knelt quickly and apprehensively, gulped a lot, and checked the pulse at his neck. None. Not with his neck bent and twisted like that.
“There,” Tapes said and pointed.
Following his line of sight, I saw the railing at the top of the stairs on the third floor broken and splintered.
The guy standing next to us had been frozen to this time. He whimpered again.
“Look,” I said. “Move to the left a bit.”
Tapes did so. “Oh, shit.”
So did the geek.
He started moaning in higher squeals, drowning out a motor.
There was a big red streak across Gonzáles’ forehead, the skin stripped back on each side.
Again I pointed.
Off to the side, where it had obviously fallen, was a tennis racquet, a blue and orange tennis racquet, with an alligator ghost painted on the racquet’s sweet spot, obviously the gator mascot/symbol of the University of Florida. One curve of the racquet was bloody.
“What do you call the top corner arc of a tennis racquet?” I asked. “On an ear, it’s the helix,”
Tapes shrugged. He didn’t share my penchant for oddball terms and expressions.
The manager slewed to a stop alongside the geek who was moaning. Silas Smith, the manager, wore plaid slacks and a white shirt. His sallow face was yellow. There were deep scars on his neck. He was so ugly he ought to wear a mask. I’d bet he’d had one hellacious childhood. His first concern was the squealing geek, but then Smith saw the governor.
Other people were coming down the halls and in from the wings.
An overly pregnant woman waddled toward us from the kitchen wing, eyes bulging, fist jammed into her mouth, and eyes fixated on the body.
A hefty guy who looked like an ex-NFL lineman in a T-shirt and brown slacks with a dark stripe down each side lurched from the opposite wing where the bar and lounge were located.
More people entered from the lobby and some came from the rooms behind us down the corridor we’d just walked.
“Ohmygod!” said Silas Smith, his hand against his mouth in a parody of a cliché. “Governor Gonzáles fell.” His voice was octaves higher than it had been last night.
“Not necessarily,” I said, still squatting there. I smelled the storm rain on the body and oddly it made the gorge rise in my throat. I stood and fought back the nausea. Gonzáles was dead and had just been alive talking and riding with me and Tapes. It was an odd juxtaposition to think about. We’d discussed Plutarch and the weather. Jeez.
The big bulky guy shoved his way through. “Let me in, I’m lawn forcement.” He had a bottle of Yukon Jack liquor in his hand and his eyes were bloodshot and his breath foul, and he was unshaven. He staggered up to me. “Just exactly what the fuck’s goin’ on here?” He looked down at me suspiciously.
“You got a murder on your hands, officer,” I said mildly.
“I’m ‘Trooper,’ and how the fuck do you know it’s murder, Shorty?” His eyes focused on me then shifted to the body.
Now I greatly dislike anybody making fun of my inordinate lack of great height. I always like to think of myself as a younger Alan Ladd without the highwater pants; what with a similar height, my hair and a certain jut of jaw give that impression if you’re real creative in your mind’s eye.
“I saw it on a Magnum rerun,” I shot back at Trooper while wondering if Tapes could take him. Tapes was skinny enough to bathe in a shotgun barrel, but he was deceptively strong. Also, he was about a foot taller than me. Not to mention he usually got us out of the trouble my mouth got us into. “You can check him, he’s rapidly assuming room temperature,” I said quoting the guy on the radio.
Trooper’s face blanched and three guys who hadn’t shaved more than the trooper and wore hunting camouflage gear edged up behind him. They were obviously curious and rude, because they pushed an old lady out of their way.
Turning to Silas Smith, I said, “You’d better call the law.” I glanced at Trooper. “The real law.”
Trooper snarled. “I’m the governor’s fucking bodyguard, Shorty. I’ll make the decisions here.”
“You did a wonderful job,” I said, regretting the dig immediately.
Trooper started to reach for me then something changed on his face. “Didjou say he’s dead?”
“You could draw that conclusion.”
Trooper’s face fell, beef turning to bristly jowls, a tear actually eeking from his right eye. He sniffled. “Henry B. was my friend.” Trooper’s voice sounded strangled.
“Call the law,” I told Smith again.
“Oh, God, I’ll do it.” He trotted down the hall toward the front desk.
The geek’s teeth were chattering.
“What happened?” I asked.
He put four left fingers into his mouth and his eyes were still bulging, locked onto the body.
“Tell us,” I said.
“I…I don’t know. I was walking to breakfast and…there he was on the floor.”
Silas Smith returned.
He shook his head and his voice had regained some calm. “I can’t call out. Phones are out from the storm. We’re running on our own generator even.”
“My CB’s broken,” I said. “Any cell phones?”
Nobody responded.
“The cellular sites usually take the first hits on the mainland,” Smith said. “This is a bad reception area anyway.”
“Well, send somebody,” I said.
This handsome woman whose face was ashen shook her head. “The two sheriff’s deputies are on the mainland for shift change.” She hiccupped. I’d watched her last night. She’d been the center of a small party in the lounge. A “divorce party” Silas Smith had told me. The pregnant woman and the old lady were part of it, her friends, this intriguing woman, helping her celebrate her divorce. It had seemed to me more like a wake; however, she’d grabbed my attention with a bold look. The lady hiccupped again.
If she was March on a swimsuit calendar, you’d never get to April. She was wearing a pair of prairie shorts, made of Chamois leather, revealing an acre of tan legs. A loose blouse of the same material exposed a strip of slim and tan waist. Last night she’d worn a lip-licking yellow cross-back knit dress with a swirl-like skirt. She hiccupped again.
One of the camo-dressed guys said, “The bridge washed out a little while ago.”
As usual paying attention to what’s happening around me and especially intriguing women who show a lot of
