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.
“That’s entrapment,” Canter howled. “That shit’s against the law.”
“Against the law?” Martinson laughed. “Take a look around, Anton. The only two out here is me and you.”
He unsnapped the strap on his holster. Anton Canter was all done posturing. Martinson had his undivided attention.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He smacked his open palm into Canter’s chest, knocking him off balance. “You understand me?”
This felt good.
“You remember Josephine Simmons, don’t you? The old lady you beat half to death?”
Canter said, “I didn’t do it.”
“She died.”
“I didn’t do it and you know I didn’t do it.”
“I know you got an alibi,” Martinson said, “and I know it checked out. The first time. That’s all I know. But the State of Florida takes murder very seriously. So there’s going to be a whole new investigation now because it’s a whole new crime. Isn’t the criminal justice system wonderful?”
“I swear to God,” Canter said, “I never laid a finger on that woman.”
“Then you better start thinking about somebody who might have, you little cocksucker, and the next time I talk to you, which is gonna be real fucking soon, you better think about giving me that name.”
Martinson tugged on the gold rope with the Mercedes logo, and Canter’s head came forward. He pulled it again, harder, but it stayed around his neck. Tightening the slack, the third time he used both hands, and snapping the clasp, he pitched the necklace into the gutter.
The Switching Station was an overgrown dive with delusions of glamour, and though it might’ve been plush once, that was a long time ago. Track lights illuminated the dregs of a shag carpet, and three high-backed booths lined one wall. A hanging lamp threw a dim puddle of light on a pool table. Somebody had taped an OUT OF ORDER sign on an unplugged pinball machine.
The bartender at the Calabash was right. The Switching Station had the dead-eyed makings of a tough, freaky crowd. Walking in, Lili counted six patrons and that number was instantly thinned by two. A pair of rugged Cubanos slipped out the second they made her for a cop.
Somebody’s grandmother was bitching about her landlord in a drunken, foul-mouthed Spanish, but Lili didn’t recognize the accent as Cuban. Salvadoran, Costa Rican. Something. A sideburned Romeo listened to her woes, nodding compulsively.
The bartender was dressed as a woman, but it wouldn’t be right to say he was in drag. He was making no effort to fool anybody. He had beefed-up arms, broad shoulders, and a thick, muscular neck. Sporting a pigtailed wig, he also had a dense mustache in addition to a solid five day-growth of beard. He was shirtless under a gingham jumper, a tragic Dorothy taken a twisted trail west of the Yellow Brick Road.
Lili badged him and showed him JP Beaumond’s mug shots.
“Yeah, I know him. Pulled a knife in here once.” He had a rumbling voice, not a queenie lilt. Lili had never seen it done quite like this before. The wig, the clothes, the beard. The guy must’ve been on the cutting edge of some new gay style.
“Is he a regular here?”
“He’s been in a few times. I wouldn’t say regular. What’d he do now?”
A pockmarked poppo called him away. There was one other customer at the bar, a white male, maybe twenty-five. He was wearing a Ricardo Montalban suit, and had his heels hooked over the rung of his bar stool. He tapped his feet in the air, eyes darting, waiting for the action to start.
When the bartender came back, Lili said, “Actually, I’m looking for his buddy. Young kid, tall, probably Cuban. You ever see him come in here with anybody matching that description?”
“You gotta mean Alex. This other guy, the short one, he’s fairly new to the scene. Alex’s been around for years.”
“So you know him?”
“Like I said, he’s been around for years. Miami native, if I’m not mistaken. Last name Hernandez, Fernandez,
