What you do is find a big old wood house, with two foot of crawling space underneath, and cut a hole in the floor under the bed. Easy, if you can look in and measure. Beds are never moved. Weasel burgled his way around the islands, so by the time each hole got discovered, he was long gone. With my carpenter experience, and considering I needed a home more than anything, I went him one better by saving the piece of floor, so I could latch it back in place underneath. Not many nice wood houses left in Miami, but one should’ve been enough. No mortgage, no taxes, and free food as long as you’re not greedy. Nobody would notice, even if they ran a dust mop over the hardwood, a thing that — I’m telling you — most people never do.
My home with the Lamberts, Bob and Melodie, was walking-distance from the beach, came with Sports Illustrated and Gourmet subscriptions, cable, big-screen TV, and a cat. It had those wood Bahama shutters that hang down and cover the windows, so nobody passing by could see in. A carport instead of a garage was good for knowing if either car was home, and thick foliage around the perimeter made it easy to sneak to the back and go under, though I did most of my crawling in and out in the dark. I had plastic sheeting and a rug remnant from Goodwill under there, my clothes sealed up in black garbage bags to keep out the bugs, a flashlight, toss pillow, and a Playboy to pass the waiting time. I never needed toiletries like toothpaste, shampoo, or deodorant, cause the Lamberts were well supplied. Didn’t shave, or I would’ve got my own razor. It was like living in a full-service motel, except I had to clean up after myself. I was set — till fuckin’ Boozanne.
Bob and Melodie got home each night at 7 or later — depending if they ate out — so I’d drop down the hole around 6:30, crawl out at dark, and head to a cheap local bar, or out on a scrounge, then later to my chair on the beach to doze until it was getting toward dawn, time to head home. I’d picked ’em good — upper-middle-class workaholics, too distracted about their jobs to notice the house much, lotsa loose change and doggie-bag leftovers that they usually tossed into the bin within two days. Somebody might as well enjoy it all. Once in a while, I stuck a pepperoni down my pants at the grocery for extra meat. I didn’t take big chances, didn’t need much. Any violation would send me back to a cell.
I didn’t have to be too careful at home, as long as I remembered to pick my long black hairs off the pillowcase, go easy on the tidbits and liquor, and wash my lunch dishes. Sometimes I got sick of looking at Bob’s coffee cup that he’d leave on the bathroom sink, and I’d wash that too. I was kind of a dark male Goldilocks, only nicer. I grew attached to the Lamberts, seeing that I knew so much about their food tastes, possessions, and living habits. Melodie was like the sister I never had, little and dark-haired, big-eyed and innocent in her pictures. I felt protective toward her. Bob was like an older brother I could live without.
One day, Melodie came home early — I was lucky the lunch dishes were done — and I was in the living room to see the car pull in. I barely made it out the hole. She ran in and tossed herself on the bed and wailed. Her sobs broke my heart while I laid under there listening. I stuffed my face into my pillow not to make a whimper. I thought maybe her ma had died. After that, all signs of Melly disappeared for most of a week. Her black dresses were gone, and there were tons of used Kleenex left in the wastebasket in her bathroom. She must’ve had her monthly on top of it all, so I hoped no cramps. Eventually, from the sympathy cards, I figured out it was her pop that died.
Trying to be of help, I dusted, wiped out the refrigerator, vacuumed, and cleaned the toilets for her while she was gone. Bob didn’t go to the funeral, and I knew he wouldn’t take over the cleaning neither. I couldn’t do anything obvious, but I just thought she’d feel better if the place somehow didn’t seem to get dirty — and the refrigerator needed cleaning bad. Bob was your regular slob and never noticed nothin’.
Melly brought home some mementos from her father, his fishing license and a pin from the Marines, so I knew they were close. I admired the old fella, seeing he probably enjoyed life and had guts. I found some heavy dark-blue folders too, sitting in plain view on the desk. I thought they were books at first, but when I opened ’em up, they smelled musty and were filled with U.S. silver dollars in little slots marked with the years, the real silver dollars that this country don’t make no more. I could tell by the edges. I didn’t know what they were worth, but there were close to four hundred of ’em, from the 1880s to the 1960s. I wondered if Melodie knew the value. I wished I could warn her to put ’em in a safety deposit box, in case of burglars, like Weasel.
I buddied up with their cat. He liked his water freshened a couple times a day, and he would have starved while Melodie was gone if I didn’t refill his dry food. I really performed a service. He was smart, and I taught him to give paw and roll over for Whisker Lickin’s tuna-flavored treats. I hid the packet in the empty cabinet above the refrigerator, and I had to laugh every time I pictured the Lamberts finding it and being downright stumped. I expect Bones thought I was his owner, considering all the quality time we spent together. I wished I knew his real name. I listened sometimes, waiting under the house, but the words were usually too muffled to make out anything, unless Bob and Melodie were having a fight. Bob could get pretty loud. I went through their address book, hoping for something like Tiger’s vet, but no clues. He answered to Lazybones — or Bones — as much as any cat answers.
I generally took a long nap each day with Bones on my chest. It was like working the night shift, except no work! I sold off a lawn mower and weed eater — garage items from down the block — and got myself a gym membership so I could shower, swim, hot tub, and work out with the hardcore sissy fellas every evening if I wanted, and especially on weekends when I was stuck outside all day.
Things were going good. One night when I was still holding some cash, I thought I’d slug down a few shots at one of them outdoor South Beach bars, take in the fancy scenery, meaning women. It was just then, when I’d got my life all in order, I run into Boozanne. I come up to the bar and there she was, her back to me, lapping a little over the stool in the thigh area, a big girl with lots of curly orange hair and freckled white skin on her upper arms. She had on a thin nylon shirt that clung to every ripple of her — the handles of love and the lush flesh above the back of her brassiere. When she turned my way, there were those double-Ds staring at me, talcum still dry between ’em, and the smell of a baby wafting off her, even in eighty-five degrees and heavy humidity. Stars were winking in the black sky over her head, so I shoulda known the joke was on me.
A flamenco guitar strummed away in my left ear, traffic and ocean crashed together in the right. “Hi there!” I yelled. I pointed at the only empty seat, the one next to her, where she had parked her pocketbook.
“I’m Junior,” I said. I was more often called Mouse, but I didn’t like it.
“Name’s Susanne,” I thought she said.
I nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Susanne.”
She scrunched up her little pig nose with the freckles on it, but I didn’t know what the problem was. She had a puckered set of red lips to go with that nose. “Boooz-anne,” she drawled.
That there was the killer. Her voice flowed out like syrup and I damn near choked. I wondered if she could be a Kentucky girl, hot and smooth as the bourbon I’d left behind those two years ago. I musta stared at her — I wasn’t sure what was polite to say.
She picked up her beer can. “Booooz-anne!” she hollered. “Buy me one.”
The bartender looked at me, and I put up two fingers.