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

by Craig McDonald

  Beau leaned forward, impelling Brinke to lean in closer to him. Beau said softly, “The barkeep speaks up then and says to me that the owner isn’t around. The keep says something like, ‘Why don’tcha check back in twenty minutes?’ Me, the potential dog-buyer, then splits with a promise to return, with cash, within a quarter hour, my five-hundred in hand.”

  “Now listen close to this next,” Beau said to Brinke. “The other five of us have done exactly what I was doing at my second bar, enthusing over the dog I’d just seen and want to buy. Then the six of us return to our first bars, perhaps passing our partners on the way and exchanging knowing winks. We snag a stool in our first saloons, looking crushed. Manifest message of our hangdog faces is the pressing business deal we each had has gone south with a bullet. Destitution looms.

  “Now, greedy people being greedy people,” Beau continued, “six barkeeps begin to commiserate and offer to help their respective ruined businessmen out by offerin’ to take each dog off each newly-broke dog-owners’ hands at three-hundred dollars a furry head.” Beau paused, said, “This three-hundred dollar asking price is each Mr.-Newly-Destitute’s bargain-basement threshold to unload his four-footed best friend. You see, Brinke? Still holding the thread?”

  Brinke smiled. “I follow you. I get it.”

  Beau smiled back. “Excellent. So each of the six dog owners then demurs…for about a minute. Reluctant, riddled with self-recrimination, we bogus dog owners give in, each of us pocketin’ three-hundred dollars. We split our bars then, shedding crocodile tears for our lost dogs. Six barkeeps check their watches. In ten minutes, each anticipates a two-hundred dollar profit from a five-hundred dollar sale. As they wait, six grifters split town, perhaps thirty minutes before the cops are called, and nearly two grand to the good. Respectable money for next to nothing, wouldn’t you say, Brinke?”

  She nodded smiling, infatuated. Hector figured if he were out of the picture, Brinke would lay his grandfather in a New York minute.

  He could tell Beau was thinking that too. His grandfather smiled and squeezed her hand again. He said, “And the conscience-salving silver lining in this little short con? The dogs that didn’t get kept at least would go to the gas chamber well-groomed and with pleasing breath.”

  Brinke scowled and slapped the old man’s hand. “You nearly ruined it with that last,” she said. “But still, I love it. The whole scheme and its execution is wacky and wonderful. All those greedy tavern owners getting theirs! Did Hector ever run such games with you?”

  Hector was about to object but Beau raised a hand. “No, darling. I tried a bit to groom him, and the lad has the raw skill. Problem with Mase and the con is his damn writer’s mind and mouth. He starts working his jaw and then gets all caught up in the scenario. Buries himself in the role. Mase starts jawing and just makes everything overly convoluted and muddies all the waters. Solo, he’s probably fine, but in a team setting? Well, old Mase here and his big imagination is just too cumbersome to handle, even for a seasoned and steady hand like mine.”

  16

  The man watched the trio at the table. The older man and the younger man were very much with the pretty, raven-haired woman.

  The man shook his head, frustrated. The men with her were both tall and well built. Hell, even the old man with the white hair and moustache looked potentially formidable.

  The man figured he might have to come up with some scheme to get that pair out of the house to ensure the woman would be alone.

  He watched the dark woman, licking his lips as he did. She was gorgeous, like the last one, Caprice. But this one was even prettier somehow. Had longer legs, which he didn’t think possible, and full, firm high-riding breasts. And, God, that smile of hers? She had that thing—did they call it charisma?

  But the trio looked like they were in for a long and leisurely night.

  Cursing, the man settled his bill and walked to his car. He took a baseball bat from the trunk and slipped into the front seat. The neighborhood was quiet and dead looking. The house in question was unoccupied for the moment. It was dark enough for his needs. He’d stash the baseball bat in a shrub out front of the Devlin woman’s door. Have it in place for his eventual strike against her.

  No, that didn’t work as a joke or a pun: After he’d had her, the bat would surely make contact well enough. Anyways…

  He’d bide his time. Hell, Brinke Devlin was more than worth a little wait.

  17

  They walked arm-in-arm along Duval, Brinke in the center. All three were fairly lit.

  Brinke said, “You’re a delight, Beau. So, will you give me away, good sir?”

  Beau closed his hand over her hand gripping his left arm. “What about your own parents?”

  “Quite don’t know about them,” Brinke said thickly, suddenly serious. “They failed me, Beau.” Brinke’s voice cracked a little on that last, piercing Hector, even though he already knew the story.

  Beau squeezed her to him. “Enough said then, child. I’ll happily and proudly escort you up the middle aisle.”

  Brinke kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much, Beau.”

  The old man said, “It’s my pleasure and more, my privilege, dearest Brinke. You know, I’ve read a few of your books, too, I’ll confess. Read one makin’ the Gulf crossin’. The ones you wrote under the name of Connor Templeton. Having spent so much time in your head, via your novels, I mean, I feel as though I truly know you. They are wonderful books. Fine time-passers.”

  “Thank you again, Beau.”

  “I also read our boy here’s first novel a few weeks ago,” the old man said. “Loafed out by the ocean with that sucker. Actually sat on the seawall several nights before the sun sank, reading that tome.”

  The old man leaned forward to get a better look at Hector. He squeezed his grandson’s knee. “It was a great story, Mase. I don’t read much of that what I guess you call fiction. You know that. Really not read anything like that at all, until your books. But yours was wonderful and I flat loved it. I’m very proud of you and of your writin’.”

  Hector, surprised and genuinely touched, said, “It really means something, coming from you.”

  The old man nodded. “Much money in your line of work?”

  Well, here it came, from the other direction. “We’re doing just fine,” Hector said.

  The old man nodded. “Good. That’s good.” A beat, then, “How fine?”

  Hector sighed, said, “Fine enough for us. Good enough to live well enough in this place.”

  Beau laughed and shook his head. “This place is no place. It’s like El Paso with water on all sides. But maybe even more lawless if that’s possible. At least seems so based on what I’ve been reading in the papers. And based on what you were tellin’ me out to the pier earlier.”

  Brinke started to talk but Beau said, “And here’s my hotel. Come up, you two, have a brief nightcap. We’ll talk more about Key West and how dangerous it is. I mean, if you’re not at your libational limits.”

  “A last drink sounds great,” Brinke said. “And Hector has no limits, so far as I can tell.”

  “Often feared that, too,” Beau said. “Regardless, we’ll drink in my rooms.”

  Hector winced. “Rooms plural?”

  “You know me, I like my space, Mase. Like to sprawl.” Beau hesitated, then split a smile between them. “Oh, in front of the staff and such, please don’t call me Beau or Mr. Stryder, okay?”

  Hector shook his head, smiling. “Of course. Who are you tonight, Pap?”

  “For the purposes of the hotel staff and management, I’m Cornelius Astor.”

  Brinke, grinning said, “You mean of the Astors?”

  “I haven’t confirmed it to them that’s inside,” Beau said. “But I haven’t denied it, neither.”

  ***

  Hector walked around, whistling, low. Beau seemed to have the run of roughly half of the upper floor of the just-opened hotel. Hector stepped out onto a balcony and looked out over the rooftop
s of Key West, staring out at ships at sea, their lights glowing and swaying in the darkness. He heard the cry of gulls overhead. He searched the island for signs of fire, but it seemed a quiet night. Hector slipped back inside and sat down on the bench by a baby grand piano. He played a few bars of Stephen Foster’s “Old Kentucky Home.”

  “I didn’t know you play,” Brinke said, delighted. She sat down next to Hector.

  “If you call that playing,” Hector said, taking his hands from the keys. “This room, rather, rooms, are beyond posh,” he said to his grandfather. “How much have you paid this place so far?”

  “Zilch,” Beau said. “It’s all on credit and presumed last name for the moment. They think I’ve got more money than God, so they haven’t asked for any of it just yet. Perception, as always, is reality. That said, a marriage, sooner rather than later, would help the cause. That cause being me not paying a cent to this place, not ever. I’m a man with an eye always on an exit or a road. As I indicated earlier, islands cramp my style in that way.”

  Brinke nodded. “Day after tomorrow soon enough for that ceremony?”

  “Perfect,” Beau said, beaming. “Who else will be there?”

  “Just us three, a priest and maybe an organist,” Brinke said. “Some rummy or two Hector says he’ll pull out of a bar just before the time to stand witness. Isn’t that romantic?”

  Beau shook his head. “Jesus, what a motley ceremony it promises to be. You should have a proper audience. Alas. Just leave me the address and time I should show up.”

  “Done.” Brinke sat down on a satin covered couch. Beau’s cowboy boots clunked hollowly against the Saltillo tile as he walked to the bar to mix some drinks. She said, “You mentioned Hector’s been telling you about the crimes here.”

  “That’s right,” Beau said evenly. “The fires. The so-called Key West Clubber, too.”

  “And what do you think about all that?”

  Beau handed Brinke a whiskey soda. Hector rose and looked over the selection and poured himself three fingers of tequila. Beau sat down with his own tall whiskey and soda and sipped some. “I think you two should not go back to bad old habits and try and poke around this thing. Not like I hear you did in Paris, dear. That said, I figure you’re both in too far already and not to be dissuaded. Particularly not since a friend’s blood’s been spilled. So I aim to see this thing wrapped up nice and neat before I head back to Texas to await word for my next Florida visit. Say, for a christening. That’d be a sufficient and worthy reason to return to this sweltering sand heap.”

  Brinke smiled. “Indeed. You said you worked under color of authority for a time, Beau.”

  “Texas Ranger for three years,” Beau said. “Did some private work for Pinkertons—for about five minutes—before I found my conscience. So I know some things about how to go about this stuff. If I want to go at it straight, that is. Hector’s also told me a good deal. Now you tell me some stories, Brinke.”

  ***

  An hour later, Beau said, “I’m not buying this phantom killer—this sometimes rapist, sometimes arsonist, and his years’ long crime spree. Doesn’t make sense to me, not a lick. And an arsonist, short of a professional, is always a compulsive criminal. Firebugs can’t control themselves, and they get the itch worse over time. After that 1923 fire you described, the subsequent fires seem almost insignificant. And the attacks against the women? That doesn’t make sense to me, neither. Not a lick. Again, rapists and repeat killers are creatures of habit and compulsion. They go after targets of opportunity, likely as not. And usually they go after fallen women. They favor working girls and barflies. Women on the margins who won’t be easily missed or likely avenged.”

  Brinke nodded. “You’ve figured it about as Hector and I have. So what’s your theory?”

  Beau shrugged. “Haven’t gotten me one of those, yet. Not really. But sex aside, at bottom of almost every other crime, there’s always money to be had in the end. Someone’s turnin’ a buck on these bad doin’s, somehow. Even these rapes. That’s my instinct. Give me the mornin’ to do some of my own nosin’ around. About noon, let’s aim to reconvene. That little coffee shop on Duval Hector tells me you both favor sounds good and private for a rendezvous. Let’s meet there.” He checked his pocket watch. “And God Almighty, look at the time. Way past my bedtime.”

  Beau hustled up to his feet and took Hector’s and Brinke’s glasses from them. The old man deftly slipped Hector’s discarded blazer over Brinke’s bare shoulders. “It’s gonna be brisk out there by now,” he said, urging them to the door.

  Hector narrowed his eyes; what the hell was this rush out the door about?

  Beau had always been the consummate night owl.

  They said their hurried goodnights and Brinke and Beau exchanged a brief kiss. Hector opened the door to find a petite, dishy young Cuban woman on the other side, her hand poised to knock. She looked surprised and a little fearful to have been seen.

  Clearing his throat, Beau said, “Brinke, Mase—this is Consuelo. She works here.”

  Hector could have guessed that. The woman indeed had a hotel uniform, but it was on a hanger and dangling from her crooked finger. The woman, maybe Hector’s age or even a bit younger, was currently wearing a strapless black cocktail dress and black heels. She sported bright red lipstick. Some brand of heady perfume clung to her curves. The dress, the makeup—they all looked fresh. A small duffel bag was slung over her bare shoulder.

  Seemed to Hector that Beau had quite an evening ahead of him.

  Before Brinke could try and say something to smooth the awkwardness between them, Hector took Brinke’s arm and stepped past Consuelo into the hall. Hector said to Beau, “Later Cornelius. We’ll leave Consuelo here to see to your needs… to your suite’s needs. Do try and get some rest, buddy.”

  As they rode down in the elevator, Brinke smiled crookedly at Hector and shook her head. “For God’s sake, don’t take this wrong, Hec, but I think I’m jealous of that woman.”

  “Hell, I’m jealous of Beau.” Brinke shot him a look. Hector said, “C’mon, you saw her.”

  “Beautiful and saucy, yes,” Brinke said. “Think she speaks much if any English?”

  Hector laughed. “If not, she’ll know all kinds of new gringo terms comes the dawn.” He paused and added, “At least some Latin, at any rate.”

  ***

  The man sat in his Ford with the engine off, watching the house. He cursed softly when he saw the woman return; when he saw the tall young man holding her hand and watching the streets warily.

  The man ducked down when he saw how cautious the woman’s escort was. When he heard the front door of the house slam shut, the man sat back up in his car. He watched lights go on and off inside the house.

  He waited a few minutes, then the man cranked his car’s engine. He looked at the shrub to the right of the porch a last time, the one in which he had hidden the baseball bat, then drove off to find himself some place to drink.

  18

  It was nine in the morning: Beau’s first stop was the Last Key Realty office Hector had mentioned off-handedly while recounting his first movements on the island, as he had spoken to Beau of the dangerous atmosphere of Bone Key and elaborated about the crazy real estate market of Key West and greater Florida.

  Beau wore a black suit and matching homburg. He had a starched collar and carried an ebony walking stick with a heavy silver head.

  It was all very Old World. All very calculated for effect.

  The man with slicked-down hair parted in the middle—the one who had talked to Hector when he had been idly perusing the plats and houses for sale—leaned out again. The real estate agent said, “Interested in some property, sir?”

  Beau smiled, squinting up in the morning sun. “Vigorously!”

  ***

  Just before ten a.m., Beau stopped at the telegraph office. The clerk pulled out a form. “Where bound?”

  “This goes to Corpus Christi,” Beau said. “By that I mean Texas
.”

  ***

  Eleven-thirty a.m.—a knock at his door. Beau pulled a sheet over Consuelo, naked and softly snoring on the bed in the noon heat. He closed the bedroom door, shrugging on a paisley robe. He opened the door on a sweaty man with crooked teeth. Beau said, “And you are—?”

  The man said, “Mike Rogers, reporter for the—”

  Beau closed the door in the man’s face, yelling through the closed door, “Sorry lad, I don’t grant interviews.”

  ***

  It was shortly after noon. Beau sipped his coffee. “Superlative.” He looked his grandson and Brinke over. Both had slightly wet hair that still showed comb tracks; ruddy skin from their showers. Or, more likely, their shared shower, he guessed from their equally damp hair. Hector wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. Brinke sported white shorts and a black T-shirt that was too big for her—one of Hector’s, Beau figured. Both looked half-focused, groggy and sated from devouring one another.

  Damn grandson—so much going on of moment and Mase was full-gone sex-struck. Well, he’d have to just work Mase’s carnal distraction into his calculations, to make allowances.

  “Children,” Beau said, “we may need distance from one another in the days ahead. At least when it comes to visible public contact.”

  Brinke looked up from her Cuban coffee. “I’m not sure I follow you, Beau.”

  “He has no trouble seeing us at his place, or perhaps even at ours,” Hector said, “But I think he means we won’t be taking anymore coffees together, or strolling Duval and hopping speakeasies.”

  Brinke looked to Beau. “Is that it?”

  The old man nodded. “Mase is essentially correct. Oh, I’ll be there for your wedding of course. After all, that’s a controlled environment and invitation only. Now, apart from that, it causes me pain to say some space is needed between us if I’m to do what I need to do.” Beau sipped more coffee, then rose. “So we start now. If you do come callin’ at the hotel, you do so under the pretense of sellin’ your house to me, understood?”