“Mr. Mendez?”
Mendez stops in mid-leg-lift and opens his eyes just enough to see we're cops. He doesn't care.
“Yo. Wazzup?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. We need to ask a few questions.”
“Now? Damn, son-I'm in the middle of my moves. Tryin’ to start the day right, you know what I'm sayin’?”
“Yes, sir. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience. If this is a bad time….”
“What if I said it was?”
“We could arrange to meet at a more convenient hour.”
“Nah-uh, nah-uh. What you need to know?”
“We'd like to talk to you about Mr. Reginald Hart.”
“Now deceased?”
“That's correct. Have you ever done business with Mr. Hart?”
“Shit, son. You got that ass-backwards, you know what I'm sayin’? Mr. Hart? He do business with me. See what I'm sayin’?”
“Yes. Thank you for the clarification. You're an independent contractor?”
“That's right.”
Ceepak rubs his eraser around in his notebook, like he's correcting some faulty information someone gave him.
“What type of business activities did Mr. Hart hire you to perform?”
“He, you know, he hired my firm to perform what you might call real-estate consultation-type activities.”
“Your firm?”
“That's what I said, isn't it?”
“Very well,” Ceepak says. “So … your firm? What sort of real-estate services do you provide?”
“You know-little this, little that.”
“Groundskeeping? Sprinkler maintenance?”
Mendez looks hurt.
“Nah-uh, man. Tenant relations.”
“I see. In his new buildings?”
Mendez smiles, and I can see the glint of bling-bling: he has a small gold cross implanted in his upper left incisor. This guy is seriously Catholic.
“Nah-uh-we worked mainly in the old buildings. The ones Hart was fixing up but, you know, he couldn't get started without a little spring cleaning. That was back in the day. Now we be, you know, branching out.”
“Diversifying?”
“Yeah. Diversifying. I'll show you something you might be interested in….”
He goes to a pile of clothes in front of one of the vinyl chairs and pulls a slick brochure out his jeans.
“Project we be working on.”
He hands Ceepak the brochure.
“The Sea Palace?”
“Yeah. Old hotel up on the North Shore we be renovating. Gonna turn the rooms into condos, vacation-type time-share units and all.”
Ceepak flips the brochure over and studies its back.
“Awesome location. Nice beach.”
“Yeah, yeah. Check it out.”
I can't believe this guy. He's talking about a disaster zone. There's nothing up at the north end of the island except an abandoned lighthouse and a rundown resort hotel no one (except rodents and sea gulls) has stayed in for sixty years.
Now, once upon a time, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and railroads hauled bathing beauties in wool swim trunks over from the mainland, The Palace was a hot spot because the North Shore was where the train tracks terminated. The Palace was one of those huge hotels built around 1912, when people spent a month or two at the shore because the cities were sweltering and air conditioning hadn't been invented. William Howard Taft was president. I only remember this stuff because Taft was the fattest president ever elected, weighing in at 350 pounds, and he stayed at The Palace when it first opened. In fact, you can still buy black-and-white post cards of Taft squeezed into his bathing suit, one of those numbers with a top and a bottom and lots of horizontal stripes. The guy might've been president, but he sure looked like a fully inflated beach ball.
There's nothing left of The Palace Hotel now but three hundred ratty rooms nobody's known what to do with since 1942. The last I heard….
“Hart bought The Palace.”
“Come again?” Ceepak says.
“It was in
Ceepak casually flips the brochure over and studies a small logo near the bottom of the back panel.
“Hart Enterprises….”
“Yo-them's the
“All that's what Hart was going to do,” I say.
Mendez glowers at me.
Ceepak tucks the brochure into his back pocket.
“You know,” he says, “I once toured a time-share unit in North Carolina.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Your project intrigues me.”
“Smart man.”
“So when will your condos be offered for sale?”
“We be working out the final details and all right now. Soon.”
“Good. Ms. Stone certainly knows her way around a real estate deal.”
“Yeah. She's worth the big bucks I'm paying her.”
Ceepak is good. He just linked Mendez to Ms. Stone in two seconds flat.
“Well, we don't mean to delay you any further, but”-Ceepak unfolds his sketch of Squeegee-“can I ask you one more question?” Mendez waits.
“We're asking all the leading businessmen in town the same thing….”
“Yeah,” Mendez nods, happy to be included.
“Do you recognize this man?”
“Nah-uh.”
“You’re certain?”
“Don't know him.”
“Perhaps he's applied for a position with your firm?”
“Nah-uh.”
“Maybe he's done some day labor for you or your associates?”
“Nah-uh.”
“Have you ever seen him around town?” This could take hours.
“Car wash.”
“The car wash?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one?”
“Off Ocean Avenue there. Cap'n Crunch's?”
“Cap'n Scrubby's?” I say.
“Yeah.”
