Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “Hey, talk to the face!”

  He peered upward with exaggerated innocence.

  I poked his shoulder playfully, then eyed him keenly. “Why'd you come back?”

  He smiled fleetingly. “I wanted to see you again before I left.”

  “Left?”

  “I'm heading to Miami.”

  I shoved him onto his back. “So you had to, what? Have a 'fun' farewell? What am I? Your wham-bam-thank-you ma'am?” I asked icily, staring into a face as unreadable as the smile.

  He burst into laughter and pulled me close.

  I wrenched back. “Well?”

  He sobered. “Richard Jonas – Richie J – has to tender a few deals.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few months.”

  My leery gaze told him I wasn't buying it.

  “A year.”

  My leery gaze grew leerier.

  “Okay. Maybe longer.”

  “Bully … for … you.”

  He folded his arms under his head. “What do you want? Me to give up my job? Us to get serious? Are you looking for me to marry you, Fonne?”

  Flipping onto my side, I stared at the small television suspended above the bureau. What did I want? Unlike what Colt had suggested about Cousin Reynalda, I did not want the whole enchilada. On the return from the office visit a few days back, she'd mentioned I was taking myself way too seriously. The woman was right. I needed to go with the flow more.

  “What I want,' I mused aloud, “is not to be taken for granted or be available at the snap of your fingers. There's clowning around, and there's respect. Both have a time and a place.” I offered a quick smile. “Unpleasant water experiences aside, it's been a fun day.”

  He fingered the bruise on my forehead. “How's the head?”

  “Pain-free, but a bit woozy, thanks to the wine.”

  He tweaked my nose. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Should we head out?”

  “To be honest, I don't feel like sitting in a crowded restaurant. Do they deliver to boat slips?”

  “Let me pick up something.” He looked at his watch. “I'll take a quick shower and be back around six.”

  Once he was gone, I freshened up and slipped into jeans and a floral side-slit tank. In the galley, I downed two Advil with three glasses of water and tuned into soft jazz. I regretted the teenage chug-a-lug behavior because the resulting “romp” would never have happened. Well, not to that degree – uh, dang.

  Remembering I'd not checked messages, I located the cell by the galley sinks. Two VMs and two texts from Linda, two VMs and three texts from Rey, and one from Quincy. It was too late in North Carolina to contact my nephew, so I called my cousin.

  Rey answered on the first ring and shouted to her best friend. “Lindy-Loo, it's our missing colleague! She's managed to pry herself loose!”

  Linda jumped in and the two breathlessly hurled questions like seagulls setting down on an unsuspecting beachside French-fry eater.

  “Are you and lover boy having fun?” Linda.

  “We're –”

  “What kind of boat does the guy own – he does own it, right?” Rey.

  “Well –”

  “Are you two an item again?” Linda.

  “Uh –”

  “Are you playing captain and first mate, Cousin Jilly, raaaaaaarrrrrr?” Rey.

  “Uh –”

  “I bet you're not coming home tonight. Am I right, am I right?” Linda.

  “Uh –”

  “Never mind! You can spill all when we get together – and when is that?” Linda.

  “Ladies, stop, please!” I finally managed to get out more than one syllable.

  “Ye-es, dearie?” Rey drawled.

  “We're listening,” Linda purred.

  I had to chuckle. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don't rush back on our account.” Snickering, Rey disconnected.

  With a grin, I checked the fridge. Did we want more wine? Probably. Did we need it? No. Out came a large bottle of Perrier. Next: glasses, plates, napkins, and cutlery. Six $1000 Bellagio casino chips lay under a package of fancy napkins. Interesting. Was Richie J a gambler as well as a dealer?

  As I started to set the table, a topside thud startled me. Cash had only been gone twenty-five minutes. “Back so soon?” I called out.

  There was no response. Knowing I'd not imagined it, I headed to the cockpit – with a bread knife. Better to be safe than [very] sorry.

  There was no one in immediate sight and no one leapt from the shadows. The cockpit was as we'd left it: neat and uncluttered. The dock and marina were fairly well lit, but not daytime bright. Someone could easily remain unseen behind a power pedestal or utility transport cart. Save for a Gemini catamaran sailboat three slips over, nearby boats were dark. Two men were drinking beer from cans and chatting amiably while a third was engrossed in a laptop. I waved in return when they sighted me. A few yards away, a bulky man was walking an equally bulky long-legged dog and they appeared to be having quite a conversation, much like Button and I often did. I had to laugh.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  At six on the dot, Cash strolled into the galley with a large insulated bag, his hair damp, like the Batman T-shirt and jeans. “It started to rain as I pulled into the lot,” he responded to the unasked question, placing the bag by the sinks.

  “Care to unpack while I change?” He kissed the tip of my nose. “You still look like a radish, but a cute one. I hope you like Middle Eastern.”

  “I do,” I confirmed to the departing figure. “We have Middle Eastern on Oahu?”

  “There's a great little place near King and Cooke.”

  Onto the table went generous servings of hummus and grilled pita bread, chicken shawarma, tabbouleh, an herb and bulgur salad, and shakshouka, a sort of stew with softly-cooked eggs in spiced tomato sauce. Baklava stayed on the counter. It was too tempting to bite into one of the fat, crispy, ooey-gooey pistachio-and-honey laden desserts, so I did. Wouldn't you know it? As I took a huge chomp, Cash entered in fresh jeans and a handsome Black Fist Hawaiian shirt (someone had serious money to burn).

  I smiled guiltily.

  “Indulging that sweet tooth, Ms. Hamster Cheeks?”

  Chewing rapidly, I took a seat and prepared two plates. As I spooned hummus, I broached an area of discussion not yet touched upon. “When our paths first crossed at Neddy's, you pursued me because of the Howell case, right?”

  Accepting a plate, he responded vaguely, “Your interest in Benny had me curious.”

  “…Because he was vacillating between good guy informer and bad guy dealer, and you wanted to know which one I was engaging?”

  “Something like that.” He plunged a finger into the chick-pea puree and tasted it. “WP Howell had been on our radar for some time. When I learned of your involvement, major warning bells sounded. Benny plus Howell equaled trouble.”

  “You told me Jabar killed Benny. Was that true?”

  “Jabar was wired higher than a kite and saw an opportunity to get back at Benny when the drunken idiot staggered onto his turf. It was an act of retaliation.”

  There were so many questions to ask. Where to start? At the beginning maybe. “What about Howell's wife, Carmie? Do you think he killed her because she had something on him, as he claimed? Or because – maybe – he'd had a thing for offing wives?”

  “She and her twin, Gino, were quite the duo. They bamboozled a brilliant bamboozler. A self-important man like Howell would never allow someone to get away with that.”

  “She was into drug dealing, too?” I was neither surprised nor stunned, considering the woman's earlier, tumultuous years.

  “Indirectly … but no less guiltily.”

  I sighed. I'd liked Carmie. “Are you going after Gino?”

  “In time. Right now, the guy's more useful as a bad-ass, rich-ass entrepreneur.”

  I nodded mechanically and considered those last few days of the case. “Was that
list I gave you truly of no value? Or had you simply said that?”

  The smile was as vacant as the expression.

  Another dead end. Fine. “What about Davy, your informant?”

  “What about him?”

  I smiled drolly. “At least you're acknowledging you know the kid. Maybe you'd also like to confirm that the house on Kaipu is some sort of safe house?”

  Salad sailed into his mouth.

  I snickered. “What about Wong's and the Galaxy Pawn Shop? Are the men that work there on a government retainer?”

  Apparently the salad was quite tasty, because it was rapidly disappearing from his plate.

  “Fess up, Jones,” I urged with a playful poke to the ribs. “Mr. Death made an easy two-hundred dollars selling you out – if that's what he was doing. …Looking back, I'm thinking it was more a bizarre ruse or ploy.”

  “His name is Todd Handell,” he smirked. “He's a seasoned agent and in his 20s and 30s was one of the best – ever.”

  It was hard to imagine that the sallow-skinned, gaunt-faced man with poi-colored lips had once been a field agent, never mind “one of the best”. “What happened?”

  “His wife, also an agent, died in a freak accident while on assignment in Latin America. Todd had a young son he wanted to get to know – and raise – so he put in for administrative duty.”

  “Why did he give me the address?”

  Cash spooned more shakshouka onto his plate. “Instinct – and curiosity – advised him to check out your P.I. skills.”

  “Did I pass?” I asked dryly.

  “He gave you a C- for ingenuity and B for guts.” He winked. “I gave you an A for that dyke tart outfit.”

  I nibbled a triangle of hummus-heavy pita bread, wondering what other “tests” I'd passed or failed.

  “Is your cousin doing any more insect ads?”

  “She's moved on – to fish. Since she's become Bunny Mom, she's discovered there's more to animals than fur-shedding and allergies.” I smiled proudly. “She's recently become involved with a save-the-monk-seal group.”

  “Good for her.”

  I returned to the meal, picturing the players – most now deceased – that had been involved in the agency's first official case. As the three of us had previously stated, considering our limited experience as private detectives, we'd not done badly.

  Cash, too, seemed focused on food. Or maybe he was hoping to avoid sharing supplementary information regarding the Howell case. In truth, I didn't want any more, not right now. And so, the meal passed in silence, save for jazz and rain in the background and pensive chewing in the foreground.

  “Up for dessert in an exceptionally cozy master cabin?” He grabbed a bottle of brandy from a stowage cabinet and two lead-crystal snifters, and nodded to the plate of baklava.

  “Maybe Secret Agent Man needs a little nappy?” I teased, grabbing it.

  “He needs a little 'honey' … hon-nee.”

  “What if I said no?” I challenged with a haughty smile.

  He leaned into the door frame and smirked. “I'd have to forget your earlier comment about availability, and play Tarzan to your Jane.”

  “Then I'd have to play G.I. Jane to your Tarzan.”

  “So we're talking serious body contact,” he grinned. “I could handle that.”

  “I bet you could.” I gave a hip check as I slipped past.

  “How about ten Benjamins?” he called from behind.

  * * *

  In the master cabin, music began flowing through four Bose speakers at medium-low volume. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd never have imagined that we'd be on civil speaking terms, much less being intimate. (The guy provides some ocean fun and look what happens? Evidently, like little Button, JJ Fonne is a pushover for amusement and treats.)

  He passed a snifter. “Care to slip into something more comfortable?”

  “I didn't bring anything 'more comfortable', and if you suggest something that belongs to one of Richie J's 'ladies', I ain't interested,” I advised tartly.

  We regarded each other intently over plummy, spicy brandy. It seemed to be a day filled with reflective silence – until Johnny Rivers' “Swayin' to the Music (Slow Dancin')” flowed through the cabin. Wrapping around each other like infatuated teenagers at a high-school prom, we graced a small dance floor.

  Did Cash/Richie dance with many women in this “exceptionally cozy” space? Did they end up gracing the soft sheets on the berth? “Loosen up, Cousin Jilly, and stop overthinking every f'g thing,” Cousin Reynalda's admonishing voice sounded within.

  Quelling ambivalence, I nuzzled the base of his neck, slipped my hands across his backside, and gave into the flow. It felt awkward yet comfortable, curious yet right.

  James Brown's funky “Sex Machine” erupted. Oh my going-with-the-flow goodness – a shriek soared from my lips like an F-16 Fighting Falcon. Mesmerized, I dropped onto the berth and watched a Chippendale-perfect striptease. The man's skillset never ceased to amaze (who knew certain male body parts could swivel like that?).

  Removing a small leather satchel from a drawer beneath the berth, Cash extracted a handful of bills and slapped several on the pillow as Marvin Gaye's sensual “Let's Get it On” began. “Earn away, baby.”

  “You're incorrigible.” I jabbed his chest. “But a damn good dancer.”

  “Show me how good you are.”

  * * *

  Poke, poke.

  Ignoring the nudging, I nestled closer.

  Poke, poke.

  “Did you take a little blue pill?” I asked drowsily.

  “JJ, wake up.”

  “Just a little more sleep,” I murmured.

  “Now, Fonne!”

  My eyes flew open. The cabin was lit and Colt stood six feet away, an M&P Bodyguard poised. As if yanked by an invisible force, I bolted upright and hastily pulled a pillow to my body. “Oh … nuts.”

  “Speaking of, cover up!” He grabbed Cash's jeans, which were near his feet, and tossed them over. Grimacing, he glanced at his hand. “What the hell?”

  “Baklava,” I said, my gaze glued to a handsome and very deadly weapon.

  “Honey is daubed on a canvas of skin, not clothes. What's sexy or seductive about that?” He rolled his eyes. “You sure can pick 'em, JJ.”

  “He picked me, remember?”

  “Right, the Howell case.” He frowned. “Say, what brought you back together – that little beating?”

  “Thanks for the scars, ass.” Cash scowled as he slipped on the jeans.

  Colt arched a shoulder. “It wasn't my fault.”

  “You screwed up – majorly.”

  “We all make mistakes, including you.”

  “Not at the cost of someone's health or life.”

  “I could have left you to bleed to death, or put a bullet in your head to put you – and me – out of misery,”

  “But then you wouldn't have been able to stay on top of the Picolo investigation.”

  Colt scrutinized his colleague's face. “That was genius, suggesting JJ's place. You did it purposely, not just to see her again, or that it was a safe place to head. You wanted to see what I'd do.” He smiled at me. “He used us both. The guy's good.”

  “Apparently so,” was all I offered. While that might well be true, I preferred to believe that Cash – as he'd intimated – had had faith in my investigative abilities. He knew that I, along with Rey and Linda, would pursue the “T” clue.

  Cash's jaw shifted as he sat back down, his fiery gaze fixed on the cocksure man before us. How he'd get out of this dire mess, without question, was foremost in his mind.

  “I was sure you had enough sense to stay the distance this time around.” Colt waved the gun. “How you'd two hook up again?”

  Jumbled thoughts and emotions needed to be aligned, and fast. “He wanted to say good-bye,” I replied with more ease than I felt as I leaned into a paneled door.

  “Is he going somewhere, besides to his death?”

  It was
doubtful that Cash would have much influence, or opportunity, in deterring Colt, but maybe I could play the female card – if I could figure out [quickly] how to deal it. Playing dumb wouldn't work; Colt would see through the act. But perhaps I could utilize my lack of P.I. experience and portray “naïve”…? “What brings you here? I heeded your threat.” For the most part.

  Annoyance crossed Colt's surf-bronzed face and he nodded to Cash. “Ask your boyfriend.”

  “He's not my boyfriend,” I said automatically and answered for him. “You found out he knows about your duplicity.”

  “I realized after our little tête-à-tête the other morning that you could only have broken in because of something this guy told you.” He motioned Cash. “Thanks for stealing my little 'bombs'. Not bad, breaking in while Rey and I were out on a date. You've got more smarts and pluck than I gave you credit for. I liked the 'sisterly' aspect, too. Very cool.”

  I bowed my head in thanks. “How did you and Kent get together?” I smiled encouragingly. “If I'm going to die, why not enlighten me? Please?”

  “When Jimmy was alive, there was never any reason to worry, but his death would have a host of legal sorts sifting through files and whatnot to determine who and why. Old telltale documents couldn't fall into the wrong hands. Fortunately, the guy was pretty old-school, so –”

  “So, hence, the destruction of the personnel offices and vaults to get rid of those telltale documents,” I finished for him. “As for you and Kent…?”

  “Like those legal sorts, I needed to discover the why and who behind Jimmy's murder. Kent was damn good and very driven – I suppose crazy people usually are – but not so much that I couldn't track an obscure trail he'd left. After confronting him, the two of us struck a deal and determined priorities: I'd blow up potentially damaging files and he'd go after his stepbrother's killer. He was happy to join forces with you to see what you'd uncover investigating the deaths and I was happy to be kept in the loop.”

  “Did he mention who killed his stepbrother?”

  “Nope, and I didn't ask. Or care. There were more pressing issues.”

  “You lucked in, having each other's backs,” I murmured.

  “The relationship was mutually beneficial.”

  “…Until you took him out. I assume the three of us were to follow suit. Too bad we got out of the house in time.”