The Bad Samaritan

Boat theft in Three-D—debt, drugs and divorce.

It was the kind of Saturday when you're supposed to be out
testing your suntan lotion. I was halfway out the office door
when the phone rang.

The voice on the other end was a cloak-and-dagger mutter:
"I know where your stolen boat is."

"Oh? Speak up. They're building Liberty Ships next door."

The mutter came up a notch. "The boat covered by your company."

"Yes?"

"Saw your flyer at the marina."

"Uh-huh," I said.

"It's in a storage yard in Palmetto."

"What boat?"

His volume came up another notch. "Gimme a chance to tell you!"

"What's your name again?"

"Joey . . ."

Back to Whispering Desperado.

"Joey? That all?"

"All I'm telling you. It's a big Donzi on a trailer—the one you're looking for."

"And you're just doing me a favor." He wasn't the first Good Samaritan I'd spoken to.

"You want it back?"

"Can I think about it?"

"Recovering stolen boats is your business, right?"

"And you saw the reward."

"Thirty grand—on the flyer."

"So I should make the check out to . . . Joey."

I heard the machinery in his head whirring.

"Listen, if you're not interested . . . ," he said.

Still had some fight left in him.

"I'm interested," I said. "But the thirty grand can't decide whether it's going to Joey Somebody or the March of Dimes."

With nothing to do but hang up or else, he didn't hang up. He was Joey Talbot. From Palmetto. The boat was in a utility yard there. The owner of the property didn't know it was stolen—he was storing it for a friend of his daughter.

"And you didn't tell him?"

"He's an old guy doing a favor."

"Where do you fit in?"

"I'm a friend. His daughter doesn't know it's stolen, either."

"Well, somebody does! Who's the friend of a friend of a friend?"

"Don't know. I just know it's there."

"And you want the thirty grand."

"That's how it works, isn't it?"

"If nothing's wrong. Tell me some names and places—you know, like on TV."

"They don't know it's stolen," he repeated.

"I heard."

"Arnold Gustafson is the old guy. Lisa Gustafson's his daughter. She's a friend from high school. Go easy on them."

"I won't even shoot."

Joey Talbot didn't laugh.

 

 

I tried calling Lou The Suit at the insurance company in Miami, but it was Saturday. And I had the feeling at the back of my neck like I was being jerked around.

I did some electronic footwork. The boat belonged to Laddie Canino up in Clearwater. He had a bust for possession. But this was Florida—who didn't. The boat was quite the piece. Twin L88's. Arnesson surface drives. Big paint.

He called it Outlaw.

Oh boy.

Canino's phone rang and a woman answered. His voice blew soft in my ear.

"Mr. Canino in?" I said. "I'm an insurance investigator in Tampa. I have news about his boat."

"I'll see if he's here."

I wanted to hear more of that maple-syrup whisper. The next voice was like a bad Doberman. "Canino here."

"Mr. Canino, we have a lead on your boat." That's the editorial "we"—me and my tapeworm.

"Where is it?" he said.

"In Palmetto, we think."

"Uh-huh."

Aren't you gonna ask if it's been stripped or burnt out, Laddie?

"What's next?" he said, not a blink.

"You know an Arnold Gustafson?"

"No."

"Lisa Gustafson?"

"No."

"Fine. I'll be in touch."

I gave him my cell number.

But I still had that jerked-around feeling in my neck. After giving the Palmetto P.D. a call, I headed south. When I got to Palmetto, I found a number for Arnold Gustafson. On the phone, he had a pipey voice that had been young when Lee retreated from Gettysburg. Not the sort to blast around the Gulf in a purple-and-lime green Donzi named Outlaw.

I asked about the boat.

"You have to talk to my daughter about that. Belongs to a friend."

"Can I speak to her?"

"She's not here."

I explained the troubled history of Outlaw. I'd have put it more gently, but how gently can you put "grand larceny."

"The police will need access to the property," I said.

"Of course." He had a shamed tone now. I felt bad for him.

Not much later, I and Detective Frank Fitzgerald were standing inside a cyclone fence. The boat was draped in a tarp that covered most of its length. Old Arnie Gustafson stood there eyeing the thing like a bad smell.

"My daughter said a friend needed to store it. He's up north."

"Know how we can contact your daughter?" Fitzgerald said.

"Don't know where she is," Gustafson said. "Is she in trouble?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Gustafson," I said, talking through my hat, "there may be a simple explanation to all this."

He didn't nod, still looking shamed.

If I had to guess, it wasn't the first time.

 

 

Outlaw was impounded. Unless something strange happened, Laddie Canino would recover his twin-L88 bad-boy and Joey Talbot would deposit thirty large.

But next morning, something strange did happen—I phoned Talbot and didn't recognize his voice. Sure, he was male, and the best I could tell over the phone, he wasn't wearing a disguise. But where was the Bogart mutter? I said I wanted to come over and talk. He said fine—in a tone that meant, not fine.

I drove down to Palmetto. Talbot's apartment was scruffy. Newspapers and beer cans on the floor. He was in his late twenties—with the eyes of a fifty-year old.

I asked him how he came across Outlaw. He was a friend of Lisa Gustafson's, he said. He added, but everybody was a friend of Lisa's. The gleam in his eye spoke male code. "Blonde," he said superfluously. "Tall. Blue eyes. Perfect."

She had told him about the boat last week. It was awesome, she said.

"Did she say who it belonged to?"

"Some guy she met in a club. He was taking off to Philly and needed to store it." Talbot stopped. "I didn't know it was stolen. Then yesterday I saw the flyer—that's all I know."

I was listening to his voice. Not the same guy. I'd swear it on a stack of beans.

"How long have you known Lisa?" I said.

"We met several years ago."

"How?"

"The way she meets everyone—she just walks up and meets you! It was in a club up in Clearwater."

"Clearwater." I nodded. "And she's hot."

"Unbelievable."

I got the idea.

But I got another idea, too. I wondered if Joey Talbot—this Joey Talbot—could guess what it was. Walking out the door, I gave him a long, hard look, so he'd think about it after I was gone.

 

 

The Sunday afternoon drive to Clearwater was uneventful . . . no nuclear strikes, no offense by the Buccaneers. I was ready to meet Laddie Canino and whatever leggy livestock might surface.

In Clearwater, I keyed the numbers and a hardened voice answered.

Canino.

I told him his boat was in impound and invited myself over.

He'd be there, he said.

I pondered the two Joey's I'd heard, then the honey-sweet female on Canino's phone. They rumbled around in my gut like raw onion.

Canino opened the door. He was big. Unfriendly. With a look on him that made you wish him an expensive traffic accident. It takes all kinds—but I was sick of his kind. We talked about procedures the company would follow before giving releasing Outlaw to him. He was all business—just hand it over.

Like everyone else with lots of money and no visible means of support, he said he was a contractor. And he was in the middle of a divorce. (Yup.)

"The woman that answered the phone yesterday—your wife?"

"No. My wife and I don't speak."

"So she was the player to be named later in the draft?"

"That's none of your business. I just want my boat back."

I was shown the door.

 

 

Lines of filthy cloud, like big black dust mice, were blowing in as I drove to Palmetto. Lightning flashed, ghost-lighting the palm trees. The rain came in moody blasts.

I knocked on the door.

Joey Talbot looked annoyed.

I sat on his couch, one of those cheap, low foam-rubber numbers from the Kennedy years.

"I hate feeling stupid, Joey."

No answer.

"Something's wrong, and you know what it is. I get a tip about a stolen boat—which is always welcome. But the second time I talk to the guy, he has a different voice and a different story! First, he says he knew Lisa Gustafson in high school. Then he says he met her in a club in Clearwater."

"I never said I knew Lisa in high school."

"Exactly. But the first Joey Talbot did—and I want to know who he is."

"I'm Joey Talbot!"

"Do you know the penalty for insurance fraud? For grand larceny? Have you heard how they treat nice young guys with curly hair down at Belle Glade?"

"Belle Glade!" Suddenly, his eyeballs didn't fit his head.

"You'd be really popular with long-termers down there. You won't put up much fight—then the fun begins. Four years. Maybe five years—all of it fun! You'll make a model prisoner."

"What the hell are—"

"You're treating me like I'm stupid, Joey. Unless you tell me everything you know . . . about the other Joey and how the boat ended up where it did—"

I pushed all my chips in.

"—and where Lisa Gustafson fits in. We're going to be all over you, my friend."

"Wait a minute—"

"If you don't want to miss the last lap-dance at Belle Glade . . . ."

He needed to be somewhere else fast.

"I'm giving you an out, Joey, but you better take it."

He had no cards left. He was just trying to figure out where to start. "It was Canino—he's the other Joey."

"What's he got on you?"

"I owe him money."

"Why?"

His head bowed. "He sold me some blow."

"A lot of blow."

He nodded.

"And you—"

"I got ripped off. They broke in and took it. I had no way to pay him back, and he's a scary guy."

"How much did you owe?"

"Four, five grand."

"Eight . . . ten grand?"

"Yeah."

"So this was his way for you to pay him back—being the screen for his stolen boat. How long after you bought the blow was it stolen?"

"Three days."

"He didn't waste any time."

The mainspring snapped. "So what am I supposed to do, go over and shoot him!"

"Canino would," I said. "And you don't owe him four years in Belle Glade. But you got scared yesterday and refused to call me—so he called posing as you."

No response.

"Where does Lisa Gustafson come in?"

"She's his girlfriend. Nobody's supposed to know. She likes guys with fast boats."

"Nobody's perfect. Great of you to get old man Gustafson involved."

Talbot laughed, a low, dirty laugh. "Gustafson bankrolled the blow in the first place! He and Canino use the profits to build condos in Sarasota. But Canino's divorce is costing him and he needs money. Old man Gustafson just plays dumb."

Talbot was finished. We both sat there a moment.

"All right, Joey, here's the deal. You give me a statement, and I'll do what I can to cut you some slack with the company, understood?"

"I'll be right here," he said.

I asked him for a notepad. He handed me a cheap ballpoint, courtesy Poinciana Plumbing . . . Supply. He began talking. I began writing.

I was home for the ten o'clock news. The Bucs lost ugly. I slept the sleep of the righteous.

 

 

First thing Monday, I called Lou The Suit in Miami.

"Yeah, Sam."

"I couldn't raise you Saturday and yesterday. I found us a boat and a nice, juicy insurance fraud case."

"Tell me."

I knew how happy his manager on the eighth floor would be to duck a fraudulent thirty-grand payout. That's what the eighth floor is all about. I downloaded the whole story—sights, sounds and smells. Lou interrupted three or four times with a "gawd" and a "jeece."

I gave him Detective Fitzgerald's number at the Palmetto P.D.

"The worst part is, there was a femme fatale involved and I never even got a look at her."

"Tough business you're in, Sam," Lou said with a smirk. "You did a great job."

"I know," I said. "I always do."