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

by Craig McDonald

  He remembered the night Consuelo left him and what she said to him. “Something terrible’s happened to you Miguel. You need to see a real good doctor. Better doctors than you can get here. We need to get you up to Miami before it’s too late to fix.”

  As if he had the money for that. So Miguel lost his job and then lost his pretty woman.

  There was no other thing for it now; he found his only relief in the dark.

  And there were other women, the island was lousy with them. The women who lived on Bone Key, and the ones who just passed through as gawkers and loafers on holiday. Women he couldn’t stop looking at as they sat in open-air speakeasies, wearing next to nothing and getting tight; wandering back to their hotels in weaving throes of giggles while supporting one another.

  Those women had stalked his dreams since last Christmas. In those fevered dreams, the women took Miguel home with them, but things always seemed to end badly.

  That threw him. Before the accident, Consuelo swore he was the nicest and gentlest man she had known. Of course she’d never noticed his wandering eye. She had never known about Miguel’s tendency to follow that straying eye from time to time. Meaningless affairs, that’s all they’d been.

  But his dreams since the fall? His dreams were now always limned in blood.

  Then Miguel began finding cast-off newspapers, browsing over them by candlelight. As he began to follow the articles regarding the Key West Clubber, Miguel began to sense how he must be spending his unremembered days, the time he thought he spent unconscious behind shuttered windows.

  Miguel had an old baseball bat stashed in his closet. The bat was a relic from his days in Cuba when he, like every young Cuban boy, dreamed of going to America as a baseball player. For many nights after reading about the Clubber’s latest crimes, Miguel sat with a candle, carefully inspecting his bat for traces of blood or flesh, maybe a tooth or bone shard imbedded in the scarred ash.

  Nada.

  So Miguel could only assume that he—the Key West Clubber—was more circumspect by day than Miguel seemed to be by night. By day, Miguel, the Clubber, apparently took the time after each of his attacks to clean his bat.

  Miguel figured that each night he went out on the darkened streets looking for a woman—for Consuelo, probably, who else?—but settled for any poor woman he could find. He raped that unlucky woman, then he beat her to death with his club.

  That must be how it was, terrible as it was to consider. He must be doing these killings.

  And Consuelo: What had become of her? Miguel’d called a few times asking around after her, but nobody seemed to know where she was lately. She’d quit her job at the hotel they claimed. They said she no longer returned home to her mother’s house. None of that was good.

  But the bigger mystery plagued Miguel: Precisely what kind of monster had he become?

  Miguel checked the clock. It was getting closer to ten. If he waited too long, the raucous Key West streets would quiet and then empty on him. The search would be longer and harder. And it would be that much more dangerous for him, toting that bat around as he roamed the night searching for luckless women to slay.

  Resigned to his fate, Miguel sighed and rose. He picked up his baseball bat, reconciled to his presumed fate and that of some doomed woman he’d yet to meet.

  34

  They’d split up, for a time. Brinke and Consuelo sat on a restaurant’s rooftop patio, watching tipsy tourists stagger through Mallory Square, all of them sweating copiously in the afternoon heat.

  Beau was at a near-abandoned old dock, sitting vigil on his doomed boat. The old grifter was alone, awaiting Sheriff Hoyt’s attack. Hector had insisted he stay with Beau, to guard his grandpap’s back, but the old man adamantly ruled it out. “This ain’t something new for me, Mase,” Beau had said, looking a bit hurt by his grandson’s concern. He’d added, “I’ve got death and resurrection down cold. Had me more lives than a litter of bastard cats. And I’ve outfoxed far worse than this Hoyt fella. He’s a mere thug. It’s the smart and quiet ones that can surprise you. Those are the ones you never want to risk sending to the river. Don’t fret after me on account of this one, Mase. It’s frankly insulting.”

  Brinke couldn’t shake the look of fear that had put on Hector’s face; put there by the prospect of the old man alone on that boat. It was the first time she’d seen Hector visibly afraid.

  So, still-worried Hector was closeted at their home. He was feverishly working over his manuscript and trying to make up lost writing time to distract himself from the threat to Beau. In the late afternoon Hector was supposed to meet for drinks with an old crony of Beau’s, a man named Vogel. Vogel was one of the old man’s criminal confreres for whom Hector maintained some affection. As Hector had described Vogel to Brinke, the man was something like a half-assed uncle to Hector—having looked after the young Lassiter when Beau was taken to and fro in the world by some or another “Big Store” confidence game.

  Left at solitary ends, Brinke had reluctantly accepted Consuelo’s invitation for brunch. Their day together was something Brinke figured Beau was at back of because it solved several problems for the old man. First, it kept Consuelo out of the way but also under the protection of Brinke’s gun she now carried with her always, hidden at the bottom of her purse. So far, Brinke had no sense that Consuelo was in-the-know regarding Beau’s grand machinations.

  Brinke also had no sense that Consuelo was aware of Beau’s impending “murder” at Hoyt’s hand. So Brinke was left to steer small talk in other directions.

  Brinke and Consuelo tapped sweating mojito glasses and sipped. Brinke said, “I’m way too fond of these. They’re Cuban, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right,” Consuelo said, sipping her mojito. “They’re even better there, made with more sugar. A real threat to the figure.” Consuelo pinched her own wasp waist.

  “Any more of that stuff and I’d be bouncing off walls and big as a house,” Brinke said. She patted at her mouth with a napkin. “You were born in Cuba?”

  “Yes,” the younger woman said. “We came over when I was twelve. It was getting too dangerous. If ten years pass without a revolution there, then someone gets to thinking it’s time they started one, whether it’s needed or not. And it’s always reckless and sloppy. More civilians end up killed than anyone else. Most often women and children, slaughtered on the streets by pitched bombs and dynamite. The men very much like their explosives back home. Muy macho. Or so they think.”

  “You don’t miss it, then? Cuba, I mean.”

  “I do, in some ways,” Consuelo said. “Havana is quite beautiful in its own way. The old architecture and the dance clubs at night are wonderful. Maybe it’s just my child’s memory, but the women all seemed lovely back home. All of the men dapper and distinguished.” Consuelo sipped more of her mojito. She shrugged bare shoulders and smiled sadly. Brinke was struck again by Consuelo’s unselfconscious beauty. She didn’t seem to take pains with her looks unless Beau directed her to, Brinke thought.

  Consuelo said, “It probably is just my memory, because I look at the Cuban women in the cigar factories here on Bone Key, working in the coffee shops or back at the hotel, and they all seem haggard. Tired and sad. I wonder if I look like that. Or if I soon will.”

  “Never,” Brinke said. “You don’t. You won’t, not ever. You’re very, very lovely.” She hesitated. “What are your plans? Has Beau spoke of anything once this other hush-hush business he’s got going wraps up?”

  Consuelo stared into her drink. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Me and Beau, together? He could be my grandfather, easily. Yet he seems so vital, so full of life. I have a hard time thinking of him being the age he truly is.” So did Beau, Brinke figured.

  “I can understand it well enough, your attraction to him,” Brinke said. “I find him very appealing. Quite attractive. I could fall for him. Has Beau talked of a future together?”

  “He wants me to come back to Corpus Christi Bay with him,” Consuelo said, half-
smiling. “I’m thinking about it, though my mother argues against it. Because of Beau being so many years older than she is, of course. Older, even, than my father is.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Go to Corpus Christi Bay anyway, I think,” Consuelo said. “Beau’s convinced this will be what he calls his swan song. He swears he’ll make enough money from this enterprise of his to carry him the rest of the way in style, as he puts it. He wants to settle down.” She blushed. “He even talks about a baby. He’s still smarting from what happened to his only child, to Héctor’s mother. He says it’s almost insupportable to outlive your child. Beau credits Héctor with keeping him ‘above water’ after what happened to his daughter—that is to say, to Héctor’s mother. Beau says every man goes to his grave more peacefully knowing he’s left at least one child to carry on after him in the world.”

  Brinke nodded slowly, licking her lips. “You want that too? A baby?”

  “Of course. I would like to be a mother, and many times over at that. But I worry about Beau being around long enough to help me raise a child, let alone children.”

  Brinke said, “Hector swears longevity runs on that side of his family. The Lassiters don’t last as long—they tend to burn out rather than fade away. But Beau’s father lived until just short of a hundred, a vital man almost to the end, according to Hec. The Stryders sound damned near immortal.”

  Consuelo said, “I bet it would distress Héctor, though, his abuelo becoming a father this late.”

  “Hec’d survive,” Brinke said. She smiled. “Funny, Hec’d then have an uncle a quarter-century or so his junior. And I’d have something to tease Hector about from here to forever.”

  Consuelo wrinkled her nose, then smiled. “That would indeed be…strange. Well, either way, I am seriously thinking about going away with Beau. His home there sounds rustic and beautiful. It’s right on the ocean. And with you two here in Key West, we’d have reason to visit, often. I’d still see my family back here.”

  Brinke raised her glass and they tapped drinks again. Brinke said, “To family, then.”

  “To that.” Consuelo wet her lips. “I want to leave this island soon for another reason, too. Before Beau, I used to be engaged to another man. He was a good man, until he hurt his head. The wound changed him. I could never get him to the hospital to be treated properly. He was stubborn, like men from back home can be. Thought himself indestructible as Cuban men too often think they are.”

  “Not just Cuban men,” Brinke said. “Is this man giving you some trouble?”

  “I think he could, soon,” Consuelo said. “Some friends back at the hotel say he’s looking for me. He’s asked after me there several times the past few days. Called at their houses. He was back at the hotel just last night, I’m told. My friends there told him I’d quit my job. Malú, thank God, had the presence of mind to say she thought I’d left the island. I’ve warned my family to tell Miguel—that’s his name, Miguel Sanchez—that I’ve taken work in Miami, in order to build on her lie. If I’m lucky, perhaps he’ll go there looking for me. Maybe he’ll leave this place behind. It’s terrible how he’s changed.”

  So Consuelo was running another little con game of her own against this deranged ex, Brinke thought. Maybe the flimflam bug was catching. She said, “Have you told Beau about this man and about how he’s looking for you?”

  Consuelo ran her fingers through her thick hair. “No. Partly because I didn’t think Beau would want to hear about any prior loves. Men never do, though they seem to delight in telling us about theirs. Partly, too, because Beau has so much going on right now. He doesn’t need to take on my distractions.”

  “Beau needs to know,” Brinke said. “Just so he can be prepared. So he might take precautions. If this young man is a serious threat, Beau needs to have an edge. Wouldn’t do for this ex-flame of yours to run into you two on Duval Street or to cross paths in some speakeasy when this Miguel is in his cups and maybe that much more out of control.”

  “Put that way, yes, you’re right of course.” Consuelo signaled the waiter for two more drinks. She opened her own purse and Brinke saw a sheaf of bills. Beau seemed to be keeping Consuelo in high-tone style. She said, “These next two are on me, Brinke.” She counted out some bills and then put her empty glass atop them to keep them anchored as the balmy wind whipped their edges. “I’ll tell Beau soon. Thank you again for letting us use your place for a night or two. I hope it won’t be an intrusion.”

  “No intrusion at all,” Brinke said. “We’re same as family.”

  Consuelo smiled, fanning herself. “Especially muggy today.”

  “We should go for a swim after this.”

  “I don’t have a suit handy.”

  “Won’t need one,” Brinke said. “I know a place.”

  “You’re sure? It’s private?”

  “Been no problems so far, which is to say, for months.”

  “Okay,” Consuelo said. Suddenly she added, “It’s not like Beau goes around unarmed, you know. He has this little gun up his sleeve. Tiny, but he says it gets the job done, ‘in close.’ It’s attached to some mechanism that makes it come out if he raises his arm quickly.”

  “A derringer,” Brinke said. “A holdout or gambler’s rig. That’s very…Beau.”

  Consuelo smiled. “It is, isn’t it? He’s seen to my protection, too.” She glanced around, then opened her purse wider to show Brinke the revolver inside. “Beau gave me some lessons down at the beach this morning. Told me to point it like finger, to lay my index finger along the barrel when I point and pull the trigger with my middle finger, and to shoot for mass whatever that means. He was scared for me, he said, after reading this morning’s papers.”

  “I haven’t seen the papers yet,” Brinke said. “And I think that mass means for the heart in this case.” She had resisted looking at the newspapers, preferring to maintain the veil of ignorance she’d so come to enjoy while they’d been away from the Key, while they were running their crazy game against rich boat owners. “What’s happened, Connie?”

  “Three women were attacked last night,” Consuelo said. “Two of them are dead. The other is in the hospital. They don’t know if she’ll ever wake up to tell them anything about who attacked her.”

  “How were the others killed, Consuelo?”

  “Beaten to death with a baseball bat.” Consuelo paid their waitress for their fresh drinks. “You know, the Key West Clubber again. So I have to suppose that dead man on your porch really was innocent, just like Sheriff Hoyt said in the newspaper.”

  Brinke held her tongue, wondering at the brazenness of Hoyt and the others to resume their old tactic of hanging their development-driven plans on some baseball bat-toting bogeyman.

  35

  Crouched behind a stand of mangrove, Sheriff Hoyt lensed the cabin of the Jolly Sally with a smallish pair of binoculars. There were two men in the ship’s cabin. The man that Hoyt took to be Astor was seated and had his back to the window. The other man inside the cabin kept moving, not giving Hoyt a clear look at him. The other man clutched a broad-brimmed Panama hat and wore a white jacket. Because the other man was standing, Hoyt couldn’t get a look at the man’s face through the low-set cabin windows.

  As Hoyt spied on them, the other man raised his Panama hat, a sign that he was evidently at last leaving. The stranger briefly blocked the cabin window. When the man moved, Hoyt saw that Cornelius Astor was still seated, though he’d turned a bit in his chair.

  The other man left the cabin, his head dipped low and face hidden by his hat’s brim. The man closed the cabin door, then, head still down, held a cigar up to his face and began turning a match at the cigar’s end as he strode down the jetty and back to shore. The man in the hat strode jauntily enough; he moved like a youngish man.

  The sheriff waited until the unknown man had disappeared into the trees, headed back toward the downtown, then Hoyt lensed the cabin again. It looked to him as if Astor was still sitting
in a chair, his back to the window.

  Hoyt slipped his small binoculars into his pants pocket. He picked up the two, heavy, sloshing cans of gasoline he’d hidden behind the shrubs. Crouching low, Hoyt moved toward the Jolly Sally—that silly ass name was stenciled on the stern of the boat facing the shore.

  The sheriff’s plan was simple but its results should be devastating, he figured. There was only one way in or out of the boat’s cabin and that was through the single door opening onto the deck. The windows and portals were too small for a big man like Cornelius Astor to squeeze through, even if the old bastard was spry enough to try.

  But Hoyt planned to set that door and the surrounding deck on fire, trapping the crazy old rich man inside to burn alive. Or, perhaps the geezer would still have enough lingering presence of mind to breathe deep and force himself to succumb to smoke inhalation before the flames reached him. Either way…

  Apart from the two, five-gallon drums of gasoline and some gas-soaked rags, the sheriff had also brought along a flare pistol and a couple of flares. He’d use those to ignite the gasoline and set fire to the door. If the old man tried to make a break through that fiery door, then Hoyt figured to shoot at Astor with the flare gun. He’d fire on the rich bastard at pointblank range and incinerate him where he stood.

  Hoyt figured any insurance investigators who pushed on beyond Hoyt’s own inevitable investigation would be forced to conclude the demented old man had inadvertently discharged his flare gun into himself and the gas cans.

  Boaters lived in fear of fire. Boat fires spread quickly and burned the hull down to the waterline with appalling speed, more often than not claiming the lives of the owners. That was particularly true if the fire occurred any distance from shore.

  Hoyt had caught a break in that the old man’s boat wasn’t moored close by any others that might also catch fire. Hoyt had seen authentic boat fires leap craft-to-craft, spread by floating sparks, burning jetties or spilled and ignited fuel on the water.