The sneakers that encased each and every one of their feet made Lili’s pumps feel like mukluks. She looked like somebody’s maiden aunt with her wavy hair, mannish and out of it in this blue blazer over the white button-down shirt. But she wasn’t competing with these girls, she was at least ten years older than most of them, and she wasn’t doing a night on the town, she was working.
Though it was before eleven, there was a line outside the Calabash. A velvet rope divided patrons from a doorman holding a clipboard. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of black and white wingtips, a grey hat with a snap brim that dove down over his left eye. His hair needed to be cut. The gel that held it together was failing. He took shallow puffs from a gold-filtered cigarette, chatting with a grim, steroid-bloated bouncer. Lili felt the nervous energy radiating out of him like a stink.
She tugged the collar of her white, button-down shirt, then walked right up and badged him.
He said, “How you doing tonight?” His skin reflected the violet neon of the club’s sign.
“I’m looking for somebody named Alejandro or Alex. Tall, thin, mid-twenties. Probably Cuban.”
“I know two guys named Alex,” the doorman said. “One’s a French guy who owns a restaurant on Alton Road, and the other one is married to my sister. They have two kids and they live in Sarasota.”
He reached over and unclipped the rope to let four people pass, then re-attached it. When the bouncer pulled the door open, Lili looked in and saw the club was deserted. The line was getting longer. Why were they making these people wait?
“He hangs around with a guy named JP Beaumond,” Lili said, and saw the doorman’s eyes flash on the name. He took two quick steps toward the stanchion, where he raised the rope again, letting in six more bodies.
“Beaumond, huh? Don’t know him.” He walked to the curb, his heels clicking, and flicked his gold-tipped cigarette into the street. He patted his pockets for the pack. He was lying.
“I’m going to go in and see if any of the staff can help me.”
“No problem,” he said, glad to be rid of her. “Be my guest.”
He signaled the bouncer, who opened the door, and Lili stepped into a cloud of music and swirling, cobalt light. The name Calabash must’ve been picked from a hat. There was no discernable theme in here, and the overpowering air-conditioning, coupled with the absence of a single stick of furniture, made the club feel as cold as it looked.
It was an enormous square, like a low-ceilinged aircraft hangar. The few souls inside threaded the emptiness like they were waiting to meet a guide. If they were scouting out a place to blend in, there wasn’t one. And nobody to blend in with, except maybe the hardball security crew deployed in strategic spots around the floor.
The bar was built of concrete and corrugated steel, a forbidding hulk that hummed with an industrial wasteland vibe. Three bartenders stood behind it, doing nothing but folding their arms against the chill.
Lili keyed in on the balding one wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt that said Calabash, South Beach in tiny letters where a pocket would’ve gone. Six feet, one forty, light build. He ran his hand over his scalp, smoothing his wispy hair back-to-front.
“What can I get for you?” He rested his elbows on the bar. His skinny arms matched the rest of his body. Lili showed him her badge and asked about a tall, Cuban kid named Alex.
“Not by that name,” the bartender said. He leaned in, his head close to Lili’s, to holler over the blare. “I try not to bother too much with their names. It gets like that when you’ve been at this as long as I have.”
He straightened and blew out a sigh. Lili smelled vodka on his breath.
“What about a guy named JP Beaumond?” Lili showed the bartender his mug shots.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Him, I know. We threw him out not too long ago, caught him selling coke in the bathroom. Little piece of swamp trash about four feet tall. Extremely bad news. He’s well known to the bouncers on the Beach, I mean, enough so they’d keep him out of a joint.”
“Then how come your doorman didn’t know him?”
“Did you show him the pictures?”
Lili didn’t answer. The doorman had hinked on the name. Maybe he had something working with Beaumond.
“Because Ralston knows everybody. But if I was looking for this creep, I’d try the Switching Station. They don’t do much with models or trendies, but they draw a late-night crowd of local skanks. Might be a bit early but it’s worth a shot. And if you strike out there, go to Loby’s Ron-Da-Voo.”
The dealers who were holding scattered away from the unmarked, city-owned vehicle that was as much of an advertisement for Beach law enforcement as any patrol unit. Lean, brown-skinned teenagers, their long, slow legs took them in various directions as Martinson rolled up to the curb.
Anton Canter stood his ground. He was leaning, arms crossed, against a Dodge with missing hubcaps. Wearing tear-away sweatpants in U of M green and orange, he posed one ankle over the other, one sneaker toeing the asphalt. A gold-plated rope with a Mercedes-Benz hood ornament was fastened around his neck.
Martinson climbed out of the car. Canter stared him down until Arnie got right up next to him, eliminating his personal space. He picked up his chin and looked off to his right.
Arnie said, “Hello, Anton. How are you today?” He could feel the heat coming off the kid’s body, his temperature no doubt going up, bracing for this roust.
Canter said, “What you want?”
“I was just wondering how you were doing. Funny I’d think to find you here, all this nefarious activity going on all around you.”
“I live up the block,” Canter said, still looking away. “You know that. Where you want me to hang out?”
“Look better for you if you were hanging out at your job,” Martinson said.
“Less you count Mickey D’s for the minimum, there ain’t no jobs.”
“And why would you wanna do that, when there’s all this money to be made out here? What’s your P.O.’s name?” Martinson scanned the empty parking spaces, sighting the usual curbside flotsam, cigarette butts, broken glass, spent butane lighters, looking for Anton’s stash. “Never mind. I can look it up.”
Canter was too experienced to have the stuff on him, but Martinson knew it wasn’t far away. “Still doing your outpatient, Anton? I could check that, too, but I figured I’d save myself the time and just ask you. Give us the chance to catch up.”
Canter mumbled something into the breeze.
“I’m sorry,” Martinson said, “I didn’t hear you. You’ve got to learn to enunciate, Anton. I mean, I’m standing right here, for Christ’s sake.”
“Every Tuesday, I said.”
“Down to once a week, huh? Is that enough? Because I thought that drug program taught you something about people, places and things. Like what you’d want to avoid if you wanted to stay clean. Now look at you. Associating with a known criminal element, in a very dubious location, doing something I consider to be questionable at best. Judging from your present circumstances, I’d say you were all set to go and get yourself dirty.”
He was standing so close to Canter the upper part of his chest was touching Canter’s shoulder. Anton took a step to the right.
There was a screwed-up paper bag under the Dodge’s rear wheel on the driver’s side. Martinson picked it up and reached into the bottom of it. He pulled out a handful of crack vials.
“Ho, shit,” he said. “What’s this? You dirty little piglet.”
“That got nothin’ to do with me,” Canter said. “That mess was in the street.”
Martinson was going to stuff the vials into Canter’s pocket, but the sweatpants didn’t have any pockets. “Yeah, but what if I said I found these on you? Who they gonna believe Anton, me or you?” He put the vials back in the bag and folded it.