“You did your research. You want to know how many hours that last day?”
“You didn’t take a full sentence to the door. Who’d you rat?”
I shook my head. “Reduced. I fixed and maintained the central air handler.”
Again, into his ear and out, and the finger’s close inspection. “My numbers to call, I got more than just one.”
“I don’t hold a grudge, Task, especially since you told the court I was nonviolent and cooperative. But you slap a PV on me, you best be looking for another side.”
“If you had to sit the rest of your — what, thirty-four more — sentence plus twelve months on the violation—”
“Eighteen.”
“Still, it wouldn’t be any more than... You’d hit the door in four years. Sell all this furniture, you might cover your property taxes, still have a roof when you walk free.”
I thought about the question with no answer: Why me
My curiosity took over. I let myself look convinced of his goodwill, and my face gave me away.
“You’ve never been a stupid man,” he said.
“There’s only one thing I need to know. What ballpark we playing in?”
“We’re talking five-seventy-five.”
“Shit,” I said, “in this town? You could stash that roll under the mattress. Why stick out your neck for bird feed?”
“The people I’m working with, they don’t want to jump with both feet, you know what I mean?”
“They’re testing you.”
“That’s good logic but it ain’t the case. What we need to flip is no fat fortune, but one man’s floor is another man’s ceiling. Isn’t that how it goes?”
No, I thought. “Close enough,” I said. “Hand me your shirt and pants.”
Task froze. “I wouldn’t bring a weapon into your home, Clancy.”
“You tell that one lie, Task, I go to prison.”
He didn’t turn to check for neighborhood onlookers. Without hesitation he peeled down to a pair of boxers. Not the least bit self-conscious. That’s when I knew he’d done time. At least that part wasn’t bullshit.
“You can watch and talk,” I said. “When I’m done painting, you’re done talking.”
You learn the ropes by bouncing off. So I set myself up as the fall guy knowing he’d knock me down and curious how he’d do it. I would hear him out and keep clean; nobody ever said that being polite was a conspiracy. If his chatter gave me the heebie-jeebies, I’d boot him. Meanwhile, I showed him his choice of chairs. Task picked the one farthest from me.
“This living room,” he said, “reminds me of the house I grew up in.”
“Where was that?”
“Over the bridge in South Beach,” he said. “After the days of high deco fashion and before all this tits-and-bling showed up.”
“The in-between was a geriatric skid row,” I said.
“But growing up, you didn’t know the whole world didn’t wear purple wigs and play canasta. You got a bunch of fresh furniture in here, Clancy. Where you working, Rooms To Go Out The Door?”
Bastard had done his research.
My mother died a month before I got out. I inherited her house with the living room done up in 1975 porch furniture, so I decided to hit my problem head-on. I found a gig in a Dixie Highway furniture store owned by an old Miami family. I refurbished repos and returns and I repaired broken stuff. I explained to Task that the family loved the volume of ciggie-burned and butt-busted pieces I pushed back to the sales floor, even if a few had to go out as scratch-and-dent specials. What didn’t pass boss lady’s inspection went to trash. If I wanted to take home rejects, they were mine to carry. At first I didn’t go for it, but Mrs. Minton saw through my reluctance. She printed out a release form with blank spots for me to describe the furniture, write the date, and a place for her to sign off. That way, nobody could come back later and say I stole anything. So far I had toted home four chairs, an end table, and a fancy-ass coffee table — none of which matched — and a VHS tape rack to hold paperback books.
Inside, marking time and living without a toilet seat, you learn to stifle emotions, look oblivious while your mind strips gears and spins dirt. Task rattled off opinions: Hispanics, profitable opportunities, cops he knew who were worse than the criminals they caught. I couldn’t tell if cunning or fake enthusiasm or rookie hots were driving his pitch.
I didn’t push him to explain his money-laundering scam. I just listened and rolled paint. Home Depot’s brochure said to start with a W-shaped pattern each time you wet the roller. Then you filled in bare spots and distributed color evenly in one area before moving along the wall. It worked, but I wondered if it didn’t use up more paint than necessary. Clever, those brochures.
“Best part of living in South Beach was Biscayne Bay,” said Task.
“You had a motorboat?”
“How’d you know?”
“My cousin had a little skiff we ran out of the Grove,” I said. “Over to Cape Florida, sometimes down to Soldier’s Key. Every decent weekend for years, even during high school when we couldn’t get jobs. Some days I’d go in with my mask and snorkel, and he’d tow me for miles. My private under-water cinema.”
“My buddy and me, we did the same exact thing. We had to run under causeways to reach the bay, keep away from rich dudes’ yachts and wakes, then weave through all those exiles hooking sponges from their ten-foot boats.”
I dipped my paint roller, let the excess drip away. “They came over from Havana in those small sailboats.”
“You didn’t get tired of being towed around, watching the bay-bottom movie?”
“Oh, we grew up,” I said. “We got to crashing parties in Stiltsville. Topless college girls wouldn’t care if we stared, and the boys would sell us beer. We’d get tanked on two or three Pabst Blue Ribbons.”
“Shit,” said Task, “one time we took extra gas and went all the way to the bottom of the bay. We had to duck a squall up a tidal creek down below Turkey Point, and stupid me, during the rainstorm I stole a fifteen-horse Johnson off a piece-of-crap rowboat. I wrapped it in a foul-weather slicker and all the way back north, sunburned and stinking of raw gas, I waited for the Marine Patrol to bust us. I pictured them scouring marinas all over Dade, finding that damned motor, and hauling me off to jail. I scared myself so bad, I finally pushed it overboard by Virginia Key. That was my only crime until, you know...”
“Not even a candy bar into your shirt pocket?”
“Not even that, until the accident. I was what they called a good little boy.”
I knew where I wanted to take Task to hook up his deal. It was such a good idea, I got antsy, couldn’t even finish my first wall. I wrapped the brush in a plastic grocery bag, did the same with the roller, and capped the paint gallon.
“Your car but I’m driving,” I said.
“Now it’s time for me to pat you down.”
I tried to keep pity out of my voice. “Have at it, rookie.”
When I was playing Mister Bad Guy, a few old Miami racketeers — the retired elders of Dade action with no desire to die in prison — hung out at a low-rent country club for a while, then a hotel lounge on LeJeune. Their presence drew the wannabes, and each place gradually filled with snoopers, thug groupies, and dipsticks staging self-important sit-downs. To escape the idiots, the elders pooled loose cash and bought a two-bedroom in Kendall, decorated it with whatever anyone in the inner circle cared to donate. They called it “The Boys Club” and that’s about when I got to know them. Their days quickly fell into a sloth routine: Honduran cigars, Law & Order reruns, Kahlua in snifters, and getting tired of looking at each other. So they sold out and shifted their scene to Alabama Jack’s, a floating restaurant ten miles south of Florida City. I ran errands for them, got a few free meals, and endured their endless bullshit sessions.