"Ramon Mendez."

  "You don't have a Spanish accent. Have you got your green card?"

  "I'm not a Chicano, I'm an American citizen. And I've got ID if you want to see it. Just because a man's got a Spanish name, that doesn't make him a refugee or something. It just so happens that Mendez was my father's name, but my mother was as big a WASP as you are. Besides, I already told you I was brought up with all white guys in a foster home!"

  "Don't get excited, Ramon. We're just having a little pleasant conversation here. Do you speak Spanish?"

  "A little, sure. I went to school in Santa Barbara, and we had our share of Chicanos out there. You pick it up a little playing softball. You know, shouting 'Arriba, arriba!' when a guy's trying to reach second base on a steal."

  "You pump a little iron, too, right?"

  "A little. I can jerk three-twenty-five, but I don't like to do it. I'm not really into heavy lifting. I just like to work out, that's all."

  "What's your bicep?"

  Freddy shrugged. "I haven't measured in a while. It used to be twenty-one inches. I doubt if it's that much now."

  "I'm impressed."

  "Well, I'm not one of your body lovers. As I said, I just like to work out for the exercise, that's all."

  Hoke turned to Susan. "How's your Shirley Temple, Miss Waggoner? Would you rather have some coffee? Some espresso?"

  "No, no, this is fine. I was supposed to meet my brother at the airport tonight at eight-thirty. And he was gonna give me two hundred dollars to make the car payment. D'you have his wallet and money for me?"

  "If you phone your father and ask him to call me and okay it, I can hand over the effects. There's a little more than two hundred in the wallet. I've got it locked in my office drawer."

  "Do I have to call my father? Can't you just give it to me?"

  "No. He's the one who should decide on the disposition of the effects, money included."

  "He'll just say no, and I need the money for the car payment. He'll probably take the car, too, won't he?"

  "Is the car in your brother's name?"

  She nodded and began to cry. "It just isn't fair! We both worked hard to buy that car, to make the down payment and all, and now my father'll get it!"

  "Maybe your brother left a will?"

  "Why would he have a will? He was only twenty-one years old. He didn't expect to die from a broken finger! I still don't see how anybody can die from a broken finger."

  "Let me explain," Hoke said. He finished the last bite of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Dr. Evans is the best pathologist in America, and he's the best doctor and dentist, too. He said it wasn't the finger, but the shock that set in because of the broken finger. And if he says that, it's gospel. Let me tell you about Dr. Evans. 'Bout a year ago, I had some abscessed teeth, and the only way I could chew was to hold my head over on one side and chew like a dog on the side that didn't hurt. I was having lunch with Dr. Evans, and after lunch, he took me back to the morgue, shot me up with Novocaine, and pulled all my teeth. Every one of them. Then he made an impression and had these teeth made for me by the same technician who makes all of the Miami Dolphins' false teeth."

  Hoke took out his dentures, put them on a napkin, and handed them to Susan.

  "I didn't even know you had false teeth," Susan said. "Did you, Junior?"

  "No, I didn't," Freddy said. "Let me take a look at those."

  Susan passed the teeth to Freddy, and he examined them closely before giving them back to Hoke. "Nice," he said.

  "I call 'em my Dolphin choppers," Hoke said. He sprinkled some water from his glass on his dentures, then slipped the dentures back into his mouth and adjusted them. "That's the kind of doctor Dr. Evans is--and he didn't charge me a dime. He just did it for the experience, he said. I went home after he pulled my teeth, drank a half of a fifth of bourbon, and didn't feel a thing.

  "But to get back to the will, if your brother was a sworn-in Krishna, they might've had him make out a will for them. As I understand it, when you join the group, you're supposed to sign over everything you own to them. I'd better check that out."

  "In that case, the Krishnas'll get the two hundred dollars and the car. Either way, I'll be shit out of luck, won't I?"

  "Perhaps. His partner's notified them at the ashram by now, so if he does have a will on file, they'll probably come down to the station tomorrow to see me. They may not know about the car, but his partner will know he collected some money out at the airport today. Just in case, I won't mention the car to them. As a Krishna, I know he isn't supposed to own a private vehicle. Does your father know about the car?"

  "I don't know. But I don't think so."

  "Don't worry about it, then. Just keep quiet, and make the payments. After a few months, or when it's paid for, you can get a lawyer to have it changed over to your name."

  Hoke took out his wallet, shuffled through his card case, and handed Susan a business card. "When you need a lawyer, try this guy, Izzy Steinmetz. He costs a little more, just like the breath mints, but he's worth it." Hoke smiled at Freddy. "He's a good criminal lawyer, too, in case you ever get into trouble."

  "Hang onto the card," Freddy said to Susan. "Maybe Mr. Steinmetz can help us when we get our Burger King franchise."

  The waiter brought the check. Hoke took it, and left a $3 tip on the table. They walked over to the cashier by the doubledoors. Hoke put the check and his credit card on the counter. The manager smiled, tore the check in half, and pushed the card back.

  "Your credit's no good here, Sergeant Moseley. Why don't we see you in here more often? It's been quite a while now."

  "I'm working days now, and living over at the Beach. I'll try to get by more often. Thanks, Aquilar."

  "That was nice of him," Freddy said, after they were outside, "to tear up the check that way."

  "But you noticed," Hoke said, "that I offered to pay. Aquilar's a nice guy. We go back a long way, and I did a favor for him once."

  "What kind of a favor?"

  "I called him on the phone. Where do you want me to drop you, Susan?"

  "Second and Biscayne'll be fine."

  Hoke dropped them off at the corner of Second and Biscayne. He started to make an illegal U-turn to get back to the MacArthur Causeway and then changed his mind. He didn't want to go home; he never wanted to go home. He continued down the boulevard and headed for the Dupont Plaza Hotel.

  The pair had puzzled him. He had tried to jar them into some kind of reaction by showing them his Dolphin choppers, but they hadn't even risen above the level of mild curiosity. Cold fish. The jock was obviously an ex-con. There was no way that Mendez could be his real name. With that bronze tan, he looked like an Afrika Corps Nazi, and it was definitely a tan, not dark skin. Besides, the world was too fresh and new to him, as though he had been out of circulation for some time. The way he had crooked that Charles Atlas arm around the tiny cup of flan--who did he think would try to take it away from him, anyway? It wasn't enough that Carter had destroyed the city by sending in all the refugees, Reagan was importing ex-cons from California. Even if immigration was stopped altogether, it would be another twenty years before Miami got back to normal again.

  And the girl. She had looked at her dead brother as if he were a piece of meat. True, she had cried at the morgue, but she had cried much harder about the possible loss of her car and the $200. How could a girl as simple-minded as Susan Waggoner get into college?

  Hoke drove into the Dupont Plaza garage and parked on the ramp by the wall. As he locked the car, a Cuban attendant came running over. He had a parking stub in one hand, and a oneounce hit of café Cubano in the other.

  "I'll take those keys," he said, holding out the parking stub.

  Hoke showed him his shield and ignored the stub. "Police business. I'll leave the car right where it is. When more cars come in, drive around it."

  Hoke went into the bar lounge, filled a paper plate with chicken wings, hot meatballs, and green olives, then went to the bar. He ordered a beer reluctantly because a beer in the Dupont Plaza bar cost as much as a six-pack in the supermarket, but the free hors d'oeuvres just about made up for it. Hoke liked the Dupont Plaza, the quiet Mickey Mouse music that came over the speakers, and the tables beside the windows where he could watch the traffic on the Miami River. There was an older, dressed-up crowd here, and although his blue poplin leisure suit was out of place, he had once picked up a forty-year-old widow from Cincinnati, and she had taken him up to her room.

  Hoke showed the bartender his shield and asked for the telephone. The bartender reached under the bar and placed a white telephone in front of Hoke. As a matter of principle, Hoke never gave Ma Bell a quarter to use a pay telephone. He dialed Red Farris's number from memory.

  "Red," Hoke said, when Farris answered, "let's go out and do something."

  "Hoke! I'm glad you called. I tried to get you twice today, once at the station, and once at your hotel. The hotel didn't even answer."

  "You've got to let it ring. Sometimes the clerk's away from the desk."

  "I let it ring ten times."

  "Try twenty next time. I was out at the airport most of the afternoon, on a homicide."

  "How come they called you instead of Metro?"

  "I'll tell you when I see you. It's an interesting case."

  "That's why I tried to call you, Hoke, to tell you my good news. Are you ready? I resigned today."

  "Resigned from the department? You're shitting me."

  "Not this time, Hoke. I told you before I've been writing letters around the state. Well, the chief of police in Sebring offered me a job as desk sergeant, and I took it."

  "That means going back into uniform, doesn't it?"

  "So what? I'll be out of Miami. When I typed up my resignation, I never felt better."

  "What kind of salary goes with it?"

  "Not much."

  "How much? Sebring can't pay Miami's union scale."

  "I know. It's only fourteen thousand, Hoke. I'm making thirty-one in Robbery, but the chief said there'd probably be another two thousand a year when the new Sebring budget comes out."

  "Christ, Red, that's less than half of what you're making now."

  "I know, and I don't give a shit. It doesn't cost as much to live in Sebring, and the chances are that I'll live a hell of a lot longer up there."

  "There's nothing going on in Sebring. They have the race once a year, and that's it."

  "I know. That's why I took the job. Last week, a kid in Overtown threw a brick through my window."

  "You shouldn't drive your car in Overtown. You know that."

  "It was a squad car, Hoke. I was down there with Nelson to pick up a fence. We never found him, either. But that brick was it. I'd been wavering, because of the money and all, but the next morning I called the chief in Sebring. He's a nice guy, too, Hoke. You'd like him. He's a retired detective from Newark. That's in New Jersey."

  "I know where Newark is, for God's sake."

  "Don't get pissed off, Hoke."

  "I'm not pissed off, I'm just surprised, that's all. I know damned well you aren't going to like living in a little town like that. Why don't we meet some place and talk about it?"

  "I can't, Hoke. I've got a lot of things to do and then I've got to meet Louise later when she gets off work."

  "When are you leaving, Red? I'll see you before you go, won't I?"

  "Oh, sure. I'll be in town for another week at least. If I can't sell my condo, I'll have to rent it out. But we'll get together. We'll tie one on to celebrate."

  "Right. I'm here at the Dupont bar, if you can get away for a while before you pick up Louise."

  "I can't, Hoke. Not tonight."

  "Call me, then."

  "I'll call you."

  "I'm real happy for you, Red, if you think that's what you want."

  "Thanks, Hoke. It's what I want."

  "Call me."

  "I will."

  Hoke racked the phone, and the bartender put it beneath the bar again. "Another beer, sir?"

  "Yeah. And a double shot of Early Times. I don't want any more of the stuff on this plate either. Can you dump it for me?"

  Hoke took his shot of whiskey and fresh bottle of beer over to a table by the window. He really hated to see Red Farris leave the department. He was one of the few bachelor friends Hoke bad left. Red was almost always available to go out for a few drinks, or a little bottle pool, or to bowl a few lines. And Red Farris had saved his life, too. They had gone to pick up a wife-beater who was out on bail. The man's wife had died, and that upgraded the charge from assault to second degree murder. It was a simple pickup; the man didn't put up any fight or argument. He had been too shocked by the news of his wife's death. And then, just as Hoke had started to put the handcuffs on him, the man's twelve-year-old son had come out of the bedroom and shot Hoke in the chest with a.22 rifle. Farris got the rifle out of the kid's hands before he could get off another shot, and Hoke spent six weeks in the hospital with a nicked left lung. It still hurt if he took a very deep breath. But if Red Farris hadn't twisted that rifle out of the kid's hands-- Well, the kid was in a foster home somewhere, the kid's father was up in Raiford, and the boy's mother was dead. In Miami, a family could break up in a hurry

  It used to be a lot different when Hoke was still married. Four or five couples would get together for a barbecue and some beer. Then, after they ate, the women would all sit in the living room and talk about how difficult their deliveries had been, and the men would sit in the kitchen and play poker. The big kids would watch TV, and the smaller kids would be put to sleep in the bedroom. That had been real Florida living, but now all the white families were moving away. There were six different detectives Hoke had known who had left Miami in the last year alone. And now Farris--that was seven. Of course, Henderson could get out for a night once in a while, but Bill Henderson was married, and he always worried about staying out too late.

  Hoke looked out at the river, never the same river. He wanted another double shot of Early Times, but not at these prices. Hoke left the bar and got his car from the parking ramp. As he checked the window locks, the smell of the vomit on the back seat was almost overpowering. When he got to the Eldorado Hotel, he'd get one of the Marielitos who lived there to clean it out.

  7

  The one-way street was narrow after they left the well-lighted area of the Columbus Hotel on Biscayne. The sidewalk was cracked and broken from recent roadwork, and there were few pedestrians.

  "Where's the parking garage?" Freddy took Susan's thin arm as they skirted a Bob's Barricade horse and a flaming kerosene pot.

  "Up about four blocks. I didn't want the detective to see my car. I'm sorry now I even mentioned it to him. If he lets it slip out to daddy that I've got it, he'll take it."

  "That prick detective's pretty sharp. Unless he does it on purpose, he won't let anything slip out. He sure picked up on me in a hurry. I think I had him fooled on the dessert business, because I really was in a foster home in Santa Barbara. But he knows that a man can't hold down a regular job and still work out six hours a day building up muscles like mine."

  "Why'd you tell him your name was Ramon Mendez? You don't look nothing like these Cubans." She pointed to four ragged Marielitos across the street. They were unwrapping a large bundle of clothes between two parked cars.

  "I told him Mendez because I checked into the hotel under the name of Gotlieb with a stolen credit card. Wait. Let's go over there and see what they've got in that bindle."

  "Let's don't! You don't want to have nothing to do with these people, Junior. It's just something they stole, anyway." She tugged at his arm.

  "Okay. But it's always interesting to look into a bindle. You never know what you'll find."

  "You mess with these Cubans and they'll pull a knife on you." At the next corner, they waited for the light to change. "If your name isn't Gotlieb, and it isn't Mendez, what is it?"

  "Junior, like I told you. My last name's Frenger. I'm really German, I suppose, but I don't remember my parents. I was in four different foster homes, but no one ever told me anything about my parents. They said I was an orphan, but they could've been lying about that. They lied about everything else, so it's possible my parents are still alive somewhere. I've always thought my father must've been an important man, though, or he wouldn't've named me Junior. At least that proves I'm not a bastard. You don't name a kid after yourself if you aren't married. What d'you think?"

  "I'm too upset to think right now. On top of everything else, I think Mr. Turner's going to make us write a haiku, and I don't think I can do it."

  "It seems simple enough to me. There're only seventeen syllables. Five, seven, and five. I'll write some for you, and you can keep 'em in your purse. Then, if he gives you a makeup paper in his office, you can just copy them in your own handwriting."

  "Suppose I have to explain what they mean?"

  "I'll tell you what they mean after I write them."

  "Would you?"

  "Sure. We're engaged, aren't we?"

  "Did you really mean that? When you told Mr. Turner we were engaged?"

  "Why not? I've never been engaged before."

  "Me neither. I've never even gone steady before."

  They reached the six-story parking garage. Susan showed her parking pass to the attendant behind the bulletproof window. He took her keys from the board, raised the grate an inch, and slid them across the Formica countertop.

  "I pay eighty dollars a month to park here. And that's the student rate. Some of these downtown lots charge three dollars an hour, and they make so much money they won't give you a monthly rate." They took the elevator to the fifth floor. "But they're nasty about it here. If I don't get here early enough in the morning to get a space, the garage fills up and they put out a full sign. So even though I've paid in advance, I still can't park. It isn't fair."

  "You use that word a lot."

  "What word?"

  "-Fair-. Now that you're twenty years old--"