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

by Craig McDonald

  Brinke nodded uncertainly. “Okay…?”

  Hector said, “Where are you off to now, Beau?”

  “I’d have you both blissfully ignorant of that next stop,” the old man said.

  “Generally then, where are you headed?” Hector stared back at him, clearly expecting some illumination.

  Beau sighed. “Seed money is needed. Thus, I’ve got to see a man about a dog. Several dogs, really.”

  Brinke and Hector watched Beau strode back out into the sun. She shook her head, smiling. “What in God’s name is that man up to?”

  “Please don’t pursue it,” Hector said. “Don’t try to figure it out. Neither of us, even together, has enough imagination. Trust me on that. Beau goes his way, and we go ours.”

  Brinke squeezed Hector’s hand. “What is our way, Hec?”

  “Still thinking of details. But in terms of broad strokes, figure we act as if we’re still on our own.”

  19

  Brinke sat in a chair by the front door, fanning herself; a thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead, cheeks and chest.

  Hector was on the front porch, struggling with the hinges of the crooked screen door. “Just a few more turns,” he said, leveraging against the screwdriver. “Thing has been driving me crazy for days, ever since I broke in myself a few days ago. Way things are now, I want this place to lock up good and tight. Serenity of certainty, to borrow one of your terms.”

  Brinke extended her long, bare legs, fanning herself more vigorously. “So it comes to this. We start looking over our shoulders and living in dread. Is that it? If it is, I don’t like it.”

  Hector cursed as the screwdriver slipped. “How long have you been carrying that gun, sweetheart? Some would say buying a gun lets slip the fact none of this caution will be new for you.”

  “Touché.” Brinke rose and stretched. “I want to swim, down at our place. You know, from the first day we were together here. Get your tan evened out like mine.”

  He dragged his arm across his forehead; blinked sweat from his eyes. “Sounds a great idea. Just another turn or two of the screws.” He lost his footing then, nearly tumbling off the porch into a shrub. Hector grabbed at the door jamb with his free hand. Brinke reached for Hector’s flailing other hand—the one clutching the screwdriver. She caught his wrist. Leaning back, Brinke hauled Hector toward her, steadying him.

  “You are some kind of strong,” Hector said, kissing her cheek. “And lucky thing you caught me. That shrub would have been a goner, otherwise.”

  ***

  The man in the Model-T watched as the tall man left the house. The woman—“Brinke”—kissed the tall man at the door, then locked the screen door and storm door as the tall man waited to see she did that.

  Damn their precaution. But the neighborhood was still too busy anyway, too alive with late afternoon bustle.

  The man in the Model-T would wait a bit longer. Early evening would bring quiet to the street. It had every night he’d sat vigil outside Brinke Devlin’s home. He’d just have to hope the tall man didn’t return first.

  ***

  Hector sat in the Cuban café he’d adopted as his writing place. He sat at a corner table away from the hot glare through the window, writing in his notebook and sneaking pours of whiskey from a silver hip flask, spiking his cups of strong black coffee.

  A shadow fell across Hector’s notebook. Hector glanced up. A man, roughly Hector’s own age and build, stood over the writer. The man looked familiar, though Hector couldn’t quite place the face. The stranger said, “Join you please, Mr. Lassiter?” The man put out his hand and Hector saw the man’s middle finger was missing.

  Hector remembered then that it was the cop who’d stood behind Sheriff Melvin Hoyt on Brinke’s front porch the other morning, the underling cop who’d looked ashamed of his superior’s surliness. The junior cop said, “I’m Jack Dixon.” The cop held a cup of coffee in his good hand. “May I join you, please?”

  Hector nodded and closed his notebook. “Take a load off, Dix. You’re out of uniform and the day ain’t that young. Why the civilian threads?”

  “My day off.”

  Hector arched an eyebrow. “Tuesday is your day off? Someone must not like you. When’s your other day off? Monday, Wednesday?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Split days off,” Hector said. “Someone must really detest you, brother.”

  “Might well be so,” Jack said. He sipped his coffee with his ruined hand.

  “You’re off duty, you said.” Hector held up his flask. “Give that coffee a boost for you? Or do you enforce and support the Key West version of the Volstead Act?”

  Jack frowned. “You mean prohibition? Screw that.” The cop held out his coffee cup and Hector poured in some whiskey. “World’s too dark a place to face it without a stiff drink.”

  “You’re shaping up to be my kind of police,” Hector said.

  “Guess maybe you’d know, having gotten to know some cops elsewhere, I mean,” Jack said. “Cops in far-flung places.”

  Hector’s stomach rolled. “What’s that mean now, Dix?”

  “My boss… Well, you’re a kind of a preoccupation of Sheriff Hoyt’s of late.”

  Not good news. Hector said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “You came on strong against Hoyt. Stepped up against his intimidation. Nobody else does much of that on this island.” Dixon smiled. “So he took notice. Hoyt began to research you.”

  Hector’s blue eyes narrowed. “Did he now?”

  “Yeah. All the way to Paris.”

  Hector made a face; his spiked coffee suddenly tasted bitter. “That so?”

  “Found some French police, a man named Simon,” Jack said, watching Hector for a reaction. “Figure he’s some kind of Frenchified inspector.”

  Hector smiled. Good old Aristide—a born detective. Hector said, “Yikes. Oh, boy.”

  “Simon spoke well of you, Mr. Lassiter. Vouched, I mean. Said you helped him out with two or three things back there in France. Said you might have made it in his profession.” Jack smiled. “I guess that is to say, my profession.”

  “Simon overstated,” Hector said. “The part of Paris, where I made my home, well, it was like here, kind of. I mean very American. Probably twenty American expatriates for every authentic Frenchman sticking it out in the quarter where I lived. So I was more of a go-between with the Yankee expats and that French cop and his officers.”

  “Right. Either way, it rattled my boss’ cage, hearing you did some work with police back there in Paris. ’Specially when he heard some of the things you did and were doing to help that French cop.”

  Hector nodded. “And so Sheriff Mel sent you by here to rattle my cage back now, is that it?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not at all. No, Sheriff Hoyt would fix to shaking my cage, and I mean meanly, if he knew I was here talking to you like this.”

  Hector bit his lip. “Do say?”

  “I was the one who conferred directly with that French cop,” Jack said. “I heard a good bit more from Simon than I shared with the sheriff. The more I learned, the more I thought you’d be a good man to know.”

  “So why exactly are we talking now, Dix?”

  “Thought you might be a good person to know, like I said, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Hector. And did you? Think we could be useful friends, I mean?”

  “Yes. You and your wife. Brinke Devlin. Who, I might hasten to add, French Police Commissioner Aristide Simon seems to believe is dead. Murdered ‘by parties unknown,’ as the Frenchman put it.”

  Hector shrugged, a half smile on his lips. “Well, Dix, that’s a story for another time. A hell of a tale unto itself.” Hector poured some more whiskey in the cop’s coffee cup. “You didn’t, well, disabuse Commissaire Simon of that notion he has regarding Brinke’s fate, did you?”

  “No, Hector. Figured you and the lady have your reasons for the subterfuge. You and the Missus. The two of you. Whom, parenthetically, ac
cording to Monroe County Court records, have a marriage license but haven’t yet tied the knot. Like I said, guess you have your reasons. For that, too, I mean.”

  “And you’ve got your own reasons for jawing with me now, Dix. Don’t you?”

  “That’s right, Hector. There are bad and bloody things going on here on Bone Key. Stuff like I can’t fathom or abide.”

  “Things with your boss, maybe?”

  Hesitation, then, “Maybe.”

  Hector smiled. “Well, we do need to talk more, that’s clear. But somewhere more private. Somewhere we can get a real drink.”

  “Sounds good,” Jack said. “I know a place. Let’s go there now.”

  “Let’s do that, brother,” Hector said. He paused. “Say, you got plans tomorrow around noon?”

  “I could take a long lunch for the right reason,” Jack said. “What’s up?”

  “That wedding you alluded to. I could use a witness. A man in uniform will class things up. Give the ceremony some, you know, gravitas.”

  Jack smiled. “Don’t know what that last word even means, but I’m game. Got yourself a best man, Hector?”

  “Nope.”

  The cop put out a hand. “You do now.”

  ***

  The man got out of the Ford, stretched and looked down both sides of the lazing street. Not a sign of the tall man returning.

  His time.

  At last.

  Howdy-do, Brinke Devlin! Shake hands with the Devil.

  The man hesitated—another man turned the street corner, an older, stoutly built man.

  ***

  A knock at the door. Brinke reached for her gun. She hesitated, then checked the clock. Seeing the time, she put the gun back in a drawer. She opened the front door.

  A man standing outside said, “Miss Devlin?”

  Brinke smiled. “Hello, Father. You’re very punctual.”

  The priest smiled and stepped into the cool of the front room. “One tries. And the prospective groom? Is he about?”

  “He’s usually quite punctual, too. Should be here any second.” Brinke hesitated, then said, “Something to drink while we wait, Father?” Blushing, she nodded at the bottle of French red wine she’d forgotten to stash.

  The priest was bleary-eyed; gin blossoms at nose and cheeks. He smiled and shrugged. “I really shouldn’t.”

  Brinke smiled back. “Well, I’m truly sorry if I offended—”

  The priest quickly held up a hand. “I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean I shan’t.”

  20

  Brinke tipped her head back into the warm wind that whipped the rooftop of Beau’s hotel where the trio sat on the patio, awaiting dinner. Hector nodded at the fourth place setting and said, “Consuelo will be joining us?”

  “That’s right,” Beau said. “Go ahead and call me Beau in front of her. Told Connie it’s a bewildering nickname. We’ll keep things simple that way.”

  Brinke said, “Mightn’t eating up here with us, in these posh surroundings, cause some trouble for her with coworkers? Some resentment?”

  Beau smiled. “Might at that. But Consuelo will be moving on to another position quite soon. Something I’m lining up for her.”

  Hector said, “Well, of course. She’s running late?”

  “Not at all,” Beau said, sipping wine. “Just thought we’d have some time alone to catch up before dinner. So, we have twenty minutes or so. What have you done today, Mase? Sleuth-wise, I mean?”

  “Too little,” Hector said. “I mean, other than befriend a cop, maybe a good one. He hates his boss, Sheriff Mel Hoyt. He thinks Hoyt is dirty. Dirty, and purposely fumbling the Key West Clubber case.” Hector smiled at Brinke. “By the way, my new friend will be standing with me as best man tomorrow.”

  “Beats a barfly,” Brinke said. She sighed. “I mean, I guess.”

  “It’s a close thing,” Beau agreed. “Brinke, anything you have to report?”

  “Zilch,” she said. “I confess, I spent today stewing about tomorrow.” Brinke was more than a bit ashamed of herself for that. Seemed like something someone else would do.

  “Just jitters,” Beau said. “Understandable. It’s a big, life-changing day.” He smiled and squeezed Brinke’s hand. “Try to enjoy it. No fretting, now.”

  Brinke squeezed the old man’s hand back. “And you, Beau? What’ve you been up to?”

  “Keeping busy. Throwing out a few lines to see what perhaps nibbles back.”

  “And? No more to share, Beau?” Brinke arched an eyebrow. “Nothing more, really?”

  “Nothing I’m prepared to share,” Beau said. “Not at present. So, tomorrow Mase becomes one dead bachelor. What about it sonny, you got those butterflies?”

  Hector shrugged and waved a hand as if to say, Nah.

  “Anyway, we’ll try to make it a gentle night,” Beau said. “An early night. Can’t have a lovely like this one tying the knot with tired eyes.”

  Brinke said, “Thank you so much again for coming, Beau. It means everything to us, having you with us. Having family here for it.” She saw that made Hector smile. Brinke had to admit her life up to now had been a lonely one. She’d lived solo lobo in a way Hector never had.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it,” the old man said. “Mase and me are all the family we have left. ’Til you join the clan tomorrow, darling. ’Til you raise a passel of little Lassiters.”

  “Right,” Brinke said, her smile dimming a bit. She saw that Beau caught it. She hoped Hector didn’t.

  “When the time is right I mean,” Beau said, backtracking. “When the damn sleuthing bug turns loose of you both.”

  The old man reached over and shook Hector’s arm. “This is one of the rare decisions Mase has made I can support whole-heartedly. God knows there’s been enough of the other kind. Runnin’ off as a gangly kid. Lyin’ about his age to ride with that bloody bastard Black Jack Pershing in pursuit of Pancho Villa. Getting himself shipped off to Europe for Wilson’s mad folly of a war. Our Mase is goddamn lucky to have come back with all his extremities from that waste of life. Christ knows a lot of Texas boys like old Mase didn’t come back all there.” The old man sipped more wine. “Then he spent all those years living abroad, away from my sage counsel and boon companionship. Well, hell, at least doin’ that he met you.” Beau raised Brinke’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. “That meeting between you two there in Paris, France, that was a blessing. I credit you with bringing my boy back to me.”

  Hector said, “Do you smell smoke?” Frowning, he tossed his linen napkin on the table and stood and leaned out over the railing, searching the streets. Brinke joined him. Something was on fire further down Duval. Hector said, “Back in five minutes, all. Gonna go see what’s burning down up the street. You two carry on.”

  ***

  Hector shouldered through a crowd of gawkers. The building, based on remaining, charred signage, had been a mom-and-pop hash house. It shouldered up to a vacant lot with a Last Key Realty sign poking up through weeds.

  Looking at the sign and the burning building next to the empty lot, thinking about Beau’s assertion that all crimes come down to money, Hector felt this theory cohering.

  Hector saw Jack Dixon. The nine-fingered cop, listening to Sheriff Hoyt, dipped his head a fraction to acknowledge Hector. Hector nodded back. He decided it best Sheriff Mel didn’t see him hanging about another potential crime scene.

  ***

  Beau’s new friend, Consuelo, answered Hector’s knock. She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Hola, Héctor.”

  “Howdy, Consuelo. You look absolutely smashing.”

  “Muchas gracias, Héctor.” Hector hugged her. She did look sharp, and all but falling out of her metallic silver sheath of a dress, low cut and backless—all this enticing café-au-lait skin on display.

  Goddamn Beau: Hector should be so lucky in love if he ever saw the age of seventy himself, a prospect that struck Hector as pretty unlikely given the way he seemed driven to live his life. Consuelo br
ushed long brown hair from her shoulder and said, “I’m to go downstairs and tell them to serve us now that you’re here, Héctor.”

  “I’ll mix you a drink for when you get back,” Hector said. “What’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

  Over her shoulder, Consuelo said, “Mojito, por favor, Héctor?”

  “Done.”

  Another woman was suddenly at the door, one of the desk clerks. The clerk pulled Consuelo aside. Hector heard the female clerk ask Consuelo in Spanish whether Hector spoke the language. Consuelo shrugged and responded that she didn’t think so. In Spanish, the maid said, “He’s back downstairs looking for you, Consuelo—Miguel. I told him you aren’t here. You better not come down right now. I don’t think he’s ever going to let you go, Consuelo. And he’s crazy to look in the eye. Muy loco. Crazier than you’ve made him sound. He scares me.”

  Consuelo glanced at Hector. He pretended not to understand, not to care about what the two women were talking about. Consuelo said, “Right. Please tell them we’re ready to be served. I’ll wait here to let them in. And thanks, Malú.”

  Hector said to Consuelo, “That anything important?”

  “Just saying dinner is ready,” Consuelo said. “I have to wait by the door.”

  Hector smiled. “Then I’ll make those drinks.”

  As he mixed a couple of mojitos, one for his grandfather’s new lady friend and one for himself, Hector eavesdropped on Brinke and Beau, speaking softly to one another out on the patio. Beau was talking:

  “All those years alone living with those two warring boozers. I credit that sorry solitude, that need to escape into himself, with Mase’s too-vivid imagination and skills at writing. But the price was maybe too high. Just that lonely little boy and those crazy parents of his. Make no mistake, I loved my Livia. She was a good girl, comin’ up. ’Til she met that bastard Grafton Lassiter and ran off to Galveston to elope with him. That sorry son of a bitch. Those two ruined one another in jiffy increments. Escalating warfare with booze stoking the anger, both sides. Liv started catting around behind Lassiter’s back, going around with one of Grafton’s hired hands.