Free Bone Island Mambo by Tom Corcoran Page B

bicycle.
    Duffy Lee lived in the 1400 block of Olivia. His wife had kept the beautiful two-story house after her first marriage ended in the eighties. A large house on a deep lot Old trees and foliage, dark green Adirondack chairs on the front-and-side veranda. Plenty of room in a spare back bedroom to build a light-tight enclosure. I rode up from White past fences full of purple and red bougainvillea, a purple passion-flower vine, bright yellow palm fronds. Four or five precious parking spaces were occupied by boats on trailers. Something new in the 1300 block: an old bike wedged in a tree, a prosthetic leg affixed to its left pedal. Found-object art or a political statement?
    Hall met me at the front door. He offered a full mug. “Black?”
    “I always praised your genius,” I said.
    “Just a mind reader.”
    “You’d best stay out of there. You dig into my mind today, you’ll muck your brain for weeks.” I gulped the coffee. It hit my system on the fly.
    “I assume this is one of the homicides in the
Citizen.”
    “You’re in there. At your own risk.”
    “Both homicides?”
    “The one on Stock Island. Don’t inspect the prints too closely.”
    “You said noon. I’ll bet you want it earlier.”
    “You’re in there again.”
    Hall looked at me quizzically. He sensed my stress. “You want me to top off that coffee, Alex? You’re welcome to the porch. Listen to the neighbor’s parrots. Chill before you face the world.”
    I shrugged. I had time to kill. I could use some time to think.
    “Betsy’s at work. I’ve got yours and three other jobs to process. You’ve got the place to yourself. Zone out, watch the grass grow.”
    I accepted, for the Cuban coffee and solitude. I followed Duffy Lee into the kitchen. He disappeared into his darkroom. Outside, I chose a slat chair facing the street.
    The lush, shaded yard offered a pure dose of the tropics. Duffy Lee was right The neighbors’ birds gave it an exotic touch. The first Conch Train of the day rambled past, its driver explaining that the sapodilla tree, like the one in Hall’s yard, was the source of chicle used to make chewing gum. He drove on, ignoring the rare bottle-gourd tree, the calabash across the street.
    I’d never thought that Olivia Street would host rush hour. Its nearness to Garrison Bight dictated the traffic character: charter captains in panel trucks with boat logos painted on their sides, or on mopeds or bicycles; in khaki pants and shirts, long-billed caps, wraparound shades. A funky old sedan passed, its trunk lid removed, the trunk and backseat fashioned into a pickup-truck bed. Then a small refrigerated truck delivering bait A big hotel van with five or six of what Sam Wheeler called the “natty anglers.” More bikes, with high handlebars, ridden by marina laborers in cut-off Levi’s and work boots, red sweat-soaker bandannas around their foreheads. A couple of taxis with whining transmissions. The parade lasted ten minutes. I’d lucked into peak viewing time. Then Olivia Street returned to a cool breeze, buzzing air units, birdsongs, muffled noise from neighboring streets.
    I couldn’t find mental calm. I started to add up facts. The caustic Heidi Norquist encounter. The three-on-one street attack. The construction-site murder, with Dexter Hayes, Jr., giving me the bum’s rush. A headless corpse in a surreal setting.
    What did it all amount to?
    The friction with Dexter Hayes had only confirmed myfears of the past four months—that my gig with the city had dried up. Okay, things change. The Dunwoody family strife was not my problem. Best to stay out of range wars. I could offer Marnie only sympathy. The body at Butler Dunwoody’s construction site was unusual. And the murdered man on Stock Island was standard for the territory—as much as any murder could be “standard.”
    But there was no linking the separate events. All of it added to zilch.
    For two-thirds of my life I’ve made a point of dodging conflict,