Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

“Ah, yes, the lovely Melinda Peters, star of your friendly neighborhood strip club. Melinda has promised that she'll be calling again. Believe it or not, she actually has more dirt on our favorite cop, Jack Carpenter.”

“What kind of dirt?” Cheever asked.

“She's going to tell us what Carpenter was really up to,” Bash said.

“You mean there's more to the story?” Cheever said.

“Lots more,” Bash said. “But to tell any more would be cheating.”

“I'll be waiting,” Cheever said. “Oh, and Neil? Love your show.”

“Thanks, Sex Hound. And now it's time for a word from one of our sponsors.”

I took the exit and headed south. Davie was a blue-collar area, and I drove down a two-lane road with trailer parks hugging each side. Two miles later, I spotted a cluster of trailers with large antennas on their roofs. Above the trailers hung an elevated billboard with the station's call letters and Bash's round, devilish face.

I'd found him.

Trailer parks were as much a part of Florida as alligators and Mickey Mouse. They sat on land scraped clean of trees and were usually the first casualties of hurricanes and electrical storms. Low-income families flocked to them, as did the retired. They were their own worlds, and could be good or bad places to live. I'd known many cops who refused to answer a call from one on a Saturday night.

Bash's radio station was inside a trailer park called Tropical Estates. It was a cheapo operation, the main building a series of double-wides attached by flimsy covered walkways. Cheever's car was parked by the entrance. I parked beside him.

We got out and faced each other. I was still pissed, and glared at him.

“I'm sorry, Jack,” Cheever said.

“You should be,” I said.

“Hear me out, will you?”

Bread crumbs peppered his mustache. I couldn't imagine him screwing Melinda.

“I'm listening,” I said.

“I'm sorry I doubted your story, and sorry I called you a liar. I hope you'll forgive me. I won't hold it against you if you don't.”

“That's it?” I said.

He nodded solemnly.

“Maybe someday,” I said.

He pretended to understand. Reaching into the backseat of his car, he removed a white box tied with string.

“It's a pound of homemade chocolate fudge for Bash,” he explained. “I bought it from a candy store in my neighborhood. Eat one piece, and you can't stop.”

“You going to bribe your way in?”

“That was the idea.”

“What if he refuses?”

“He won't. A while back, he had a porno queen named Kissy in his studio taking calls. I'd seen her movies and wanted to get a glimpse of her in the flesh. I used the fudge then, and it worked fine.”

Cheever again reached into the back of his car. This time, he came out with a pair of black cowboy hats. He put one on, and handed me the other.

“Disguises?” I asked.

“Yeah. You got shades?”

“In my car.”

“Get them, and your dog. You're going to be my blind cousin.”

“Isn't that a little hokey?”

“Not with these bozos. Listen, I got some bad news. Joy Chambers was found murdered yesterday in her house. There was a piece of skin under one of her fingernails. The lab ran a DNA check. It was from some Cuban guy.”

“His name's Jonny Perez,” I said.

Cheever blinked. “How the heck did you know that?”

“Jonny Perez shot out my car on 595. He's part of Skell's gang.”

“You're one step ahead of me, aren't you?”

“Try a mile,” I said.

We entered the trailer that served as the radio station's reception area. It was a low-ceilinged arrangement with paneled walls and carpet that wasn't tacked down. A receptionist with fake eyelashes and eye-popping cleavage beamed at us.

“Hey, I remember you,” she said. “You're Sex Hound.”

Cheever doffed his hat. “It's Janet from another planet, right?”

“Good memory. Bring any candy?”

Cheever untied the box and showed her the fudge. She filched the biggest piece and stuck it sideways in her mouth.

“Who's he?” she asked, nearly choking.

“This is my cousin LeRoy,” Cheever said. “He's blind.”

“What a shame. He's cute.”

“Maybe you can babysit for him sometime,” Cheever said.

“I think I'd like that,” she said.

I kept my face expressionless. Janet from another planet looked like the type who'd molest me if given half a chance.

“Can I go see Neil?” Cheever asked.

“Be my guest,” she said.

We walked down a claustrophobic hallway and entered a second trailer, where the studio was located. It had soundproof walls and a small glassed-in space where Bash sat, jabbering into a mike. His goatee was gone, revealing sunken eyes and a triple chin. Seeing Cheever, he cut to a commercial and clicked off his mike.

“Sex Hound,” he yelled through the glass. “You bring candy?”

Cheever held the box of goodies up to the glass. Bash pushed himself out of his chair and emerged from the studio. He was about five-six and tipped the scales near three hundred pounds. I had expected the Devil incarnate, but he was nothing more than a sad little man. Cheever gave him the fudge, and Bash started shoving pieces into his mouth. He paid no attention to me or my dog.

“How's the fudge?” Cheever asked.

“Delicious,” Bash said through a mouthful.