirt on again.

  I heard the scuff of her footsteps. I turned and saw her coming forward. She’d put on a light blouse and skirt: In the early darkness she looked wan, pale, the ash blonde hair still limp about her face.

  I looked at the drink in h
er hand. “Trying to fall down dead in that stuff?”

  “Would it matter to you?”

  “For some strange reason, yes. You remind me of somebody. Some quality the two of you have in common. Her name is Tina.”

  “Is she beautiful?” D. D. asked.

  “Very much. She’s a show girl—all three feet of her.”

  I caught the change in her face. She turned and moved toward a deck chair. I took her arm and put enough pressure on to force her to face me.

  “Where is she, D. D.?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were jarred when I mentioned her.”

  She laughed. It sounded weak and forced. “No—I was thinking of a kid three feet tall being a show girl.”

  “She’s a midget.”

  “Oh?”

  “Knew Bucks Jordan,” I said.

  She yielded beyond the pressure of my hand, her body sliding toward me. The touch of her length against mine was firm but pliant. There was an aura about her like the warm damp of the tropical water whispering against the hull of the Sprite.

  “If you’re trying to parboil me,” I said, “you’re making a fine start.”

  “Good,” she murmured. Her arms slid around my neck.

  Tampa, cops and a possible murder rap faded to the dark side of the moon. The green eyes were half closed, the lips parted. My breathing clogged up.

  Then I reached and took her wrists in my hands and broke her grip.

  “Only I keep thinking about Bucks,” I said, “and the fact that he came to this boat, then deserted it, then ended up dead.”

  D. D. showed no embarrassment in being rebuffed, no anger, no scorn. She looked at me a moment. Then she pulled herself away, walked to the deck chair, and sat down. She still had the remains of the drink in her hand. She studied it briefly before she killed it.

  The raw liquor brought a small cough from her. “You know something,” she said in a liquor-strangled tone, “you’re old-fashioned, that’s what. Furthermore, you’re a damn fool. On top of that, I don’t like your insinuations. My father and I are not murderers. We’re … I guess you could call us vagabonds. We wander as we damn please. Maybe the Shangrila we’re looking for isn’t on the face of this earth. But that’s our own business, isn’t it?”