Free Miami Blues by Charles Willeford Page B

government sets quotas, you see, and I figured if the fish houses had computers they could always prove exactly how much fish they caught and all that. Plus they'd know when they was falling behind, and so on. Then last year, when the lake went down to nine feet, the government stopped commercial fishing almost altogether. No nets allowed, you see, so all the fish houses're just about out of business now. Besides, nobody's buying computers up there because there ain't no programs written up for lake fishing anyway."
    "So you're just about out of business, right?"
    "Oh, no-I'm doing all right. But I borrowed money to expand, and the interest is hurting me. My movie rental club alone pays my rent each month, but I'm in pretty heavy to the bank, you see. But I ain't here to talk business. What I was telling Sergeant Henderson here is that I suspect foul play."
    "What kind of foul play?"
    "That was no accident that killed Martin. That was murder."
    "If so, it's the first of a kind."
    "Let him finish," Henderson said. "There's more."
    "That's the best kind," Mr. Waggoner continued, "the kind that looks like an accident but really ain't. I've seen it on 'The Rockford Files' more 'n once, and if it wasn't for Jim Rockford, a lot of people'd get away with it, too."
    "What makes you think your son's death wasn't an accident?"
    "I'd really rather not talk about it because it's so painful to me, as a father, you see. But I'm also a good citizen, and justice, no matter how harsh, must be done. Even to kith and kin. . ." He started to cry again, softer this time, and reached for his handkerchief.
    Hoke took the plastic lid off his coffee and sipped it. It was cold. "When did you get this coffee?"
    "I got in a little early today," Henderson said. "But I didn't know you'd be a half-hour late."
    Hoke replaced the plastic lid and dropped the cup of coffee into the wastebasket. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and butted the cigarette in the ashtray as he allowed the smoke to trickle out through his nose.
    "So you think, Mr. Waggoner," Hoke said, "that this unidentified assailant who broke your son's middle finger killed him on purpose? Is that right?"
    "That's about the size of it." Mr. Waggoner blew his nose, examined his handkerchief, and then put it back into his pocket. "I think the man, whosoever he was, was hired to do it. That's what I think."
    "The chances of killing a man that way are pretty remote, Mr. Waggoner. I doubt if more than one man in a thousand-- I don't know the actual statistics--would die from a trauma to his finger. It would be pretty stupid to hire someone to kill anybody in that manner."
    "You might be right about that. But if a man was hired to injure somebody on purpose, and then that person died because of the injury, wouldn't that be a murder for hire?"
    "A case could be made for that, I suppose. Except for a thousand unidentified passengers a day who don't like Hare Krishnas, who hated your son enough to hire someone to break his middle finger?"
    "That's what's so painful to me." Mr. Waggoner sighed. "I think my daughter hired him."
    Hoke took the morgue identification form out of his notebook, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk. "Susan, the daughter who identified the body? Or do you have another daughter in mind?"
    "No. Susan's the only daughter I got. And Martin was my only son. None of us got along too good, I'll admit that, and I sent her packing when she got pregnant. But Martin, even though he's the one that done it to her, was my only son, and she shouldn't've had him killed. Susan's just like her mother, who was no good either, so I know she talked Martin into doing it to her in the first place." Mr. Waggoner lowered his voice and his head. "Men are weak. I know that because I'm weak when it comes to women myself. We all are, even you two gentlemen, if you don't mind my saying so. A woman can make you do anything she wants you to do with that there little hair-pie they've got between their legs.