Eddie parked Jack’s car outside 434 Collins Avenue. He remembered the address, remembered word for word the letter that had lain in his locker for almost fifteen years. One third of his accumulated correspondence: not hard to remember.
Wm. P. Brice
Investigation and Security
434 Collins Ave., Miami
Dear Mr. Ed Nye:
As I informed your brother, all our best efforts to locate the individual known as JFK have to this point in time been unsuccessful. Lacking further funds to continue, we are obliged to terminate the investigation.
Sincerely,
Bill Brice
Four-thirty-four Collins Avenue was a faded-pink office building with a Space Available sign on the roof. Eddie got out of the car, taking the backpack with him. The sky was blue, the sun gold, the air hot. Hot to Eddie, at least, still wearing Jack’s wintertime clothing. He went inside.
The lobby was small and dark. There was a single elevator with graffiti scratched on its steel door, and a black office-directory board with white rubberized letters and numbers, some missing.
Brice and Colon Security, he read, number 417. Eddie took the elevator to the top floor.
“Ring and Enter, Pujar y Entrar,” was written on a plastic strip taped to the door of 417. Eddie rang and entered.
A brassy-haired receptionist looked up from her magazine. She raised what was left of her eyebrows.
“I’d like to see Mr. Brice,” Eddie said.
“Name?”
“Ed Nye.”
The receptionist picked up her phone. “A Mr. Ed Nye to see you.” Eddie heard a voice on the other end: harsh, loud, metallic. The receptionist hung up and said: “Very last door on your right.”
Eddie went past her, into a short corridor. There were only two doors to choose from; perhaps the receptionist fantasized herself part of a big operation. The first was closed and had “Senor Colon” on the front. The second was open. Eddie walked in.
An old man was sitting with his feet up on his desk. The soles of his shoes were worn; so were the carpet, the desk, his face, his eyes. A white-mesh screen covered his throat.
“Mr. Brice?”
The old man took his feet off the desk, tugged at the mesh screen, and replied. At least, his lips moved and sound came from him, harsh, loud, metallic. Eddie understood none of it.
The old man pointed to the white mesh and spoke again. His mouth, lips, tongue, all moved to shape words, but the sound came from whatever was under the mesh screen. This time Eddie caught most of it. “Sawbones took my larynx, Mr. Nye. Got to listen close.”
Eddie nodded.
“Siddown.”
Eddie sat, laying the backpack on the floor.
“What can I do for you?” the old man said. The voice was amplified, mechanical, like a robot’s; at the same time, there was something disembodied about it, which made Eddie think of the oracle in a book of Greek legends he’d read.
“You’re William Brice?”
“I am.”
“My name’s Ed Nye.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“Maybe not,” Eddie said. “It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen years. My brother hired you to find someone.”
Brice wore thick glasses. Behind them were little brown eyes that watched Eddie’s face. He inhaled sharply, like a singer getting ready for a hard note. “And did I?” he said.
“No. But I’d like to know how far you got.”
“Why?”
“I’m still looking for him.”
“Your brother should have anything like that. I always send a case summary, win or lose.” Brice took a raspy gulp of air, short of breath, as though the machine in his throat was exhausting his supply.
“I’d like a copy of it,” Eddie said, “if your records go back that far.”
“I got records of every case. Thirty-six years.” Brice sucked in another deep breath. “But I don’t give them away.”
“How much?”
The little brown eyes looked Eddie up and down, as though assessing his net worth. Eddie’s net worth was right there on the floor of Brice’s office: $488,220.
“Fifty bucks,” Brice said.
“Okay.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“J. M. Nye. Jack.”
Brice picked up his phone, held the speaker halfway between his throat and his mouth. “Rita? Bring me the file on Jack or J. M. Nye.” He hung up, leaned back in his chair. “So who are you looking for?”
“A drug smuggler from the Bahamas.”
“No shortage of those. What’s special about this one?” Another raspy breath.
“He committed a crime that someone else paid for.”
There was a pause, but brief. “Someone else like you?”
Eddie nodded.
“Thought so. Moment you came in.” The words, amplified and mechanical, had an official sound, like an announcement over a loudspeaker. “How much time did you do?”
“All of it.”
“How much was all.”
“Fifteen years.”
This pause was longer. “That means you just got out.”
“Right.”
“Maybe I could take a gander at the fifty bucks.”
“First we’ll see if you’ve got anything,” Eddie said.
“I got something. I got something on every case.” Brice glanced down at the backpack. “What’s this drug smuggler’s name?”
“Kidd,” said Eddie. “But we didn’t know that at the time. All we knew then was his nickname.”
“What was it?”
“JFK.”
Brice sat straighter in his chair, just a little, and lowered his gaze. His hand went to the desk drawer, opened it, took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled deeply, blew smoke. Some came through his nose and mouth, some through the white-mesh screen.
“Now do you remember?” Eddie said.
Brice shook his head. “Kind of a funny nickname, that’s all.”
The brassy-haired woman came through the door carrying a file, stopped dead. “God in heaven,” she said. “Look what you’re doing.”
Brice glanced down at the cigarette in his hand, then glared at her. “I got a client in here, Rita.” A blue wisp curled through the mesh screen. She dropped the file on the desk and left without another word.
“Not married, are you?” Brice asked.
“No.”
“Neither’s Rita, soon as her next divorce goes through.” Eddie didn’t respond. Brice opened the file. There was a single sheet of lined yellow notepad paper inside. Handwriting filled the top third. The rest was blank. It didn’t seem like a lot for Mr. Trimble’s thousand dollars.
“That’s it?” Eddie said.
Brice looked up from the file. “The investigation was unsuccessful, as you said.”
“You must have discovered something.”
Brice closed the file. “Not a thing.”
“Or eliminated some possibilities. Even that could help.” Eddie dug some bills out of his pocket, counted out fifty dollars, laid it on the desk.
Brice put his hand on the file. “Does your brother know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Plan to see him?”
“No.”
“Know where he is?”
“I don’t know what’s on your mind, Brice. My brother’s dead.”
“You kill him?”
The next thing Eddie knew he was on his feet, standing over the old man.
“Don’t,” said Brice. The tone was harsh and commanding, but that was just the machinery; his eyes were full of fear.
Eddie didn’t touch him. He just picked up the file and took it to the window. Down on the street a cop was tucking a parking ticket under the windshield wiper on Jack’s car. Eddie withdrew the single sheet of paper from the file and read it.
The date was on the top line. Then:
Nye, Jack. Intview #1.
Retainer $250-bank check.
Brother-Eddie (Edw. Nicholas) 5-15 drugs (mj)
Atty.-Glenn Weems, Smith amp; Weems, Ft. L. (who $$$?)
Nds. dvlp. new evdnce re: “JFK”
Bahamas-Saint Amour-Galleon Bch.
DEA-tip? Eddie N.-enemies? J. N. says no.
What about “JFK” as poss. enemy? Doesn’t kn.
“JFK” had mj patch.
But
That was all.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Eddie said, moving in front of the desk.
Brice shook his head.
“But these are just your notes from the first meeting. It doesn’t say what you did or where you went.”
“I didn’t do anything, didn’t go anywhere.”
“Why not?” Eddie ran his eyes over the page again. “And I know he paid you a grand, not two-fifty.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“But,” Eddie said. The word that closed the file.
“But your brother’s dead, so maybe you have a right to know.”
“Know what?”
“That I was just following his directions.”
Eddie didn’t understand; all the same, the icy feeling crept across his back and up his neck.
“And two-fifty was all he gave me, I don’t know about any grand.”
“Gave you to do what?” Eddie said.
“Nothing. He said money had been raised and it had to be spent”-Brice gasped for air-“but that you and this JFK were partners-he grew it, you ran it-and you were as guilty as he was. So no confession from him would do you”-another gulp of air-“any good.”
Eddie backed into the chair in front of the desk, almost sat down.
“You’re lying,” he said. His legs didn’t want to hold him up. He made them.
Brice shook his head. “When you mentioned JFK it all came back. I couldn’t forget a thing like that.” Pause for breath. “Only time it happened in thirty-six years.” Brice’s gaze went to the fifty dollars on the desk, then to Eddie. “JFK was lying low in Nassau, according to your brother. I guess your fifty buys that much.” He took another deep breath, but said no more.
Eddie folded the sheet of yellow paper, stuck it in his pocket, picked up the backpack. He remembered Brice’s letter-“our best efforts to locate the individual known as JFK have to this point in time been unsuccessful”-and didn’t think he owed Brice a penny, but he left the money where it was. He didn’t want to touch it.
Rita looked up from her magazine as he went by.
“Can you believe him?” she said. “I tell him, ‘Pa, how can you still smoke after everything that happened to you?’ He just ignores me. He’s such an idiot, sometimes.”
“That’s one of his minor flaws,” Eddie said.