Blake Madison, Florida Detective

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Peter T.
Date: 20 Nov 00 - 10:23 AM

As we skimmed along, I started thinking about fractals. In fractal theory, a bit like a pointillist painting, you start off at a distance where things look slightly disorderly, and then you look closer, and they look even more disorderly, and then you get even closer and at each point you think things will get clearer, but they actually descend into more and more obscurity. But the obscurity is part of the pattern: the illogic goes all the way down. And so it was with me and Sherry. Or was it the election returns? It hardly mattered.

. Because she was so close that I could almost feel the space between our skins. The others may have been there, the bimbos and Ralphie, but Sherry was perched just to my right, about a foot away. From where I was, I could look straight ahead and still catch sight of her tanned leg. If I turned my head, I could see her. I had done a lot of that over the last while, turning my head, seeing her, except now it was for real again. It was as if all the time there had been this vast space between us, full of the rest of America, insignificant universes of people and noise, but it was still our space between us, because it was between us. And then time had once again squeezed out all the rest of that irrelevant space, and now we were a swerve of the boat away, a shift in elemental gravity, that would bump our bodies together. A random act of fate.

"Hey, Blake," she said against the noise and the spray. The green swooshed by.

"Hey, Sherry."

"How have you been?"

"You always ask the tough ones, Sherry."

She looked at me and smiled: "You are so hopeless, why doesn't someone shoot you?"

"They keep trying, Sherry. I have this part of me that keeps ducking. Why I do not know. When I have saved up enough money, I intend to get it surgically removed, and then it will be fine. I won't duck anymore. "

She shrugged her shoulders, and headed her face back into the sun hurtling towards us across the skimming universe.

"Sherry?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Tell me about Hand Count Machines, Inc."

She got on her competent face. "HCMI does it all for you. They started off by making the machines for ballotting. Then they moved into hand counting. They use machines for hand counting too: you only check the ones that don't show up on the machine, and you can fix that too. You can fix it all. About a year ago they moved into handling overseas and absentee ballots as well. Erase postmarks, add signatures, you name it, they do it all. One stop fixes all. "

"And The Mudcat owns it?"

"No. He handed it off to Demarara some time ago. Demarara loves that sort of thing -- a tech kind of guy. The swamp vote is sort of recreational. The Mudcat is more of a people person, if you get my --"

The boat swerved. Our bodies bumped into each other. I got her drift.

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 19 Nov 00 - 11:17 PM

I watched the boys salting the swamp with ballots for awhile,bummed a Lucky off one of the counters,surveyed the dirt track that cut through the jungle to this spot.A Brinks Truck was parked nearby,back hatch standing open.That must be how the ballots got here.First class treatment right up to the point they got dumped in the swamp.Right next to the truck was a blue Corvair with a sour-looking character slumped behind the wheel. "Where to from here?" I asked the big stogy-smoker."Relax" he smiled,"what's the hurry?You wanted to meet the Mudcat didn't you?" A distant hum caught my attention.I could see almost 1 1/2 miles of green water broken by soggy hummocks of mangrove.At the far edge,a fan boat appeared.As it approached,the ballot boys turned it up a notch..."BushBushGoreBushGoreGore",and as the boat slid up to the bank I recognized Sherry Aims in the cockpit,decked out in camouflage fatigues and flanked by two thong-clad sunglassed beauties who were oblivious to everything but the sun and their Pina Coladas."Hi Baby,"I said."Looking for me,I heard," she said,tying the bow off to a palm trunk."Yes ma'am.Thanks for making my job so easy." She walked up to me,standing close enough that I could see my face smiling goofily back in her mirrored shades."You're a nosy,dumb bastard Blake,"she breathed,"and now you're ass deep in alligators."I grinned at myself in her lenses."But I'm just here to drain the swamp." She shook her head and said "get in the boat.I've got one more passenger."She slipped her first and fifth fingers between her lips and blew a sharp note.At this,the lanky sourpuss in the Corvair emerged toting a battered Samsonite briefcase with several coffee-stained papers sticking out at the latch."You know"he said,"that contraption wreaks havoc on the water hyacinths and other floating vegetation..."

"Just shut up and get in the boat, Ralph," she said," and polish the little speech you've prepared that explains why you didn't get the matching funds,and why we won't get our cut."Ralph and I climbed in and took seats next to the sun-tanned female mannikins while Sherry cast off.I had a half-pint of Four Roses in my hip-flask,but Ralph waved it off as we picked up speed,ripping a great emerald swath through the hyacinths.

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Amos
Date: 19 Nov 00 - 08:47 PM

(They both worked on my try, McG. Thanks, though!)

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: McGrath of Harlow
Date: 19 Nov 00 - 08:45 PM

That blue clicky of yours wen'r pearshaped when I tried to us it, Amos - maybe this will work better, though I can't see whty it should!

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Amos
Date: 19 Nov 00 - 06:52 PM

There's a quiet buzz coming into this story from some other part of town. Click. Click. It's starting to rain. A phone rings on the waterfront. Twice. Then silence.

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Peter T.
Date: 19 Nov 00 - 12:22 PM

Brenda had a speciality act which she seldom displayed in public, and I was flattered to see that she decided to go into it for my benefit. It involved spelling out the 13th Amendment to the Constitution using only her body -- the vowels and the consonants weren't much, but the punctuation would have unnerved the Founding Fathers and caused the Founding Mothers some concern. The music pounded away, and I got up and went back to the bar.

"Simon, do you know someone called Demarara, Dominic Demarara? Sugar king?"

His smile washed away. "You didn't ask, and I didn't hear that. You didn't come in here, and it isn't Tuesday."

"Philosophy was never your strong suit, Simon. Another one of these is." He fixed me another drink. A few minutes passed. Brenda was seguying into the Gettysburg Address. People would note and long remember. She ended with a flourish that would have woken the Confederate dead, and came down off the stage.

"Blake, you sweetie," she said, sitting down and looking provocatively at me, "How good of you to come and see me, and bringing all your friends with you. No don't turn around, but about 7 seconds after you came in some not very nice boys followed you in, and if I were you I would get out of here as fast as I could, not even stopping for one of my patented Stars and Stripes Forever blow jobs, if you get my drift, and you and I are about to have a fight." And she stood up and said loudly: "Keep your hands off, dickhead," and hit me across the face. I threw my drink in hers, growling softly: "I love you too, Brenda." And she hit me again, and then Ralph the bouncer who was to ordinary bouncers what Everest was to George Mallory, picked me up and dragged me towards the door. As I was going by, Simon said: "You forgot your receipt." and tucked something in my jacket pocket. Ralph carried me to my car. I thanked him for all his support, gave him 50 bucks for old times sake, and another 50 for Brenda, and I drove off into the night. Then I remember the smell of cinnamon Dentyne working overtime, and then I have a distinct memory of nothing at all.

In Tibet, I am told, when you die, your relatives chant the Book of the Dead so that wherever you are in the underworld you can hear the words and maybe respond appropriately. From a great distance and through a red haze I heard someone saying, "Bush, Bush, Bush, Bush, Bush", and then another voice saying, "Gore, Gore, Gore, Gore, Gore," and I decided for some reason to follow these obscure words and those voices like some kind of rope pulling me up a deep well towards the sky, and I hung onto those words, and I dragged my mind up, and then surprise, light appeared.

"Ah, Mr. Madison. Welcome back." There was a hot wet smell which for a moment I thought was my own blood trickling in my face, but then I realized I was lying on the edge of a fetid swamp. Seated beside me on the bank, watching the show, was a large, powerful white haired man, smoking an even larger and more powerful Cuban cigar.

I decided to put my head back up on top of my spine just for the hell of it, and sat up. It was a big mistake, but then it was that kind of day.

"It is a good thing that you were carrying that note from our mutual friend. Otherwise we would be doing to you what we are doing to them." He pointed. I looked. On either side of us, along the banks of the swamp, a team of men was opening up ballot boxes, and pulling out wads of paper, examining them individually, briefly, holding them up to the light, noting down the result, and then tossing each ballot into the swamp.

He looked back at me. "We respect each and every vote, Mr. Madison. After all, this is America."

"Well," I said, "I suppose, like machines, you are neutral, neither Republican nor Democrat."

"Unless it serves my purpose, Mr. Madison."

"Very American too. Why do I feel as if I am in a civics lesson here?"

"Another civics lesson, Mr. Madison. You see this swamp?"

I nodded. Which was a mistake, but I recovered grimly.

"This is part of the Everglades restoration project. I and my colleagues in the Sugar Industry have been struggling, as good environmentalists, to protect this swamp from, well, what can I call it, ourselves, I guess. And we have succeeded, to the tune of a few million dollars per few acres of this useless scummy water filled with creatures only slightly less scummy. Act locally, think subsidy, I believe is the phrase. And who do you think brought us this extraordinary bonanza of our own making?"

I thought about shaking my head, but instead said, provocatively: "The Mudcat".

He stopped, and looked sideways at me, and puffed his cigar. "You know, Mr. Madison, you are much smarter than you look. I may even let you live."

There was a long silence. The unoffical recount continued into the subsidized swamp.

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 18 Nov 00 - 03:55 PM

(rising to the bait)

They love to talk about South Beach.Disco bars with metal palm-frond shingles,roller-skating Cubano Chiquitas in thongs,gay pool-boys sashaying out of Panama Jack's wearing canary-yellow short-shorts,Columbian Snow-Kings in silver Excalibres double-parked outside Starbucks.That's not my Miami.Find me in North Beach,in the ramshackle file of pink-green pastel motels along A1A,somewhere between the Jai-alai Courts and the Greyhound Track.In particular,look for me at Caligula's,Sol Lowenstein's Lap Dance Emporium on Monterey Avenue,where drinks (at least for yours truly) are free and the girls are friendly,especially Brenda,the skinny little blonde with the scientifically enhanced hooters.She's a nice kid,country gal really. Left Waycross Georgia in '93 to make it in Miami as a blues singer,but she fell into the street until Sol took her in.

I pushed open the door to Caligula's,leaving the heat and brightness of South Florida behind me.Inside,it was nearly as black as a coal mine,but illuminated here and there by pools of red and blue light,and overlayed by a web of Coltrane unrolling from the ceiling speakers.

"Blake! Long time no hear from." It was Simon,the friendly and efficient Jamaican bartender.In no time he had a glass of Rocks and Roses on the bar for me.I made my way to Brenda's stage and sat down.She had the show face on,looking at the suckers,not seeing them.Then she smiled and her blue eyes widened."Madison" she said,demonstrating the amazing flexibility of her spine by bending backward until she was looking at me from between her knees.Maybe she knew about this Mudcat guy.Most of the Florida Fatcats found their way to Caligula's and to Brenda.Then again,maybe she didn't.Either way,I had a free whiskey and an hour to kill.

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: catspaw49
Date: 18 Nov 00 - 12:18 PM

Why was I expecting this? I had thoughts when I saw it that Leej had finally brought back Blake.......but Peter...........What can I say man? Fantastic!!!

Spaw

Subject: RE: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Amos
Date: 18 Nov 00 - 11:29 AM

Oh, Peter! Welcome back!!! Dang, you're good!

Subject: Blake Madison, Florida Detective
From: Peter T.
Date: 18 Nov 00 - 10:57 AM

Name's Madison, Blake Madison. 3rd hole down on the right if you are voting for me.

I was visiting a retired detective friend of mine on his houseboat, the Busted Flush, when he got a call.

"Hi, Bob, what's up?"

I was looking out at the Florida evening, wondering why I wasn't in California where I belonged. There is something about having the ocean on your right heading north that worries me. I could hear the sounds of incredulity in his voice.

"They did what? You must be kidding. Hey, hang on a minute -- Hey, Blake, did you know there was an election on?"

We had been drinking and partying and playing cards and making trips out to the Keys for a few days, so anything was possible.

"Yeah," I replied, "I think for the Big Enchilada."

He went back to the phone. I wandered down the deck. There was an abandoned brassiere. It must have belonged to Dimples. The other one, whatever her name was, the African babe from Chad, she didn't have dimples that big.

He came on deck.

"Blake, they want to hire you. "

"Who's 'they' when they are at home?"

"Turns out that there has been an election. The problem is that no one knows who won. Guess who gets to decide? The great state of Florida. Turns out that they want an honest count of the ballot."

Well, we laughed about that one for a couple of minutes.

"No, seriously, Blake. For the first time in Florida history they propose to do something honestly. Well, every criminal in town is in heaven. Imagine the opportunities for scamming this one!!" I pointed out that he was using Florida and honesty in the same sentence, and we laughed about that one for another minute. Then we had a beer, and calmed down a bit.

He started again. "Ever heard of "The Mudcat"?

"Nope."

"No reason you would have. He's the guy that runs most of Florida. Has his finger in every pie. Buys Republicans and Democrats for breakfast. Owns most of the judges. Looks like the election is going down to a judicial recount. And guess who has all the I.O.U.'s?"

"This Mudcat guy."

"Yeah, but funny thing. He's disappeared. And so they are all panicking. He's the guy who runs things, keeps them smooth, you know. How can you run an honest scam if the fixer is missing?"

"Can I ask the question again. Who's "they"?"

"Can't tell you that. But does the name Sherry Aims mean anything to you?"

For a moment I almost keeled over. I grabbed onto the deckrail. I nodded. He lookat at me quizzically, and went on.

"She's an F.B.I. agent, been working undercover for a couple of years in one of The Mudcat's Florida drug fund slush enterprises -- something called Hand Count Machines Inc. , a subsidiary of Butterfly Ballots International. She too has disappeared. They want you to find them fast. Like in two days."

"What's in it for me?"

"How would you like a lifetime's free pass on Air Force One?"

I didn't really. But I guessed there might be a few other perks. I shrugged my shoulders.

"O.K. "I said, "Where do I go?"

He smiled. "Great. They were last seen in West Palm Beach. I've got the address scribbled down. Welcome to Florida."

We had a drink. He saw me off at dockside. Just before I got into my rental car, I decided to pick up a newspaper for the hell of it. And there it was, all over the paper. And I couldn't have cared less. Anything that brought James Baker or Warren Christopher back into my life was nauseating anyway. I didn't care. I was looking for something else. The thing I was always looking for. I was looking for her.