This time Roger phoned a friend, Sam Washburn, an old bull who had spent most of his working life in the Detective Division of the Fort Lauderdale Police Dept. Then he had retired to spend his remaining years making birds and animals from shells his wife picked up on the beach. Sam had given Fortescue a shell owl which Estelle had promptly given to her mother who gave it to her minister who, at last report, was desperately seeking someone who would accept it.
The moment Fortescue mentioned Thomas J. Keeffringer, Washburn started laughing. 'Termite Tommy!' he said, and told the investigator about the con man's scam using bottled bugs and sawdust to convince mooches to sign on for costly termite control.
'Is he a heavy?' Roger asked.
'Nah, he's a pussycat. Likes the sauce. A dynamite salesman. I heard he's out. What's he been up to?'
'I'm not sure. Maybe counterfeiting.'
'That's a switch. Boosting mouthwash is more his style.'
So now Fortescue had two names and an address in Lakeland. He went home to pack.
'How long will you be gone?' Estelle wanted to know.
'It depends,' he said.
'Thank you very much,' she said. 'I may not be here when you get back. The bag boy at Publix has eyes for me.'
'Lots of luck,' Roger said.
He arrived at Lakeland late in the evening and checked into a motel with a neon sign that advertised tv-happy hour-pool party on sat. Fortescue's room smelled of wild cherry deodorant and had a framed lithograph of the Battle of Shiloh on the wall over the bed. He wasted a few hours watching television.
In the morning he checked in with the locals as a matter of professional courtesy. He talked to an overweight detective who was working on an anchovy pizza and drinking Jolt for breakfast.
'Yeah, we brace the Kraut every now and then,' he said, his mouth full. 'He looks to be straight. He's got this little store where he prints up letterheads, business cards, and stuff like that.'
'He wouldn't be printing the queer again, would he?'
The dick wiped his smeared lips with a paper napkin. 'That I doubt very much. First of all, the guy's an alkie. Talk to him later than four in the afternoon, he just don't make sense. Second of all, he never seems to go nowhere. So how can he be pushing?'
'No funny money showing up in town?'
'Now and then. Nothing big. And most of the queer is spent by snowbirds who don't know what they got. Some of it is miserable stuff.'
'Ever hear of Thomas J. Keeffringer, known as Termite Tommy?'
'Nope. That's a new one on me. Why all the interest in Weisrotte and this Termite Tommy?'
'Beats the hell out of me,' Fortescue said. 'They just sent me up here to see if these guys are behaving themselves.'
'They could have done that with a phone call.'
'Sure they could,' Roger agreed, rising. 'Well, I'll nose around and see if anything smells. If I find anything, you'll be the first to know.'
'Uh-huh,' the detective said, starting on his second slice of pizza. 'When pigs fly.'
Fortescue looked up the address of Weisrotte's Print Shop in the telephone directory and located it without too much trouble. He parked two blocks away and walked back. It was a dilapidated place with a dusty plate-glass window cracked across one corner. The interior was more of the same: a long, littered room crammed with cartons of stationery; presses of all sizes, some of them rusty and obviously unused; yellowed, fly specked samples of business cards, letterheads, and envelopes pinned to a corkboard above a scarred sales counter.
The only piece of equipment that looked modern and new was a big white-enameled machine on casters. It had plastic shelves protruding from both ends, and in front was a push-button control panel that looked as complex as the dash on a 747.
An old man was working a small treadle press in the rear of the shop. When he saw Fortescue standing there,
he came shuffling forward, wiping his palms on his ink-stained apron. He looked to be pushing seventy, with the suety face of a heavy drinker, bulbous nose a web of burst capillaries.
'Mr. Weisrotte?' Roger asked.
'Yah,' the printer said, peering at him through inflamed eyes.
'You print business cards?'
'Yah.'
'How much?'
'Thirty dollars a thousand.'
'Wow,' Roger said, 'that's stiff.'
'Iss quality work,' Weisrotte said. 'Any color ink. Iss thermographed. Raised printing. Six lines of type. Take it or leave it.'
'I'll ask my boss,' Roger said, and turned to leave. Then he paused and pointed at the gleaming white machine. 'What the hell is that thing?' he asked.
Weisrotte came alive. 'Iss color laser copier,' he said proudly. 'The latest. Iss beautiful, no?'
'Yeah, that's some piece of machinery. What'll they think of next.'
As he exited from the shop a bozo was climbing out of a dented pickup truck parked at the curb. He was tall, skinny, and dressed like an undertaker. He headed for Weisrotte's door.
It's not enough to be a smart cop; you also need luck. Fortescue decided to try his.
'Hey, Tommy!' he cried. 'How you doing, man?'
The guy stopped, turned slowly, stared at the agent. 'Do I know you?' he asked in a toneless voice.
'Sure you do,' Roger said cheerily. 'Leroy Washington. I just got out a couple of weeks ago.'
Keeffringer shook his head. 'I don't make you,' he said.
'I know,' Fortescue said, laughing. 'All us smokes look alike. I was in Cellblock C.'
'Yeah? Where did you work?'
'They had me all over the place, but mostly in the kitchen.'
'That was lousy food,' Tommy said, relaxing.
'I know, but we did the best we could with what they gave us. You live in Lakeland?'
'For a while.'
'Yeah,' Roger said, 'me, too. I just stopped by to visit an old girlfriend. Then I'm going down to Lauderdale. More action.'
'Lauderdale?' Termite Tommy said. 'I'm heading there later this afternoon. Need a lift?'
Fortescue jerked a thumb at the battered pickup. 'Not in that clunker,' he said, grinning. 'Thanks anyway, but the girlfriend is fattening me up so I think I'll stick around a few days. Hey, it's been good talking to you, man. Maybe I'll bump into you again on the Lauderdale Strip.'
'Maybe you will,' Tommy said. 'Nice seeing you again, Leroy.'
Fortescue ambled slowly down the street in case Keeffringer was watching. But the moment he turned the corner, he walked quickly to his parked Volvo. He reckoned this was too great to pass up; he'd probably do better with Termite Tommy in Fort Lauderdale than tailing the Kraut around Lakeland.
He packed swiftly and checked out of the motel. He drove back to Weisrotte's shop and was gratified to see the mangled pickup still in front. Fortescue found a place to park about a half-block away where he could watch the action. Keeffringer had said he was heading for Lauderdale later that afternoon, so Roger left his car and found a fast-food joint not too far away. He bought a meatball submarine, a bag of fries, and a quart container of iced Coke. He returned to his stakeout and settled down.
It was almost three o'clock before Termite Tommy came out. And in all that time, Fortescue hadn't seen a single customer enter the shop. Which probably meant the German wasn't buying his schnapps with the income from printing business cards.
He gave the pickup a head start, then took off after it. He didn't stick too close, figuring Keeffringer would probably cut over to take Highway 27 south, and even if he lost him at a light he could always pick him up later; that decrepit truck would be breathing hard to do fifty mph.
