The suspect, described as a well-dressed white male in his early thirties, escaped before police arrived. Witnesses said the man did not appear to be intoxicated. Klein was taken to Flagler Memorial Hospital, where he was treated for minor injuries and released early this morning. Due to oral surgery, he was unavailable for comment.
Careless reporting, Keyes grumbled, as usual.
For one thing, it hadn’t been a salad fork, but one of those dainty silver jobs designed for shrimp cocktails and lobster. Second, he and Mitch Klein hadn’t been standing at the bar; they were sitting in a booth.
Still, it had been a reckless gesture, something Skip Wiley himself might have tried. Keyes wondered what had gotten into him. Was he finally losing his grip? Assaulting an officer of the court in a nightclub, for God’s sake, in front of a hundred witnesses. He couldn’t believe he’d done it, but then he couldn’t believe what Klein had said as they were talking about Ernesto’s suicide.
“The only reason you’re upset,” Klein had said, “is that the case is over, and so’s your payday.”
This, after Keyes had told him all about the Fuego letters, all about Viceroy Wilson, all about Dr. Joe Allen’s opinion that Ernesto Cabal was the wrong man. After all this—and four martinis—Mitch Klein still had the loathsome audacity to say:
“Brian, don’t tell me you really gave a shit about that little greaseball.”
That was the moment when Keyes had reached across the table, seized Klein by his damp curly hair, and deftly speared the lawyer’s tongue with the cocktail fork. No choking. No ripping of clothes. No grappling on the floor. There was, however, a good bit of fresh blood, the sight of which surely contributed to the later embellishments of eyewitnesses.
Keyes had gotten up and left Mitch Klein blathering in the booth, the silver fork dangling from his tongue, blood puddling in the oysters Bienville.
And that had been the end of it.
Now, the next morning, Keyes was certain the cops would arrive any minute with a warrant.
Actually it turned out to be Al Garcia, all by himself.
He knocked twice and barged in.
“What a pit!” he said, looking around.
“Why, thank you, Al.”
Garcia sullenly peered into the murky fish tank.
“Don’t smear up the glass,” Keyes said.
“Those are the ugliest guppies I ever saw,” Garcia said.
“They’re catfish,” Keyes said. “They eat up the slime.”
“Well, they’re doing a helluva job. It looks like somebody pissed in this aquarium.”
“Anything’s possible,” Keyes muttered. He lay on the sofa, the newspaper spread across his chest. Garcia picked it up and pointed to the article about Mitch Klein.
“Did you do this, Brian?”
“I got mad. Klein went to see Ernesto yesterday and told him the case was locked. Told him he didn’t have a chance. Told him to plead guilty or they were going to charbroil him. Ernesto wanted to fight the charges but Klein told him to quit while he was ahead. Ernesto was going nuts in jail, all the queers chasing him. He had that incredible tattoo on his joint. The one I told you about.”
“Fidel Castro.”
“Yeah,” Keyes said. “Well, some maniac tried to bite it off one night in the shower. Thought if he chomped off Ernesto’s dick, it would kill the real Fidel in Havana. Witchcraft, he said. Somehow Ernesto got away from the guy, but he was scared out of his mind. He said he’d do anything to get out of jail. So when Klein told him he’d better plan on twenty-five to life, I guess Ernesto figured he was better off dead.”
“But Brian—”
“Why didn’t that cocksucker Klein talk to me before he went over to the jail? That case wasn’t locked, no way. You know I’m right, Al.”
“All I know,” the detective said, “is that we’ll never know. You gotta calm down, brother.”
Keyes closed his eyes. “Maybe I’m just mad at myself. I should have told Klein about El Fuego as soon as I saw the second letter. But how was I to know the sonofabitch was in such a hurry to dump the case? Whoever heard of pleading your man five days after the goddamn crime?”