Forever’s Just Pretend: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 2)

by Craig McDonald

  The man flinched; his cheeks reddened. But he caved: “Her name is—er, was—Caprice Boothe.”

  Hector nodded. “C-a-p-r-i-c-e B-o-o-t-h-e. Right. And this lady’s cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow. Hector said, “You mean from strangulation?”

  The mortician shook his head. “To my mind, strangulation implies some business with hands, or a garrote. Her throat was slit. She choked to death on her own blood. And that’s just as well, I’d say, given the post-mortem beating she endured.”

  Hector looked up again from his notes. Raw-voiced he said, “Beating? Tell me more.”

  “She was beaten with a ball bat. The killer left the bat at the scene. An authentic Louisville Slugger. Guess he couldn’t leave the scene carrying a bloodied bat. There’s been a lot in the press lately. This isn’t the first crime of its type. Police think we may have some kind of what they call a pattern killer loose on the island.”

  “Seems just as risky that the slayer would come to the scene with a baseball bat in hand, given what you’ve shared with me,” Hector said.

  “Cop named Dixon, one of the good ones, maybe the only good one, thinks maybe the killer hides his ball bats near the scene of his intended crimes,” the mortician said. “You know, he puts ’em there in waiting.”

  Hector nodded; he had to struggle to suppress a shiver. “Let’s see your paperwork on this Boothe woman. If we wrap this up in the next few minutes, I may even be able to squeeze in a piece of your island’s famous Key lime pie. Least do something to feel like I was here on your island for more than this morbid damned business. Those Tampa shysters, they did us all harm, brother.”

  15

  Hector slipped off his jacket and tugged off his tie. He un-tucked his shirt, unbuttoned it, then collapsed onto a chair to pull off his shoes and socks. Brinke turned the radio down on “What’ll I Do?” She handed Hector a shot glass of bootleg rum. “Learn much?”

  “Nothing I likely couldn’t have simply surmised without digging,” Hector said. “You?”

  “Ditto.”

  “What was your take on the newspaper reporter?”

  “Inept,” Brinke said. “He’s a one-man band. Reporter and publisher. Very stretched by both and not particularly good at either.” Brinke arched an eyebrow. “Yet he’s driving a brand new convertible.”

  Hector nodded. “That flivver is some kind of payoff, you’re thinking?”

  “Maybe,” Brinke said. “It’s the obvious enough thought. What about the mortician?”

  “Just what he appears to be,” Hector said. “And far out of his depth with these killings.”

  A rap at the door. Hector shot Brinke a look, said, “If it’s that damned sheriff again…”

  Hector rose and pushed his fists against his back until his spine cracked. He opened the storm door and then grinned. He said, “I’ll be a sorry son of a bitch!”

  Hector fumbled with the catch-and-eye hook of the badly hung door. He finally flipped it loose and opened the screen door. Brinke rose and stood behind Hector.

  The old man at the door was a tall, slender, silver-haired echo of Hector, Brinke thought. He wore a seersucker suit, white with thin blue pinstripes, and clutched a Panama hat in his big left hand. Hector hugged the old man and said, “Means the damned world to me, you coming here on short notice. Means everything to both of us, Paw-Paw.”

  The old man kissed Hector’s forehead, then bear-hugged Hector back. Beau Stryder said, “How old are you now, boy? Twenty-four, twenty-five?”

  “There abouts,” Hector said.

  “So you ain’t a boy no more. Peers, that’s what we are now, kiddo. Enough of this Paw-Paw nonsense. We’re both well and soundly past sentiment. And, hell, just makes me feel more the geezer and makes you sound the childish fool. You call me Beau, now. Right-o?”

  Hector blinked, said, “Okay. Sure… Beau.” He furrowed his brow. “So what do you call me?”

  The old man wrapped a big hand around Hector’s scruff and shook him, staring him in the eye. “Call you same as I always have. I call you Mase.”

  Brinke stepped out from behind Hector, extending her hand to the old man. He smiled at her—dimples either side of a thick white moustache. She said, “Why not call him Hector?”

  “’Cause I hate that cussed name,” the old man said, still smiling. “Told Mase’s father that when they settled on that handle for our boy, here. Hec’s middle name is Mason, after my mother’s side. So he’s Mase to me. And your name, honey? Brinke, ain’t it?”

  She smiled, nodding. “Brinke Devlin.” She held out her hand.

  Beau looked at her offered hand, shook his head, and spread his arms wide, simultaneously tossing his hat to Hector. Brinke stepped into Beau’s embrace, turning her head to offer her cheek. The old man wrapped his right arm around Brinke’s waist, his fingertips pressing her to him, almost reaching to her tailbone. With his other big hand, Beau turned Brinke’s head to kiss her on the mouth. He said to Hector, “So this is the mother of all my future great-grandchildren? Must say, Mase, I approve, and emphatically. Confess she’s a dish, just like you wrote, kid.”

  Brinke smiled, actually blushing to Hector’s surprise, and said, “Good voyage, Beau?”

  “Fine, my pretty Brinke.” The old man smiled looking her over. Brinke saw now where Hector got his blue eyes, all his features, really. Hector was undeniably Beau’s descendant. “Brinke,” the old man said. “Brinke Devlin. Now, someone of taste hung that handle on you darling. It’s a damn fine name and it suits you.”

  Brinke smiled. “Thanks, Beau. And I’ve got to say, Beau Stryder is a great name, too.”

  “So give it to your first boy child,” Beau said. “I’d be hurt if you did anythin’ less.” He looked around at their house. “Very nice. But smallish. How many bedrooms you have?”

  “Two,” Hector said reflexively. “We’ll get you set up in the guest room and—”

  Beau waved a hand. “Not at all. Already seen to myself. Saw a place downtown that appealed. Besides, you two are young and lusty and been apart a time it sounded from your wire. Whatever else age has done to me, it has not dimmed my hearin’.”

  Brinke was blushing again. Beau saw it and laughed. “I consider embarrassing you an early and telling victory, beauty. ’Spect it doesn’t happen often, darlin’.”

  Still smiling, the old man pulled out an old pocket watch and checked the time. “Here’s our agenda, children. Eight tonight, you look me up at Sloppy Joe’s. I hear it’s the waterin’ hole on this rock. We’ll find our trouble from there. Dinner tonight’s on me. Let’s establish that, up front. Good? Right.”

  Hector said, “Walk you back to your lodgings, Beau?” He smiled. “It’s been a few years after all. We’ve got some serious catching up to do now, don’t we?”

  The old man smiled and clapped a hand on Hector’s back. “Sure, Mase. Sure, we do at that. Let’s ambulate.” He paused and gripped the scruff of Hector’s neck again. “You do have worthy hooch on this goddamn rock, don’t you? Got me a hankerin’ for some fine rum.”

  “I already know a few places,” Hector said. “Good coffee places, too. Maybe after a belt or two, we could stop at the Star Coffee Mill. That place has been around almost as long as me. It’s run by the Sanchez family. When the wind’s running the right way, you can find it by the aroma.”

  Beau said, “Sounds a fine treat.” He nodded and smiled at Brinke again, gave her a last long look, up and down. He winked at Hector, said, “Sonny, you are in so far over your head.”

  Then the old man stopped again. Beau pointed at the poles and fishing tackle against the wall near the kitchen. He took off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. “Hell with walkin’, Mase. Let’s fish a little! Dusk coming on as it is, somethin’ must be bitin’. And there’s a drizzle comin’, too. Can smell it on the wind. Cool us off. Know some good fishin’ spots, Mase?”

  “It’s an island, Beau,” H
ector said, picking up the tackle box and handing a pole to the old man. “You just walk until you hit water and drop your line.”

  ***

  “Brinke’s a beautiful woman,” Beau said, blinking back the rain as he cast again. Hector watched and smiled as the bobber plunked in and then surfaced about twenty yards farther out than his own best cast. It always went like that when they fished together.

  “She may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” the old man said. “And yet, gritty and lusty, too. But Brinke don’t exactly strike me as the barefoot and pregnant type. Confess I fear for seeing any of my great-grandchildren out of this marriage, however long it lasts.”

  “There’s plenty of time for babies,” Hector said. “And hell, you’re too crooked to ever die.”

  The old man smiled and handed Hector his pole to hold while he lit one of his cigars. He offered one to Hector. He lit the cigar for Hector as his grandson minded the poles. Both men blew smoke rings and Hector handed his pole back to Beau.

  “You’re too unmoored for kids anyway,” the old man said. “Neither of you is settled enough for that, based on what you wrote me about this woman last year. And those books of yours and hers? Can’t spend your early mornings and late evenin’s writing at the books with a baby in the house. Christ, the sleep and income your momma cost me during her first three years of screaming and bawlin’? You don’t wanna know the lost hours I suffered. You really don’t wanna know the lost revenue. Hell, I can’t think about it, not even after all these years.”

  “There’ll be time for kids later, maybe,” Hector said.

  “Sure, keep thinkin’ that,” Beau said. “Still, you only get one or two women like that through your life if you’re lucky. I still grieve Samantha gettin’ away from me. That Miss Crawford…” he waved a hand. “Anyway, what about you two right now? What about her? You both keepin’ your noses clean? Staying out of trouble the way you two didn’t do last year in Paris, France? No more of that silly stuff going on that you both got caught up in in Gay Paree, is there? Keepin’ to the settled life this time, right? No sleuthin’ around nor any of that sad quixotic tripe?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Hector said evenly.

  “Holy Christ,” Beau said, sour-voiced. “Better tell me everything before you two get yourselves and your pretty life here all balled up again. And for Christ’s sake, Mase, spare no detail.”

  ***

  Beau sipped his black coffee. When the waitress came to check on them, he took her hand in his, smiling. He nodded at his coffee mug. “This stuff tastes a might familiar, luv. Star Coffee Mill? The Sanchez family?”

  The hostess smiled. “Exactly!”

  “The old man’s nose knows,” Beau said to Brinke, releasing their waitress’ hand.

  Brinke took the old man’s hand and squeezed it. Smiling, she said, “Hector—Mase—has been frankly shy about sharing facts about you, Beau. We’re going to be family soon, and I’m getting the increasing sense you know all about me. Perhaps from letters from Hec, and maybe from loose talk over fishing poles late this afternoon. But I know next to nothing about you, sir.”

  The old man stroked the back of Brinke’s hand with a big thumb. He smoothed his moustache with his free hand. “Yonder comes the risk.” A beat. “And don’t call me sir.”

  Brinke said, “What do you mean about the risk, Beau?”

  “The risk of maybe falling from your favor as you learn more about me,” Beau said. “My life has been, well, let’s use one of them fifty cent words you and Mase seem to favor so strongly. My life’s been what you’d likely describe as picaresque.”

  She considered that. Brinke said, “What’s your trade, Beau? Or what was it?”

  “Oh, I’m not retired. Not by a long shot. Don’t believe in doing nothin’. Nobody, but nobody, survives retirement. Can’t retire from retirin’, neither. You just turn up your toes and shutdown. Who the hell finds that prospect enticing?”

  “So what is your trade?”

  Beau squeezed Brinke’s hand a little tighter, smiled and averted his eyes. “My trade is… Well, it’s a tad bit abstract, you might say.”

  Hector sat back in his chair, sipping his own coffee. Here it came. He said, “Just tell her, Beau. Our Brinke here, she’s plenty worldly. Hard to surprise. And almost impossible to offend.”

  “I live by my wits, pretty Brinke,” Beau said, shooting Hector a look of annoyance.

  Brinke smiled prettily back, furrowing her eyebrows. “I’m sorry. But I’m still at sea.”

  Beau’s tongue tip traced the inside of his lower lip. “You could call me a man of opportunity,” he said. “A man who creates his own luck, so to speak.”

  “I’m still confused,” Brinke said.

  Exasperated, Beau collapsed back in his chair, starting at the ceiling. “Oh, Gawd.”

  Brinke narrowed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Beau, but I’ve been years abroad. Just cow-simple, I guess. Throw me a rope. Please, be direct.”

  “Ah, Christ,” Beau growled, signaling their waitress. “Incremental won’t do, that’s too clear now.” He held up the empty bottle and told the waitress, “This one is dead. Need a fresh soldier. Another bottle of rum and some Coca-Colas, all around, please. Sliced limes, too.”

  After the waitress had left, Beau leaned back in, still holding Brinke’s hand. “No gloss, lovely. What Hector refrained to tell you, and what I’m calamitously loath to confess, is that I am a kind of a ruthless opportunist. Let’s call it being an exploiter of the avarice of others. That sounds nice.” A hopeful smile. “Doesn’t it?”

  Brinke rested her cheek on her free palm. She was all flirt, now. Hector watched it click for her. Wearing an expression that was something between a smile and a frown, Brinke said, “My God, you mean you’re a con man, a bunko artist… a flimflammer, don’t you?”

  Beau ran his fingers through his white pompadour. “Those terms all sound so pejorative. They make me wince, and I mean down deep. And I select my targets with real care. Only the ones who can well afford to spare some. Never send ’em to the river, that’s my motto. Never leave them with no options or prospects for a future. A mark’s only truly dangerous when you leave him nothing.”

  “Sorry,” Brinke said, “sorry if I sounded accusing, or harsh. I actually think it’s fascinating in its way. And you shaped the man I love, according to Hector. Good can’t come from bad. I truly believe that. I really do, Beau.”

  Beau said, “Some bookworm said, ‘Reason, never, is the equal of feeling.’”

  Brinke smiled and said, “My feeling is that you’re a good man, Beau.”

  “He is that,” Hector said. “A little slippery in some ways, but at base, just.”

  The old man said. “I really am very choosy in my targets. Never soak ’em to the point of suicide. And a mark can only be taken in direct proportion to his own greed. So I see the ugliest, most rapacious sides of people as I shake ’em down. I always make ’em complicit in their own fall. Spares my conscious, true. But maybe they learn a rough but needed lesson in the process. Or so I delude myself on the way to the bank with their money.”

  Licking her lips and sipping more rum and Coke, Brinke said, “How long have you been doing this, Beau?”

  He shrugged. “Probably since my mid-twenties. Started about the age that Mase is now. Tried my hand on the other side of the so-called law before that. Had me a brief stint as a cop. But the corruption was so rife. Penny-ante stuff much of it, but just everywhere. I lost my stomach for that, pretty fast. And hell, I’ve maybe set more scales straight doing what I do to make my living these days than I ever would have playing flatfoot.” He smiled. “There is also something very intoxicating about living by your wits. About going to a fresh town and knowin’ you can make a fine wage with just your brains and your words.”

  Hector recognized Brinke’s bedroom eyes. She bit her lower lip in thought, then said to the old man, “Okay, a hypothetical, Beau. You’re here on Key West. You’v
e seen some of the island now. Say you have one day before you’re going to flee to Cuba, or up the other Keys to Miami. You want to make a few quick dollars in that single day. You crave walking-around money. What exactly would you do?”

  Beau let go of Brinke’s hand, leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He pulled out another cigar, lit it, and blew a few smoke rings. He was in performance mode now. Hector had seen the old man’s act a thousand times, mostly put on for comely women like Brinke.

  The old man said, “Island aspect appeals to me in a limited sense. Have to time the escape well though, or else face a world of grief. But like you imply, you can get off the rock and be gone before anyone can be warned further up the chain. So let’s presume you two would be my confederates. You, and maybe three more grifters I’d recruit or bring with me.”

  “Okay,” Brinke said, tanned elbows on the table. She sipped more of her rum and cola. “All those are givens. Six of us in total. What do you do next?”

  Beau smiled. “Here’s how we play the game. We slide into town with a trunk full of bogus, cheaply printed, gilt-edged certificates of canine pedigree. I usually travel with a stack of those. Our first stop is the local pound. We take turns picking out doggies. We get ourselves six of the oddest-looking mutts we can find. Next stop is any local body of water. In this case, like Mase says, we just walk until we hit the ocean. We shampoo those dogs in the Atlantic. Brush ’em out and force feed ’em ground Sin-Sin to mask their funky, post-pound dog breath.”

  Brinke was delighted. She said, “This sounds completely demented. Yet oddly fascinating. What happens next?”

  “Then we disperse,” Beau said. “Six of us with six dogs hit six different bars. Each of us six suddenly remembers an urgent business appointment. The six of us then pay six barkeeps ten bucks to watch our respective dogs chained outside for ten minutes. We never pay ’em that ten dollars by the way. You with me still? You followin’ the thread?”

  Brinke nodded, grinning. “I’m with you just fine. What do we do next?”

  Beau puffed some more smoke, then said, “The half-dozen of us then run to the closest bar just vacated by one of our compatriots. We each do a spit take at the dog leashed outside the bar we’ve just run to and declare it precisely the rare breed we’ve been seeking for years. Now, me, I say aloud I want that pooch and I want him bad. I offer five-hundred dollars to the man who owns the dog. Across Key West, you other five do exactly as I’m doing.”