'A guy who guts animals probably has a pretty good idea about anatomy.'
'I know the intestines from the liver, if that's what you mean.'
'Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk.'
'Huh?'
His face was blank, showing neither malice nor curiosity.
'Tom, would you agree that 'woman is the lesser man'?'
'The fuck you talking…?'
'Never mind,' I said.
He brought the blade of the knife across a rock, harder this time, and the metallic grating sent a shiver up my spine. 'Flint and steel,' he said. 'All you need for a fire. Bring me some dried leaves, little twigs for tinder.'
I unwound my stiff legs and, like a good scout, gathered a pile of forest flotsam, which I dropped at his feet. He didn't look up. 'We get all types up here,' he said. 'Doctors, company presidents, retired folks. Even had a couple fairies from Lauderdale a few weeks back.'
'Imagine that.'
'Not too many lawyers.'
'Be thankful for small blessings.'
Little sparks shot from the blade into the kindling. He leaned close to the ground and gently blew into the pile. I could see his face, half-shadowed, half-lighted in the orange glow of the small fire.
'Most guys,' he said, 'when they come up here, they want to know about the trees and the animals and the dewpoint. You want to talk about women in Miami.'
'Just a red-blooded all-American guy, what can I tell you?'
'There was somebody up here a few days ago, a Miami cop. I told him to fuck off.'
'Well put.'
'I hate cops.'
'And lawyers,' I agreed.
'Cop wanted to know the last time I was in Miami. And if I saw women down there. Then a guy in shiny shoes drives two hundred fifty miles to take a walk in the woods, asks the same questions. What would you think?'
'Life is full of coincidences. Sixty-five million years ago, when the dinosaurs bought the farm, all the plankton in the ocean died, too. What do you think of that?'
He stood up without using his hands or breaking a twig. 'I think you're a cop-lawyer or a lawyer-cop, and I think you'd better find your way home by yourself, mate.'
In his silent half crouch, it took only a few seconds for Tom Cat to creep into the darkness of the forest.
Then it hit me. Mate. Crocodile Dundee, but without the charm.
CHAPTER 16
The Prosecutors. Earnest young men and women clip-clopping along the corridors of the Justice Building, barging from courtroom to courtroom, slinging a cargo of files. Always hustling. Always grim. An atmosphere of perpetual motion, of jobs undone, of calendars clogged. Nolle prosequi, refile, plead 'em out, nolo contendere. Bring in new batch. Waive the jury, face the judge, try 'em, minimum mandatory. Carrying concealed firearm, probation violation, back again sucker, revoke probation, bus 'em to Raiford. Jury trial, six honest baffled souls, reasonable doubt, let 'em go, catch you later. Stack 'em up and move 'em through.
The Accused. In the corridors, accompanied by uniformed county-jail guards, filing in from the holding cells. The funnel of law enforcement pours out its refuse here. Some bewildered first-timers, shackled at the feet, shuffling into court, eyes darting toward the gallery for a friendly face. Then the hard guys, still swaggering despite the chains, putting on that street-wise cool as a shell against the world.
The Civil Servants. Drab halls jammed with the faceless players in the game of crime and punishment. An army of workers from a dozen state agencies scooting through the building, feeding the monster. Social workers, probation officers, drug counselors, victim advocates, all committed to the impossible task of imposing order on the bedlam of the American city. In cramped offices overhead, an invisible legion of administrators, secretaries, and file clerks push the paper, stuff the files, and record every twist and turn of the swirling universe called the criminal justice system. Your Tax Dollars at Work.
I squished along the corridor, my wet high-tops leaving a perfect trail of tread on tile. Nick Fox's receptionist gave me a look reserved for unshaven men in soggy clothes who interrupt the boss's breakfast before the nine a.m. staff meeting. I didn't wait for an invitation to join the great man in his inner office.
He had company.
'You know Commissioner Caycedo's new Lincoln?' Fox asked. He sat at his desk, a linen napkin jammed into his already tight collar, protecting his white-on-white shirt and burgundy power tie. In front of him was a serving tray with a plate of eggs Benedict, a glass of orange juice, and a pitcher of steaming coffee.
Alex Rodriguez sprawled in an upholstered client's chair, reading the sports section of the Journal. 'Yeah. That blue-black number about a block long with tinted windows like he's el presi-dente. '
Fox poured coffee for himself and did his best to ignore me. He was good at it. 'See, he's got the car, maybe two weeks, doesn't even have pecker tracks on the velour. Every antitheft device known to Detroit, the kill switch, the remote alarm, the fuel-line switch, the cane hook, the portable motion sensor, the telephone-activated alarm, the window beeper.'
'I think I see this coming,' Rodriguez said, still reading the box scores.
Fox sliced into a poached egg and a dollop of yolk squirted out.
'But all that electronic shit doesn't do any good if you just double-park in front of Manny Diaz's restaurant-'
'El Pollo Loco.'
'— and leave the car running, door open.'
'Uh-oh. I picture it now,' Rodriguez said, cracking a grin.
'So the commissioner waddles into the kitchen to collect the week's bolita receipts. He still would have been okay, but then he stops for a media noche on the way out with a side of frijoles negros and a little flan for dessert.'
'Bad for his heart, if he had any.'
'So he's wiping the grease off his chin just in time to see some jackrabbit hop into the Lincoln and tear down Calle Ocho.' Fox paused, sipped the coffee, and continued, 'Now the fat fuck's busting my chops.'
Rodriguez nodded solicitously. 'What's he expect you to do, call out the National Guard?'
'A major crusade against grand theft auto. It'll be his theme for the next election. He's got the figures. Thirty-six thousand stolen cars a year in Dade alone, a hundred a day. In the course of a year, one out of every fifty cars in the county is snatched. He figures every voter either is a victim or knows someone who is.'
Rodriguez smiled with appreciation. 'Caycedo might be fat, ugly, and crooked, pero el no es estupido.'
'Plus he wants his car back.'
'Lots of luck.' Rodriguez laughed. 'It's probably on a boat to the Dominican Republic.'
Fox took a swallow of his orange juice. 'Nah, we found it last night. Fished a local doper out of a canal and the divers came across the Lincoln by accident. Radio and tape player ripped off, nothing else missing, car in twelve feet of muck.'
Rodriguez shook his head. 'Your crack addicts got no respect for value.'
Fox looked up, well fed and delighted with himself. 'Yo, Jakie. You look like shit. What's that, mistletoe in your hair?'
Rodriguez put down the newspaper and laughed. 'Jake's a happy camper, aincha, Jake? Been earning his merit badge from some a-hole in the woods. I'll bet Jake spent the night with him. Separate sleeping bags, I hope.'
