Tampa, Florida
March 4th, 1963
I slept in the next morning, after popping a hangover-helper (thank God for 21st century pharmaceuticals!) and grabbing a cleansing shower. Cromwell tried to wake me up for breakfast, but I persuaded him to come back at noon. I'd had three full days of fornication under my belt, and even my batteries needed to be recharged some times. By the time he knocked tentatively on the door at 12:30, I was awake, dressed, famished, and ready to take on the world.
He had ordered bagels and lox this morning, and another pot of the Jamaican coffee, and we took it on the balcony again.
"Cross the other two off my List," I told him with a sigh. "Got them both, yesterday. Plus one more."
"Only one?" he asked, surprised.
"I'm pacing myself," I shrugged. "But I saw one I want to put on lay-away – a brunette. I'll point her out to you, if I can. Gorgeous." I poured a second cup of coffee and opened up Wealth of Nations. "Who are my next three victims?"
"I dunno, Boss," he said, aping a stupid Mafia thug accent to annoy me. He did it really well, actually, but I let it annoy me a little anyway so that it wouldn't hurt his feelings. "Let's see . . . Starting with Mrs. Pamela Mueller, wife of local CPA and future suicide victim Carl Mueller." I took a look at the photos at the top of the page, scrolled through a few. Good looking woman, not pretty, perhaps, but attractive and sexy, in an understated sort of way. Thin, wavy brown hair, very fine facial features, figure like a rail. "The lady is twenty-two, married two years, no kids. Nice neighborhood, upper middle class. Some charity work, takes classes at the college – nothing serious, I think, lots of crap classes – published an article on making your own pie crust in the local paper last year."
"She reeks of quiet desperation," I observed. "Looks like a romantic affair, maybe? I'll have to lay some groundwork. Huge pain in the ass, and out of character for my current character, and that could present some problems. Let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with a more workable angle. Next?"
"Camilla Ortega, 19, working class girl clerking in the Ye Olde Buccaneer Gift Shop and Boutique, up on the beach. You could walk there. Mommy left home when she was 8, Daddy died when she was fifteen. On her own, unmarried, aspirations of something better, probably. Works the shop for an older woman – lezzies, maybe?" The two pictures of Camilla were both less than a month old, and both showed a smiling, slightly buck-toothed Hispanic girl with pretty average looks. Slightly busty, but still teen-aged skinny.
"Possible, but I doubt it," I noted. "Says she marries later in life. Not much else to go on. More groundwork," I groaned.
"Yeah, your life is so hard," Cromwell snorted. "Now number six is a looker: Alice Glover. First runner-up for Miss Tampa . . . in 1958. Now she's a real estate agent. Unmarried, young, pretty, probably makes serious money."
"Or not," I added. "Appearances can be deceiving, especially with real estate. She's the easy one, though." I flipped back through all three of my marks, trying to put together a decent strategy. I was on a roll – had to be a way to kill three birds with one stone.
"Okay, I've got some ideas," I said, lighting a cigarette and staring out at the ocean. "But I'll need your help, at least with a few of them."
"We handlers aren't supposed to . . ." he began, after a moment's thought.
"Get involved directly, yes, I know. I think I'll just need you as a prop, sort of. You won't have to fuck anyone, I promise."
"Shit. I was hoping that was what you needed me for."
"Nope," I said. "Well, maybe. I'll just need you to play the goon and look menacing at the proper time. But that will probably be for tomorrow. Today I set up the groundwork. I'll need some tasteful gold chains. And a classy car. And I'll need you to find out a few things . . ."
Cromwell sighed. "And here I was planning on working on my tan today," he grumbled. I looked at his increasingly red face and shoulders and winced. We'd mostly cured skin cancer down-stream, but it was still ugly to look at.
"You'll thank me later," I promised.
***
I went by Ye Olde Buccaneer Shoppe since it was, literally, within walking distance from the hotel. I had on a sloppy Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and sandals, shirt mostly open. I enjoyed playing the rich tourist, leering at the scantily clad babes on the beach and prowling the little shops. By the time I got to the Boutique – a tiny little hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between a bait and tackle shop and a hot dog stand – I was thoroughly in character.
I walked in, bells tinkling on the door, and began looking around at the outrageously tacky shell-art, the shot glasses with Tampa's name on them, and locally-manufactured souvenirs. And I watched Camilla, who was sitting, bored, behind the small counter.
She looked better in person than in the photos – but not quite as bright, I was guessing. She smiled when I came in but quickly went back to her magazine when it was clear I wasn't a shoplifter. I picked up a few postcards, some knick knacks, a Wall Street Journal, and a really hip pair of shades before I ambled up to the counter. I had an idea.
"One forty eight," she said, after carefully calculating the amount. I handed her a fifty.
"Uh . . . Sir? I . . . I can't make change for that," she said, apologetically.
"You have to," I said, calmly.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"You have to," I repeated. "See the little words down here at the bottom? 'Legal Tender For All Debts, Public And Private,'" I pointed out. "I want this stuff. I have the money. It's up to you to make the change."
"But . . . I don't have more than ten dollars in the register!" she complained. "I can't even go to the bank! I have to wait until the owner gets here at five to—"
"Relax," I said, in a soothing voice. "A fifty is all I've got. So here's what we'll do: I'm going to go to the beach and read this paper after I send off these postcards, and then I'm going to have dinner, and then I'll be back at my hotel room. So you come by my hotel with the change, and you can keep two dollars as a tip. Sound fair?"
"Um . . . I guess . . . well . . . sure, I can do that," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "I'll just get the owner to go to the bank and I'll come by about five?"
"Five is fine," I agreed. "What's your name?" I added, turning on the charm.
"Cammie," she replied, shyly.
"Well, Cammie," I grinned, "you look pretty trustworthy. And I know where you work if you don't show up. Although forty-eight dollars and fifty two cents probably wouldn't get you to the border." She laughed at that, clearly nervous about the matter. Good. I wanted her nervous.
"See you at five, then, Mister . . ."
"Winthrop, Mike Winthrop," I said, with that smile that's lured so many girls to my bed. I gave her my hotel information and went on my way.
I stopped at a doughnut shop and used the pay-phone – when will the personal phone be invented? Pay phones are a pain in the ass. I called the number I found in the book.
"Alice Glover, Real Estate," the matronly voice on the other end of the phone said.
"I'd like to speak to Miss Glover," I said in my best Harvard accent.
