You Only Live Nine Times, page 23
"Finally!" Scarlett exclaimed to her siblings. "After all those useless calls, she actually found someone!"
Rachel was already reaching for the phone again. The cats watched as she dialed Natalie, their earlier boredom completely forgotten.
Rachel knew she wasn’t relieved of phone duty just yet. Natalie couldn’t build an entire investigation around a single interview—assuming Eddie Torrino was even willing to talk to her.
But it was a start. And after so many days of nothing but dead ends, to Rachel it felt like a bona fide victory.
By five thirty Natalie was at Mac's Club Deuce, the oldest bar on South Beach. She’d been there a few times over the years and, she noted, the place never seemed to change—small and dark, with a horseshoe-shaped wooden bar scarred by decades of use, pink and green neon lighting (left over from a Miami Vice shoot), and a jukebox that had been playing what she thought of as the "Stairway to Freebird" genre of music since the 1970s.
Natalie’s only experience at the Deuce was with the late-night crowd—an exuberant mingling of drag queens, club kids, trust funders, bikers, suburbanites looking for a walk on the wild side, and an array of semi-regular barflies with no place better (or cheaper) to go.
The after-work crowd she encountered now gave off a decidedly different vibe, consisting mostly of construction workers enjoying a low-key Thursday happy hour, still dusty from jobsites. Natalie slipped a ten-dollar bill to the obliging bartender, who discreetly pointed out Eddie Torrino. The TV above the bar was playing a rerun of Sunday's Dolphins game on its VCR as Natalie pulled up a stool a few down from Eddie and ordered a beer. On the TV screen Marino got sacked, and both Natalie and Eddie groaned aloud.
"They were better when Shula was coaching," Natalie commented in Eddie's general direction.
Eddie grunted and took a long pull off his beer. "Jimmy Johnson's okay. But he lets Marino get away with too much."
"I guess it'll never be '72 again," she said, referencing the year the Dolphins had enjoyed a perfect season straight through the Super Bowl. It was a lament heard frequently from longtime fans.
Eddie looked over at Natalie for the first time. "You don't sound like you're from around here," he noted.
"Nope." Natalie took a pull on her own beer. "Queensland, Australia native, but I've been here a few years now."
"Oh, yeah? I'm from Queens, myself. Queens in New York," he added, as if unsure whether an Australian would make the connection. "Seems like everybody in this town comes from somewhere else."
"My friend Rachel says Miami Beach is a town where people occasionally die, but nobody ever seems to be born." Eddie laughed, and Natalie added, "Although she actually is from here, which kind of blows up her whole theory. I'm Natalie, by the way."
"Eddie." He hitched his barstool closer and held out a hand for her to shake. "What kind of work you in, Natalie, that brings you all the way from Australia?"
"I'm an investigative journalist." Natalie took another swig on her beer and kept her eyes on the TV screen. "Right now I'm looking into some wild parties out on Mercury Island back in the early Nineties."
Even though she continued to stare straight ahead, in her peripheral vision she could see Eddie stiffen—although his tone was deliberately casual as he said, "Find anything interesting?"
"Lots of interesting stories." Natalie was still watching the screen. "You know how those rich types like to party."
"Yeah, I guess." Eddie took another drink. "Though I wouldn't know personally. I've always been more of a beer-and-football guy myself."
On the TV, Marino threw an interception. They both winced.
"I've been trying to track down people who worked those parties.” Natalie kept her tone light. “Security, catering, that kind of thing. Harder than you'd think after all this time."
Eddie's hand tightened on his beer bottle. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Just trying to get a picture of what that whole scene was like. The excess, the glamour." She paused. "The things that went wrong."
"Nothing good comes from digging up old dirt." Eddie's voice didn’t sound casual anymore.
"Maybe not," Natalie conceded. "But sometimes people need to know what really happened."
Eddie turned to look at her fully. "You said you’re a journalist?"
"That's right."
"And you just happened to sit down next to me to talk about the Dolphins?"
Natalie met his gaze steadily. "I heard you might have worked some of those parties back in the day."
Eddie's face went hard. "Whoever told you that should mind their own business." He started to stand. "I work construction now. Been doing it for years. Got nothing to do with any parties or rich people or any of that."
"Eddie, wait." Natalie kept her voice low, aware of the other patrons. "I'm not trying to cause trouble for anyone. I'm just trying to find out what happened to a young woman."
Eddie paused, still half off his stool. "What young woman?"
"Her name was Alicia Rodrigue. She died after a party on Mercury Island. Back in December of '93."
For a moment, Eddie stood frozen. Something passed across his face. It was guilt, old and heavy.
"I don't know anything about that."
"I think you do," Natalie said gently. "And I think it's been bothering you."
"You know what bothers me?" Eddie's voice was low and tight. "People who show up asking questions about things that are none of their business. I’m working construction now, at that new multiplex they’re building in Coacoochee. And you know who’s building it? Julian Singer-Adams."
"I understand," Natalie said. "But—"
"No, you don't understand." He threw money on the bar and headed for the door.
Natalie didn't try to stop him. "I'm just trying to find out what happened to Alicia,” she told Eddie’s retreating back. “I think her parents deserve to know, if nothing else."
For a long moment, Eddie stood frozen at the door. When he finally spoke, he didn’t turn around.
“Things got crazy that night. People were messed up on all kinds of stuff. Toward the end I saw some guy who worked for Julian with a girl who was in bad shape. Practically had to carry her. I heard him tell Julian he'd take her to the ER over at Jackson Memorial." Eddie laughed mirthlessly. "Took me a lot longer than it should have to wonder why he'd bring her all the way out there."
On the TV screen, the Dolphins scored a touchdown and the stadium crowd cheered wildly. Eddie pushed through the Deuce’s front door and was gone. It swung closed behind him with a soft hiss of well-oiled hinges, leaving Natalie alone at the bar with her beer.
The multiplex construction site at dusk was Samkhat's grocery store, restaurant, and hunting ground all rolled into one. She picked her way between towers of PVC pipe and pyramids of cinderblocks, her head turning in practiced sweeps to compensate for her blind left side. Years of navigating with one eye had taught her to keep walls and solid objects to her left whenever possible, protecting her vulnerability. The workers had left an hour ago—she'd watched them pile into pickup trucks and head for the causeway, their radio music fading into the distance.
She'd been hunting alone again ever since Laurie had forbidden Kotik to leave the house. Before that, the young tuxedo had taken to joining her sometimes—not every evening, but often enough that she'd grown used to his earnest questions about which restaurants had the best dumpsters, or how to creep up on a mouse so swiftly and silently, it never saw you coming.
Samkhat had enjoyed teaching him more than she'd expected. Even his moonstruck sighs whenever Vashti's name came up had become oddly endearing. Poor kid didn't stand a chance with that snow-white princess, but at least his romantic delusions kept him entertained.
Friday evenings were especially good—the site would be abandoned until Monday morning, giving the local wildlife a whole weekend to explore without interruption. No dawn arrivals of rumbling trucks to scatter her hunting. The air still held warmth from the day, tinged with sawdust and the faint sweetness of primer paint. A mockingbird called from atop a crane, announcing the change from day to evening.
Near the trailer that served as the construction office, Samkhat caught a promising scent. Tuna salad. Her whiskers quivered with interest. Someone's lunch remnant, forgotten in the day's hustle. She followed the trail, pausing at each turn to swing her head right, checking her blind side before committing to the new direction.
The scent led to a spot beneath the trailer itself—perfect. She could eat in shelter while keeping track of any activity above. She settled with her left side against one of the concrete blocks supporting the structure, positioning herself where she could monitor approaches while she ate. The sandwich lay half-wrapped in deli paper, only slightly worse for its afternoon in the heat.
She'd just started on the tuna when voices drifted down through the trailer floor. Julian Singer-Adams—she recognized him immediately. Ever since Daisy Locarro died, he'd been moving through Coacoochee like a cat walking through puddles, all careful steps and barely concealed tension. But lately he'd seemed easier in his skin again. Back to the smooth-voiced tom who knew he owned the territory.
And Dahlia Delgado, eternally cheerful, one of those humans who seemed to know everyone. She and Julian didn’t always get along. Sometimes she and the rest of the Historical Society would stand outside some crumbling building, shouting to the TV cameras about how Julian Singer-Adams was destroying Coacoochee by getting rid of everything old—while Julian would calmly argue, in that smooth way he had, that the Historical Society was destroying Coacoochee by not letting him build anything new. But Dahlia only spent a few hours a week volunteering with the Historical Society; she spent her whole days working for the Department of Tourism.
This time, all sides had apparently been in agreement that tearing down the moldering old parking garage all the way down at the dead distant end of Hibiscus Road—and replacing it with a multiplex movie complex that also had room for shops and restaurants and apartments—was a wonderful idea for locals and tourists alike.
Samkhat had loved that old parking garage. Almost nobody had ever parked there, which had made it an ideal spot for rodents to multiply, and for Samkhat to hunt them while shielded from both blinding sun and pouring rain. But apparently it hadn’t occurred to Julian or to anyone at the Department of Tourism to think about what would be best for Coacoochee’s outdoor cats.
Her ear flicked automatically as Dahlia and Julian spoke in the trailer above her—a survival reflex that had sharpened since she’d lost her eye and hearing had become even more crucial. But she didn't pause in her meal. The tuna was good quality, not mixed with too much mayonnaise. Just the way she liked it.
"—can't thank you enough for making time." Dahlia's voice bubbled with its usual enthusiasm.
"Not at all." Julian's voice was, perhaps, a trifle ironic. "The Historical Society does important work."
"And we’re incredibly grateful for the donation you plan to make from the multiplex’s first-week earnings.” Above her, Samkhat could hear papers rustling. “Now, about the gala," Dahlia continued. "It’ll be the official kickoff to Season this year, and we're hoping you'll say a few words. Nothing elaborate—just share your vision for how the multiplex fits into Coacoochee's growth."
"Of course."
They discussed dates, times, the tedious details humans loved. Samkhat had finished half the sandwich and shifted slightly, angling her good eye toward the gaps in the trailer's undercarriage while keeping her back to the protective concrete block.
"—and of course, we'll want to highlight the Historical Society's preservation efforts in your speech. That's really what resonates with donors." Dahlia's voice had taken on a careful tone.
"Preservation is close to my heart," Julian said without even the slightest hitch in his voice, despite what sounded like a skeptical scoff from Dahlia that masqueraded as a well-timed cough. "When it's done right,” he clarified. “In fact, I've been thinking lately about that whole stretch of Hibiscus Road between Sixth and Eighth. Those midcentury buildings deserve to be restored to their original glory."
"Still hoping to acquire Title Wave's building?" Dahlia's tone was gently teasing. "I don't think Dorothea’s as willing to sell now as she once might have been. Rachel Baum’s really turned the place around—people come all the way from South Miami just to meet those cats of hers."
"Far be it from me to root against Rachel Baum and her famous bookstore cats." There was a hint of amusement in Julian's voice.
"Such a hard worker, that one! Between running the store, planning the Halloween event—which is coming together beautifully, by the way—and now this book she's working on." Dahlia’s voice warmed and Samkhat heard the shuffling sound of her stuffing papers back into her leather satchel. "Actually, you know what? You should talk to her!"
"Oh?" Julian's voice carried mild interest.
"She’s researching Coacoochee's social history. I stopped by the store this afternoon to finalize Halloween details, and she was on the phone with some employment agency, trying to track down people who worked the Mercury Island party scene back in the day."
The trailer went quiet. Samkhat's ear twitched—not at the silence itself, but at its quality. She'd heard this kind of quiet before, when a feral tom near the marina spotted baby birds in a low nest.
"The party scene?" Julian's voice hadn't changed in volume, still pleasant, but something had shifted beneath it—like claws extending while the paw stayed soft.
"There was one party a few years ago during the holiday season that she was particularly interested in,” Dahlia continued. “She had this yellow legal pad covered in notes, lots of crossed-out names and phone numbers.”
“The holiday season? Do you remember what year?”
“December of 1993, I think. It must have been a wild one! She seemed a bit flustered when I asked about it." Dahlia laughed. "You were already living out there back then, weren’t you?” Her voice brightened as she moved into her favorite territory—connecting people, building community. "Talking to you would probably save Rachel a ton of legwork."
Silence stretched between them. Instinctively, Samkhat pressed closer to the concrete block, making herself smaller.
"I know she'd be thrilled to talk to someone who was actually there," Dahlia continued, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. "Oh, Julian, you could be such a help to her! Sometimes these projects just need that one perfect source to come alive."
"I'll consider it."
They returned to gala planning, and Dahlia chattered on happily about catering options and venue logistics, the very picture of someone pleased with a productive meeting. Julian seemed to be listening politely but didn’t contribute much. Finally, Dahlia rose to leave. The trailer floor creaked with footsteps, the door opening above.
"Thank you again for everything," she called. "The Historical Society is so lucky to have your support. Oh, and Julian? Do think about reaching out to Rachel. You'd be doing her such a favor!" Samkhat could hear the smile in her voice as she added, “And I’ll bet you’d enjoy talking to her about the old days.”
"You may be right about that." The grin in Julian’s voice was as big as Dahlia’s. “I’ll have to track Rachel down.”
"Wonderful! She'll be so pleased. Well, I'm off—have to stop by the printer before they close. See you at the gala!"
After Dahlia’s car had disappeared in a cloud of dust and exhaust, Samkhat rose and stretched, automatically checking her blind side before emerging from under the trailer back into the gathering dusk. Her mind turned over what she'd heard. Julian Singer-Adams taking that kind of focused interest in Rachel's questions—that wasn't nothing. Samkhat had survived this long with only one eye by knowing what happened when a powerful creature turned their attention on a weaker one.
The outcome was rarely good for the weaker one.
The scent of fried chicken wafted from somewhere near the dumpsters, and evening was prime hunting time. But she'd already decided—after she ate, she'd head over to Title Wave. Homer and his sisters would want to know what she'd heard. Rachel had caught the attention of someone who could squash her like a palmetto bug, if he wanted to.
Samkhat padded away from the trailer, checking left before each step into open space, leaving behind the small office where Julian Singer-Adams remained, sitting very still.
It was nearly one a.m., and the narrow hallway separating Red Room’s front-of-house dining area from the “secret” VIP room in the back pounded with a bass line Rachel could feel in her sternum. She and Tommy emerged from dinner into a wall of sound and bodies, the party already in full swing.
"I ate too much," Tommy groaned, pressing a hand to his stomach. "That truffle risotto was my undoing."
“Forget the risotto—I’d like to build a summer house in that bread pudding,” Rachel replied, adding with mock seriousness, “And, no, you can’t visit.”
Red Room on Allamanda Avenue was a two-part establishment—a nightclub that was also renowned as one of the best (and priciest) restaurants in Coacoochee. “Celebrity Club”—Red Room’s weekly Saturday-night theme party and the brainchild of its promoter-in-residence, Keith Cranford—took full advantage of both components. Each week a different Coacoochee “celebrity” was selected as the party’s honoree, and he or she was invited to bring a small group of friends to a comped dinner in Red Room’s restaurant. After dinner there was a full-blown party in the private back room. Partiers in the know would access the room, not through the club’s main entrance on Allamanda, but through the back-alley service entrance. The girl who worked this door on Saturday nights was simply called L. L was tall and lanky and speckled with a constellation of tattoos, and she had the ruthlessly appraising eye of a horse trader when it came to sizing up candidates for entry into the inner sanctum.
Tonight was Danny Elliott’s Celebrity Club, and Rachel had been surprised to find herself included among his ten invited guests for dinner. “I’ve told you, darling,” Tommy had said. “People know who you are now!”
