switched to George or Bill, that’s what people would call you, all the people who had no idea your name was Harry, and after thirty-five years of answering to Harry, you might ignore a George or a Bill aimed your way. That’d make people suspicious, or it could lead them to believe you were a moron who didn’t even know his own name. Either way, potentially embarrassing. So Harry lopped off the Healy and substituted his middle name for his surname, becoming Harry James, like the bandleader his old man named him for.
First order of business was finding a place to stay. Fort Lauderdale worked hard to shake its image as a municipal frat party, but the Fiorella-type fleabags that warehoused whatever college kids still showed up in spring were legion. Harry had lots of choices.
The Wind N’ Sand, set close to the street at the top of a shallow horseshoe driveway, was eighteen rooms laid out in a row, wedged between a Muffler Man and a Pancake Palace. Breakfast All Day. It lacked the least hint of anything resembling glory, past or present. A sign promised prospective lodgers TV and air-conditioning. In red and blue block letters it said SPRING BREAKERS WELCOME. The torn screen curling from one of its windows looked very encouraging.
The office was a Formica counter and an empty mail grid, an ice machine, a soda machine, and a glass box that vended pretzels and orange crackers stuffed with imitation peanut butter paste.
A woman in her late twenties was working a word search puzzle in the same newspaper that brought Harry to Fort Lauderdale, pinching the last drag out of a Kool 100. She was a dishwater blonde with ears that winged her skull at 45 degree angles, and she told Harry she didn’t have any vacancies.
“That’s not what it says on your sign.”
“It says Spring Breakers Welcome. My guess is the last time you were inside a classroom, Gerald Ford was president.”
“Jimmy Carter,” Harry said, “but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. My money’s as good as any college kid’s.” He was holding a twenty dollar bill on the counter between his thumbs.
“I’ll tell you right now, that’s not gonna get it,” the woman said. She had a diamond of acne on her right cheek, pimples she’d been picking at, a furious fuchsia bomber on her chin.
“Okay,” Harry said. “What’re we talking about here?” He went into his pocket for a fifty and laid it over the twenty.
The woman looked at the bill and she looked at Harry. “How long did you plan on staying?”
“I’d like to pay for the week.”
“And what name did you plan on using?”
“I’m Harry James,” Harry said, getting used to it.
The woman stood and slid Harry’s seventy bucks into a pair of brown corduroys washed and worn so many times that the nap had gone flat at the knees and the ass, a plum of an ass, wide and thick and high. Her navel was exposed under a white halter and she was wearing a silver chain around her belly. Too bad about her skin.
“You know, Mr. James, it isn’t about money.”
“It never is.”
“That’s not what I mean. I can tell you got trouble. You look like trouble from across the street, and if there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s somebody else’s trouble. My name’s Darlene,” the woman said finally. “Please don’t ask me for anything.”
South Florida’s News Leader kicked off a telecast with Manfred’s murder, and the story made the papers a few days running, in paragraphs of shrinking size. The reports said police had no suspects at that time. Which may or may not have been the case. Law enforcement only leveled with the media when it served their purpose, and Harry wasn’t setting his clock by those guys.
There seemed to be an inordinate amount of cops in this town, but that could’ve been his imagination. Harry spotted them cruising the wide streets and held his breath, not looking at them, forcing himself not to look away, either. Then the Manfred story lost
First order of business was finding a place to stay. Fort Lauderdale worked hard to shake its image as a municipal frat party, but the Fiorella-type fleabags that warehoused whatever college kids still showed up in spring were legion. Harry had lots of choices.
The Wind N’ Sand, set close to the street at the top of a shallow horseshoe driveway, was eighteen rooms laid out in a row, wedged between a Muffler Man and a Pancake Palace. Breakfast All Day. It lacked the least hint of anything resembling glory, past or present. A sign promised prospective lodgers TV and air-conditioning. In red and blue block letters it said SPRING BREAKERS WELCOME. The torn screen curling from one of its windows looked very encouraging.
The office was a Formica counter and an empty mail grid, an ice machine, a soda machine, and a glass box that vended pretzels and orange crackers stuffed with imitation peanut butter paste.
A woman in her late twenties was working a word search puzzle in the same newspaper that brought Harry to Fort Lauderdale, pinching the last drag out of a Kool 100. She was a dishwater blonde with ears that winged her skull at 45 degree angles, and she told Harry she didn’t have any vacancies.
“That’s not what it says on your sign.”
“It says Spring Breakers Welcome. My guess is the last time you were inside a classroom, Gerald Ford was president.”
“Jimmy Carter,” Harry said, “but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. My money’s as good as any college kid’s.” He was holding a twenty dollar bill on the counter between his thumbs.
“I’ll tell you right now, that’s not gonna get it,” the woman said. She had a diamond of acne on her right cheek, pimples she’d been picking at, a furious fuchsia bomber on her chin.
“Okay,” Harry said. “What’re we talking about here?” He went into his pocket for a fifty and laid it over the twenty.
The woman looked at the bill and she looked at Harry. “How long did you plan on staying?”
“I’d like to pay for the week.”
“And what name did you plan on using?”
“I’m Harry James,” Harry said, getting used to it.
The woman stood and slid Harry’s seventy bucks into a pair of brown corduroys washed and worn so many times that the nap had gone flat at the knees and the ass, a plum of an ass, wide and thick and high. Her navel was exposed under a white halter and she was wearing a silver chain around her belly. Too bad about her skin.
“You know, Mr. James, it isn’t about money.”
“It never is.”
“That’s not what I mean. I can tell you got trouble. You look like trouble from across the street, and if there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s somebody else’s trouble. My name’s Darlene,” the woman said finally. “Please don’t ask me for anything.”
South Florida’s News Leader kicked off a telecast with Manfred’s murder, and the story made the papers a few days running, in paragraphs of shrinking size. The reports said police had no suspects at that time. Which may or may not have been the case. Law enforcement only leveled with the media when it served their purpose, and Harry wasn’t setting his clock by those guys.
There seemed to be an inordinate amount of cops in this town, but that could’ve been his imagination. Harry spotted them cruising the wide streets and held his breath, not looking at them, forcing himself not to look away, either. Then the Manfred story lost
Similar Books
