Dead Street

ransacked. He was injured, but he’s alive. His name was Ray Burnwald.”

“Mr. Burnwald!” she blurted out, almost painfully. The skin of her face paled.

“Did you know him?”

“I... I... don’t remember. It seems like....”

“What?”

“The name... I’ve heard it before.” She looked at me, not seeing me, but as if she were.

“Would it bother you if I gave you some more information?” I asked her gently.

“No, please.”

I said, “You worked on computers at Credentials. Your job was data management.”

Bettie seemed to mouth the words, a small frown tensing her lips. “Data management,” she repeated quietly. “Mr. Burnwald was... nice.”

And that was all I got.

But it was a start.

Again, that look. She was seeing me without seeing me. Her pupils were locked directly on mine and there was a vague expression in them. It lasted for about five seconds, then went back to non-recognition again.

That was a start, too.

Her mood seemed to impart itself to the greyhound. He paused in the middle of a big yawn that showed a mouthful of huge teeth, and his head moved a few inches to scan the both of us, wondering what made this visit so intense.

I reached over, squeezed her arm and said, “How about us three taking a drive? It’s a beautiful day and...”

“But I can’t see it, Jack.”

“So I’ll describe it to you and you can smell the flowers. Tacos can bark at passing cars.”

“Tacos doesn’t do that,” she said.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

The greyhound hopped into the back seat, happy to have the space all to himself, with the window cracked down so he could smell the flowers too. We drove through the center of the village and friends of Bettie called out to her and waved. Two of my old buddies made some odd grimaces when they saw me out with my blind, but very striking, lady friend.

Two blocks up the musical bells of an ice cream truck rolled out its national theme song. I asked Bettie if she wanted a cone and she shook her head. “Those boys on those trucks are too fresh.”

“What did they do?”

“I was walking the dog and they whistled and made pretty rude remarks.”

“What were you wearing?”

“Halter top and shorts. It’s what all the girls wear.”

“Bettie,” I said, “you are not built like all the other girls. With your shape in shorts, kid, you’re a stone killer.”

“Stone killer?”

“Absolutely. You can be a danger to the younger population.”

Directly ahead was the entrance to Garrison Properties and this time there was a uniformed guard at the small building. He came out with a clipboard, took down my New York license plate numbers and asked if he could help me.

“Just want to look at some properties,” I told him.

“The Garrison office is right at the center of the village. You can’t miss it.”

I told him thanks and drove up the road.

I could see what Darris Kinder meant when he said what the Garrison group was up to, with their estates across the way and allying themselves geographically to Sunset Lodge to entice future buyers. Stakes marked out generous areas for ownership and as I drove closer to the buildings of the village, the houses went from typical Florida-style residential homes with two- or three-bedroom capacities to enormous and expensive multi-story buildings with expensive foreign and domestic vehicles parked in tree-shaded driveways.

Bettie broke the long silent moment with, “What are you looking at, Jack?”

“Big money,” I told her. “This bunch in Garrison is loaded with the green.”

“It’s so quiet.”

“Money buys that, too,” I reminded her.

“Sunset Lodge isn’t like that at all.”

“You ever know any rich cops or firemen?”

She shook her head and laughed. “But I don’t know anybody, anymore. Do you know any rich ones?”

“Only if they went into the movies or hit a national jackpot,” I said, not mentioning the handful of bent ones I’d come across. Then I added, “Well there aren’t any cops or firemen out this way. Right from here I can see three mansions that must’ve cost in the two-million dollar range to build. Off to the right there’s one hell of a golf course with one hell of a clubhouse on it.”

“Who’s playing on it?”

“Nobody,” I informed her. “It’s probably too hot for the big shot tourists.”

There was a crossroad just ahead of me with a stop sign facing us and I slowed down to let two ice cream trucks go by. There were no jingling bells ringing out on this hallowed ground. They were following the road that led to the boat basin to peddle the ice cream to the fishermen. When I told that to Bettie she let out a soft laugh and said, “Good luck to them, then. The fishermen at Sunset all drink beer.”

She was right. Sunset Lodge was where the great masses went.

So why would anybody want to edge in on Sunset’s popularity? You would think the mob element Garrison catered to would want to be anywhere but next door to a bunch of retired law enforcement. Or were they just thumbing their nose?

“What’re you thinking?” Bettie asked.

“Old-time cop thoughts,” I answered.

“You people are weird,” she giggled.

Before she could close her mouth I leaned over and kissed her. Her hand lay beside my leg and she gave my knee a gentle squeeze. She used to do that back in the days long ago. It was her way of saying thanks. Something in her mind hadn’t been destroyed after all. Those involuntary reflexes seemed to work on their own. But squeezing my leg wasn’t a true involuntary reflex. Her head suddenly turned and she was looking straight at the side of my face and I knew she was smiling. Then she leaned over and lightly brushed her mouth across my cheek.

So I squeezed her leg. Soft and easy. I could say thanks too.

There were commercial buildings waiting for occupancy and several stores at full development, but not teeming with shoppers. Nor were there many people on the sidewalks. A car lot one block off the main road held about thirty high-priced vehicles and only two men were looking at the mechanical marvels.

This town wasn’t dying, it just hadn’t come alive yet. Everything was here, waiting for its birth, but the critical time hadn’t arrived yet. It was coming, but it had a way to go.

“You want to stop for anything?” I asked Bettie.

“Can I let Tacos out?”

“Sure. There’s a big empty lot up ahead.”

I parked while she let the dog walk and when he finished his business, she started back to the car then tripped over something. The dog picked it up and carried it between his teeth.

I said, “I think Tacos made a find....”

Bettie said, “Now what’s he got?”

“Not a bone.”

I held out my hand and the dog dropped a well-used little gadget in my hand. I didn’t tell his mistress it was an expensive hand-carved miniature ivory pipe, the sort rich little slobs liked to tote around to puff on weed or hash. This one was a slinky little off-white dame designed to have a glowing red head. At night these dark, empty fields made great playgrounds. And there should be plenty of young rich slobs around to have some crazy games.

I said, “A kid’s toy.”