“A couple,” she said, sounding sleepy as she continued to stroke him there. She still felt her blood on him, tacky between her fingers. She said, “Already feeling homesick for Paris, Hec?”
“Nah. Or not like you mean. The City of Lights is worse than you remember. It’s tourist hell now, and I mean all the way up. A legion of new, would-be expatriates arriving every day, crowding out the bistros and cafés. Just thought it would be nice to put on some glad rags. Puttin’ on the Ritz, you know? Like we used to when we crossed the river and stepped out on the Right Bank.”
“Let’s do that,” she said, stretching her neck to kiss his cheek. “Been months since I dressed to the nines. And it’ll give you an excuse to finally shave again. You’re going native.”
“Don’t like the scruffy look?”
“Not on you. Yeah, shave and then let’s paint the town.”
“Only if you’re still feeling better.”
“I’m great now,” Brinke said. “Completely copacetic.” She closed her hand, warm and firm around him, said, “And if I relapse, I’ll just take another dose of Hector.”
Car doors slammed outside; commotion. Some dogs barked off a ways. Hector heard men talking, gruff and officious sounding. After a few minutes, someone rapped hard on the front door, belligerent knocks that telegraphed trouble. Brinke and Hector exchanged looks. He said, “I’ll get it.” He rose and cleaned up with a towel before pulling on his pants. Shrugging on his shirt, he called through the open window, “Just a goddamn minute, right?”
Hector closed the bedroom door on Brinke and began buttoning his shirt as he crossed the living room to meet their caller.
A man in a uniform was framed in the screen door. Hector squinted his eyes against the glare through the screen and realized it was a police uniform. Some island Bull was silhouetted there at the door. The Bull had stains under his arms and his forehead was shiny with sweat. The sun glinted off his badge. Squinting, Hector said, “Officer. Is there some problem?”
The cop said, “Is indeed. Name?”
“I’ve got one, yeah. Hector Lassiter. Your name, officer?”
“You live here, fella?”
Hector was taking a swift dislike to the cop. He said back to the Bull, “All things in their time. You have a name fella?”
The cop—standing an even six-feet, and going maybe two-ten, Hector guessed—said again, “You live here, mister?” There was another cop behind him, now. That policeman smiled politely at Hector, shielding his eyes from the sun with a maimed hand—the second cop’s middle finger was missing.
“Yeah, live right here,” Hector said. “What’s up, Oh Unnamed Flatfoot?”
“You live here alone, mister?”
Brinke wrapped her arm around Hector’s waist. She was wearing her saucy little Oriental robe. She said, “He does not.” She flashed her left hand and Hector saw that Brinke had slipped on the wedding band for cover. “This is our place, officer.”
The lead cop nodded, eyeing Brinke. “How long have you been together?”
Brinke slipped her arm through Hector’s. “We met last February.”
The cop made a face. “I meant today, Ma’am.”
Brinke shrugged and smiled sheepishly. She beamed up at Hector; he thought she was laying it on a bit too thick. “We’re newlyweds,” she said. She smiled at the sheriff, all sex. “You know what I mean. Why do you ask?”
The cop said, “There’s been a murder. Two doors down. A woman was killed.” The cop paused, looking Brinke over again. “She looked more than a little like you, Mrs. Lassiter.”
Hector edged closer to the door, read the cop’s nametag. “So you’re the storied Sheriff Mel Hoyt.”
The cop scowled. “What of it?”
Hector said, “Nothing of it.”
The Sheriff pressed, “You’ve heard of me?”
“Plenty,” Hector said.
“What’s that mean?”
Hector shook out a cigarette. He fiddled with a box of matches, struck one. “Like I said, not much.”
“What’s that fuckin’ mean?”
Brinke looked tense, warning Hector with her eyes to back down.
Hector rolled his eyes. “Nothing. It means nothing.”
“Don’t you fucking adopt some attitude with me,” Hoyt said. “Don’t you do that.”
“You’re the one with attitude, constable,” Hector said. “No identification, even when asked twice for it. I’m the one who was napping peacefully until you banged on the door and began running your belligerent mouth. All that coarse language in front of a lady. Tell me, who over your head can I complain to about your sour demeanor? You seem to have forgotten you’re a public servant.”
The sheriff sighed and looked over his shoulder at his flunky with the missing finger. “Fuck this. These two are a goddamn waste of time.”
The second cop lingered long enough to say to Hector, “Thanks for your time, sir. Very sorry for the intrusion.” The cop looked a little contrite for his superior’s surliness.
Hector watched them leave, opening and closing his fists. Brinke rubbed his back, said, “You need to get a handle on your temper around that one. He is a low, mean bastard, that’s a given. But you can’t antagonize that man. Right or wrong, he’s the law on this island. There’s no court of higher appeals.”
“He’s a dirty piece of work. You’re too right about that. Comes off him in waves.”
“So you do see what I’ve been saying about Sheriff Mel?”
Hector nodded. “I see it, sure. Did you know this woman he says was killed, this alleged twin of yours?”
“No,” Brinke said, biting her lip. “I didn’t. But I don’t know anybody around here, not like that. I’m not exactly the friendly neighbor type, you know that, Hec. And this island’s a live-and-let-live kind of place. They don’t run Welcome Wagons on Bone Key, as far as I can tell.”
Hector closed and locked the storm door, then wrapped his hands around Brinke’s waist. She draped her arms around his neck. He said, “You told me earlier someone’s been lurking around here. Spying, or the like.”
“They have indeed.” A quaver in her husky voice. Hector felt something tighten inside.
“Christ. This dead woman a house down? Knowing that someone’s been casing this area? You’ve really painted me in a corner, haven’t you, honey? Got me right where you want me and forced to poke my nose into this thing with you, haven’t you? Dammit all.”
Brinke squeezed his hand. “You’re only finally seeing what I’ve been saying all along is inevitable. What’s necessary. Those skills we have, we have to use them. It’s honestly that simple.”
Hector said, “You are at least right about that cop. He’s worse than useless.”
Brinke slipped off her robe and let it slide to the floor. Hector closed the front door with his toe so she wouldn’t be visible from the street. “Right,” she said. “He may even be culpable.” She began unbuttoning Hector’s shirt.
“Maybe,” he said. “Either way, he’s a thug with a badge.” Hector watched Brinke fumble with his shirt buttons. He shook his head, half-smiling. “More cramps, darling?” He studied her eyes.
Brinke nodded. “Not as bad as before, nothing like that. But I can feel them coming. Figured we could nip ’em in the bud.” She smiled and kissed his chin. “I trust that’s okay.”
11
The man snagged a stool at the end of the rough-hewn bar. Pelicans skimmed the surface of the warming Gulf waters, distracting him. A light cough and the woman behind the bar was suddenly standing in front of him. He winked at her and said, “What’s good, toots?”
The woman said, “What’s to your taste, mister?”
“Gin and tonic. Fried oysters if you can make ’em.”
“We can surely do both.”
The man watched the woman mix his drink. He watched the cook begin preparing his food. The man said to the woman, “What’s your name, gorgeous?”
The middle-aged wo
man rolled her eyes and gave that the smile it deserved. She said, “Rose. What’s yours?”
“What time you close this shack down, dollface?”
Rose gave him a look like he couldn’t possibly be interested in her. She made sure her rings were prominently on display. “We close at eleven. Except Friday and Saturday nights. We go past midnight, then. We hate to run a clock on people who are happy and paying.”
This job was a de facto thing for the man. One made necessary because the previous man had lost his stomach for the assignment after burning down a hotel and killing a child. Unprofessional on that bum’s part, the new man thought, watching Rose. But the new man had another job prospect of his own, a possible insurance-scam torching just north a couple of Keys. That job interview was at nine. The money sounded very good. So sparking this dump was going to have to be a rush job. He just couldn’t wait for the place to clear out for the night.
Oh, well. Too goddamn bad for this Rose woman.
***
Brinke said, “Presentable?”
“You’re never less than that,” Hector said.
She wore a floral print dress that showed a lot of leg. Brinke also wore a pearl necklace and white high heels. She had her hands behind her head. “Could use some help with this,” she said, turning. He saw then that the dress was backless and tied behind her neck. She had gathered the ends of the dress’ collar in her hands for Hector to secure them.
“You look ravishing,” Hector said as he took the dress’s straps in hand. Impulsively, Hector let go of the straps. The front of Brinke’s dress dropped around her waist. He cupped her breasts, running his thumbs’ tips across her stiffening nipples. She sighed and tipped her head back against his shoulder and he kissed her throat. “We’ll miss our reservation,” she said huskily. “Take a check on this fine thing?”
“A check, sure,” he said, pulling her dress’s front back up over her chest and tying it behind her neck as she held her hair up so he could see. “Something to look forward to.”
Brinke said, “Don’t you dare tie some killer Boy Scout knot you can’t get out fast, later.”
Hector smiled. “Not a chance. Trust me, this one will come loose, pronto.”
***
They rode the trolley through the darkened streets. Hector was wearing khaki slacks, a white shirt and a blue blazer, figuring Brinke might need it later when the temperature dropped. She sat close beside him in the trolley seat, stroking his thigh. “This takes me back,” she said.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Back? To Paris, you mean?”
“Yes. I miss it. Not so much the city, you understand, but the people. Sylvia, Hash…Gertrude. Hell, I even miss Alice. A little. Even goddamn Ford. You miss them, Hec?”
He brushed a comma of hair from above his right eye. His forehead was already damp from the humidity. “You forget that a few weeks ago, I was still there. Old Ford is still the same breathless, anecdote-spewing bore. Poor Sylvia still talks about you. Mourns you. Her heart is broken at what she thinks happened to you. Gertrude was also wrecked, in her way. Hem wore a black arm band for weeks.”
Brinke nodded, looking guilty. “I wish I could do something about all that.” Her eyes went hard. “But Estelle Quartermain is still out there somewhere, gunning for me. That cop friend of yours in Paris still regards me as some kind of criminal.” She shrugged. “In other ways, being presumed dead by the world is quite freeing. Certainly has been artistically.”
They got off at Whitehead Street in a block that had been spared the 1923 fire. They walked by a big old empty Spanish Colonial mansion with an adjacent coach house. A second floor porch wrapped around the perimeter of the mansion. The porch was supported by wrought iron columns. Brinke said, “A few novels down the road, maybe we could afford to buy and restore that place. It has potential, don’t you think? It was built by Asa Tift in 1851.”
“I like it a lot,” Hector said. “It’s wonderful. But a bit big for just two. And you’ve really steeped yourself in local history, haven’t you?”
“You know it,” Brinke said. “This island fascinates me. She reached out and took his hand. “For instance, this place we’re eating tonight? It’s next to the place where they launch passenger pigeons. They call it the dove cote.”
“Interesting.”
They were seated under a small palm festooned with Japanese lanterns. Hector ordered another bowl of gazpacho, vermouth shrimp, French-fried devil eggs and eggplant chips. Brinke selected swordfish with broccoli rabe. It looked succulent. Brinke took a bite, arched an eyebrow, then surprised Hector by offering him a couple of forkfuls. As he was leaning in for his second bite, Brinke said, “Didn’t realize this dish was so lousy with garlic. This way, having had some yourself, you can’t complain later about me. We’ll neutralize one another.”
“Always the ulterior motive with you,” he said. “Never drawing an uncalculated breath.”
Brinke said, “Yours looks really good.” Hector smiled and turned his plate so Brinke could transfer some of his entrée to her plate. She took a few bites and rolled her eyes. “God, this is amazing.” After a time, she said, “So, Hector Lassiter, author—what’s your next novel?”
“You first,” Hector said. He figured Brinke was probably using Key West as the setting for her next Bud Grant crime novel featuring “Horace Lester” and didn’t want to presume to big-foot on her new tropical territory. Hell, she’d found their new island, after all.
“I’m calling the next one Havana Jump,” Brinke said. “I’ve been making some runs over to Cuba here and there. In this one, Horace falls for a British diplomat’s daughter who may be less, or more, than she claims. Your turn, Hec.”
“The Big Siesta, is the title I’ve settled on,” Hector said. “A Miami private investigator ventures into the Keys on a missing person’s case, looking for a rich man’s too-young wife. He doesn’t make it back to Miami. It’s a death trip, at bottom.”
“Sounds dark, and still I’m looking forward to it,” Brinke said, putting down her fork to squeeze his hand. “After this, I thought we’d hit the Bamboo Den. It’s a lounge-cum-speakeasy. Sort of a collision of Cuban and Hawaiian décor. Great little band plays there weekends. Something like Calypso-Jazz.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said. “We’ll get a couple of nightcaps and then get you out of that damned pretty party dress.” Brinke frowned and let go of her hand and pressed it to her belly.
Hector combed a wave of hair behind Brinke’s ear. “Pain’s back?”
“Just a flutter,” Brinke said. “Nothing a couple of drinks can’t fix. And you, of course. You keeping up with my needs okay? I feel like I’m just using your body like this, greedily.”
“Doesn’t faze me. It ain’t torture, after all. And at least your current condition means we get to be reckless again.”
“We do have that,” Brinke said softly. She looked up at the Southern Cross. “Any word from Beau?”
“None as yet,” Hector said, following her gaze to the Crux. “But that’s not to fret. It’s not his way to jump to with a return wire. He’ll turn up in a morning or two. Or he won’t.”
Brinke leaned across the table, propping her chin on her palm. “Tell me some more about Beau. What’s this man like? How long since you last saw him?”
“Guess the last time was ’round about 1920,” Hector said. “But he’s looked the same for, well, hell, for years. Tall. Southern-gentleman sort, like some Kentucky colonel, or such. Given to wearing white linen suits. You know, like Mark Twain. He’s just a little younger than that house you were admiring. He was born in 1853.”
“Civil War vet?”
Hector slapped at a mosquito on his neck. “Uh, no. God knows both sides were conscripting teenage boys right and left, some to be Bugle Boys or drummers. Though those boys ended up as dead as anyone else in the fog of that bloody war. But, no. Beau, well, he kind of dodged all that bloody mess. Never been such a fighter, my Paw-Paw. He went abroad
with his mother, who, to hear him tell it, was quite the woman. She was a kind of extremist Bohemian. A freethinker and such. Another kind of pacifist, I guess you could call her.”
“So what’s Beau’s trade? I mean, I figure at his age, he must be retired. But how’d he make his living? He another author? The one who passed those creative traits down to you?”
Hector shook his head. “Beau’s no writer. Maybe a raconteur, but he’s no author.”
Brinke stroked the back of Hector’s hand. “What then? Oil man? Texas Ranger?”
“God, no, on both counts.” Hector hesitated and said, “And he’s not exactly retired.”
“What’s left in terms of options then?”
Hector lifted his hand, traced the line of Brinke’s jaw. “Think I best let him try to characterize it for you, darlin’.”
Brinke sighed and pressed his hand to her cheek. “Now I’m even more intrigued. You’re right, this old man, he might just win my heart. Particularly if he has your looks.”
“Count on it. You liking him, I mean. If Beau wants you to love him, you will.”
12
The clerk was having a bad morning. For starters, his first cup of coffee was burned by his wife, tasted of charred grounds. And then she’d turned him down for an early morning tussle, the cow…
And now this damned customer was working his last nerve, poor mouthing and playing the sob sister. The woman pleaded, “The promotion said children under ten are for free, mister. Please.”
“That offer expired yesterday,” the clerk said.
The woman raised her hands. “It didn’t say anything about an expiration date in the newspaper, mister. I have the ad here somewhere,” she said. “I know it.” She began to dig through her big, shabby purse.
The little boy at her side looked worried. He said, “Momma, we won’t have to go back home, will we?” He tugged on his mother’s threadbare dress. “Will we?”
The old man in line behind the woman and her son saw then the boy’s black eye. He moved to get a better look, and saw the mother’s corresponding black eye and the bruises on her wrist. Those last looked like fingerprint marks from a big, strong hand. Black and olive bruises dappled her skin. The old man drew quick conclusions; his blood roiled. That temper—he’d always had a hot streak of his own. It ran in the bloodlines. Thank God, comparatively young, he’d mostly learned how to channel his own anger, to focus it.
Forever’s Just Pretend: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 2) Page 5