“All right, all right.” Helen studied him with an air of superior knowledge and experience that quickly got on his nerves. “You sure you’re not in over your head, Tabak?”
“If I were,” he said irritably, “I wouldn’t tell the Trib’s goddamned gossip columnist. I’m going home and feeding my lizard. He’s better company than what I get around here.”
Helen grunted, unintimidated. “Your lizard have any say about what kind of company he has to put up with?”
Traffic on the causeway out to South Beach was miserable, the lousy weather bringing the tourists off the water and into the shops and restaurants. Although he groused and grumbled, Jeremiah supposed if he were a tourist, he’d be here, too.
He had to hunt a parking space, which didn’t improve his mood, and when he got to his building, he found Croc out front with Bennie, the ex-tailor, and Albert, the ex-mobster. Not once in two years had Croc shown up at Jeremiah’s home, always preferring to meet at public places on Ocean Drive. He looked like a street bum with his scraggly hair and clothes. Bennie pointed at him with his whittling knife. “This guy says he’s a friend of yours. We were letting him hang around for a while, see if you showed up.”
“I called the paper,” Croc said, “and some woman picked up your phone and barked into it, said you’d gone home.”
Helen. After his low blow, she might feel fewer compunctions about picking through his desk—and about telling an unknown on the phone where to find him. On the other hand, Croc could be very charming. Jeremiah figured Bennie and Albert had let him stick around because they had knives. A little adrenaline rush, wondering if Croc was legit or if they’d have to take him down. They seemed almost disappointed when he followed Jeremiah inside.
“I don’t know why those old geezers haven’t cut their hands off yet,” Croc said on his way up the stairs. “Whittling’s hard. You ever try it?”
“I grew up in the Everglades, Croc. I can whittle just fine.”
When they reached his floor, Jeremiah unlocked his door, pushed it open, and motioned for Croc to enter first, noticed he was even more jittery than usual. “You smell my animals?” Jeremiah asked, trying to be conversational, get Croc to relax.
He paused, inhaled deeply, shook his head. “No, why?”
“In case I have anyone over, I like to know the place doesn’t smell like a zoo. It’s like people with cat boxes. They get used to the smell, don’t realize the place stinks.”
“Smells okay to me.”
Not that Croc had an acute sense of smell. Jeremiah offered him a can of iced tea, all he had in the refrigerator. Croc took it, popped the top, and drank long and hard, as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. A strange all-or-nothing kind of guy. He checked out the cages on the table and made noises at the animals, who each ignored him in turn. “I had fish once when I was a kid. I didn’t take to them and they all went belly up. Then I had a dog, and he was all right. I guess he’s dead by now.”
“You don’t know?”
“Nope. He was still alive when I left home.”
Pushing Croc about his past was a guaranteed way to shut him down. Jeremiah nibbled on the occasional crumbs Croc dropped—dead fish, a dog—and figured one of these days he might put together the whole cookie of just who Blake Wilder was, how he’d ended up on the streets at twenty-something. He sensed he was an odd stabilizing force in Croc’s life, someone who took him on his own terms.
When he didn’t go on, Jeremiah figured Croc had said all he planned to say about his childhood pets. He popped the top on his own can of iced tea. “So, what’s up?”
“I’ve been doing a little legwork.” Still more fidgety than usual, he paced in front of the table, polishing off his iced tea in a few big, crude gulps. He crushed the can with one hand, then dropped it on the floor and squished it down to pancake size. “Some of the rich crowd have been kind of excited about the robberies, you know, sort of getting off on the thrill.”
“What’re you doing, sneaking around Palm Beach and talking to rich people?”
“Hey, I never give away my methods. From what I’m hearing, the Mollie attack changed some minds. I mean, the scream, the bloody neck. Spooked some folks.”
“Well it should.” Jeremiah took a swallow of tea, which tasted mediocre at best, nothing like the sun tea he and his father used to make. They’d leave the jug out on the dock all morning long. He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. Croc in his kitchen, pacing, angling for something. “Look, Croc, I don’t want you asking questions on my behalf. If you stick your nose in a hornet’s nest, it’s your doing. It’s not going to be on my conscience.”
“ ’Course. That goes without saying.” Croc frowned, studying Jeremiah as if he were seeing him for the first time since he’d gotten back. “You okay?”
“No. I’m in a lousy mood. What else have you heard?”