“So Tiffani divorced him. Then she went to one of those speed-dating things to meet somebody. So, you’re in a room with like, twenty guys, and you get a minute to talk to each one, then you mark down if you like them, and they mark if they like you. If there’s a match the coordinator gives you each other’s phone numbers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So she gets a match and this guy calls her. Now, first of all, she can’t even remember which one he is. I mean, when you’ve met twenty guys in twenty minutes, how can you remember, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, they agree to meet for dinner, and when she gets to the restaurant she does remember him, and remembers that she really liked him. So he treats her to a really nice dinner at La Paloma. He’s a real gentleman throughout, and he pays for dinner so she’s getting really excited about him.”
“Yeah.”
“Then he suggests they go to her place to watch a DVD. She says fine. I mean, of course she understands what he’s really talking about, and it’s okay with her because she really likes this guy. They get to her house, she pours some wine, and they pick out a DVD. But somehow they can’t get it to run. So do you know what happens?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. He yells at her for not knowing how to operate her DVD player, for not reading the owner’s manual from cover to cover, and then not being able to find it.”
“How did you know that?”
Again, I shrugged.
She took a bite of salad. “So that was Mr. Domineering. And do you remember Traci?”
“Yeah,” I said wearily. I was getting pretty tired of her little gossip game. But I hadn’t finished my sandwich yet, so I let her go on.
“Well, Brett died of a coke overdose a few months ago,” she said.
I gave her what I thought was a meaningful look, but she was oblivious, being totally wrapped up in herself.
“So Traci went on one of those Internet dating sites,” she continued, rambling. “She finds a really good-looking guy, and he likes her looks, too, so they agree to meet. When she meets him for cappuccino, do you know what happens?”
Here we went again. “Uh-huh.” This time I didn’t wait for her response. “He’s twenty years older, fifty pounds heavier, and a hundred-percent balder than his picture on the website.”
Again I didn’t wait for her astonished response. I cut right to the shrug.
“So that was Mr. Liar,” I said, preempting her yet again.
“Yes. But do you know the worst part of all this?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. Those women are still dating those guys.”
This time she didn’t even bother to ask how I knew.
“Right!” she said. “So that’s the thing, sweetie. I just can’t face the dating scene. Except I’m terrified of being alone.” She started sobbing again. “All these years, I’ve kind of, well, admired you for your independence. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
She admired me? Wow, that was weird. I was just living my life to suit me. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about impressing anybody.
“Well, Gitta, like I said, take some time. Enjoy your children. Don’t rush into anything.”
She took a deep breath.
“Okay. I think you’re right. I can do it. I can.” She took another deep breath.
“And you might want to think about getting some help with your, uh, use.”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s nothing. You know I only use a little. Just to get a little lift, to keep me going through the day.”
Right. Mother’s little helper.
“You know how tiring life in Boca can be,” she said.
Yeah, spending all day shopping, gossiping, and beautifying sure could be exhausting.
Gitta may once have been the reigning queen of Boca, but now she was the queen of denial. But, hell, it wasn’t my place to save her from herself. Was it? Besides, I’d finished my lunch, and she didn’t look too interested in the salad.
“Listen, Gitta,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment to go to. It was nice to see you. I hope you’ll think about what I said.”
“Sure, I will, sweetie. Thank you. Will you call me sometime? I still have the same number.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“Oh.” She wrote it down on a napkin and handed it to me.
“Okay. Goodbye. Take care,” I said.
I laid down money for my share of the bill and walked out, leaving her gazing out the window.
Damned if I didn’t almost feel sorry for her.
I walked back to my office for my bike and rode over to Dennis Pearlman’s office for our appointment. As I rode, I thought about Gitta. I still didn’t think she was involved in the attempt on my life. She seemed to be in genuine pain and searching for solace. But why did she have to pick me? I had enough problems of my own, what with solving a murder and dealing with . . . relationships. Okay, yes, a relationship. I revved up the throttle to drive that thought out of my mind.
PEARLMAN’S vitamin company was located in a grimy industrial area off I-95 in Pompano Beach, a city south of Boca. Were it not for the security cameras all over the property, you’d never suspect that hundreds of millions in revenues were generated there annually. I was escorted to his office, whose plush interior was incongruous with the rest of the building.
He rose from behind his desk. He was sixtyish, pudgy and pale, with brittle hair and nails. Sure as hell not a walking advertisement for his own products.
“Please sit, Ms. Horowitz,” he invited. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look into the murder of the Reverend Botay, to whose church you recently made a sizable contribution.”
“Wait a minute. My girl said you were with the media.”
“Oh, dear, did she? There must have been a misunderstanding. I’m so sorry. I know how valuable your time is, so if you’d rather reschedule . . .”
“No, no, that’s all right,” he said irritably. “As long as you’re here, let’s go ahead. So you’re investigating this murder. I thought the killer was already identified.”
I briefly explained that my unnamed clients thought the real killer was still at large.
“I see. Well, I’m deeply dismayed by the reverend’s tragic death. So I’m eager to help you in whatever way I can, although, honestly, I don’t see how.”
“Can you tell me your reason for your donation to her church?”
“Well, as you surely know, I make numerous donations to worthy causes. This community has given me a great deal. My business is flourishing, so I’m more than happy to give back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Besides, it’s tax time and my accountant suggested that a write-off would be prudent,” he said with a sheepish smile. “So there you have it. My motives may not be entirely altruistic, but they’re certainly not murderous. I had no reason to kill that poor woman.”
“I’m not suggesting that you did. I’m merely gathering all kinds of information to look for possible connections.”
“I see.”
“How did you decide on the Church of the Gender-Free God for your donation?”
“Oh, I have an advisory board that makes recommendations to me. I like to diversify my giving. So my board looks at various programs, assesses their effectiveness, staffing, fiscal accountability, and so forth. Then I select from among those they recommend. My selections are based on gut feeling. That’s how I’ve always run my business. Get the facts first, then go with your instincts. Works every time.”
“Okay, you’ve been very helpful,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”
“If you find some connection, let me know, will you?”’
; “By all means.” I rose to leave.
“By the way, you do take your daily vitamins, don’t you?” he asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, young lady, you must take care of your health. Here, please take some samples.”
He reached into his desk and shoved a bunch of foil-encased pills into my hand.
“Now believe me, once you try these, you’ll find energy and vitality that you never knew you had. Not to mention an unbelievable increase in libido.”
He looked me up and down.
“I see you might be reaching an age where that may be a looming issue.”
I dug my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from slugging him.
“And bear in mind,” he went on, “we have a special offer for a lifetime supply.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I cut him off and rushed out the door. I tossed the pills in a dumpster on my way to the bike.
I mounted the hog and turned on the ignition. The feel of that powerhouse vibrating between my legs reassured me that I had no lack of libido, thank you very much.
I rode back to the office, reflecting, as usual, on the information I’d gained. It seemed pretty straightforward. No obvious clues pointing to the killer.
At the office, I called Laurence Williams to update him on my activities and next steps.
“So you plan to infiltrate a white supremacist group in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere? I’m not sure I like that idea.”
“Hey, did you hire me for this case or not? If you don’t like my methods, you’re free to hire another . . .”
“Oh, come on, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
I didn’t bother informing him that thongs don’t bunch up, since they’re already riding up there. As a drag queen, he surely knew that, anyway.
“Just be careful, Harriet. Don’t do anything reckless.”
“Sure.”
Reckless—who, me?
Chapter 12
THAT NIGHT I rode out on Hooker Highway to the assigned spot of Morse’s gathering. The day’s heat had cooled, the stars shone brightly, and the sugarcane swayed in the breeze along both sides of the road. A gorgeous setting for such an ugly conclave.
I arrived at the old sugar mill, a long-deserted structure of rusted steel and scattered machinery that loomed over the flat landscape. Several pickup trucks were parked off the dirt road that led to the mill. I stopped to look them over. They weren’t in top shape, with rusted fenders, balding tires, and numerous dents. It was safe to say that the Loyal Brotherhood of Assholes did not hail from Boca, but from less fortunate parts of the county. They were probably struggling economically and feeling displaced from society, so they took the easy way out—scapegoating minorities, blaming them for the Brotherhood’s plight, instead of getting off their own asses and doing something to better their lives.
In addition to the wear and tear, I noticed that a couple of the trucks had bullet holes in them. Well, road rage is a way of life in South Florida, so I wasn’t surprised. Upon closer inspection, though, I saw that the bullet holes weren’t real. They were fake. Stickers made to look like a bullet had penetrated the metal. Unbelievable. Jeez, maybe these guys were from Boca after all. I mean, everything is artificial in Boca, so why not bullet holes? Was this some new kind of status symbol? A way for disaffected youth to claim an identity? “I’ve been shot at, therefore I am?” But if that was the case, why fake it? Why not just get your gun and shoot up your own truck?
I had my Magnum stashed in my boot so I could oblige these guys if they desired . . . or pissed me off.
I rode on and saw the light of a fire up ahead. As I approached I saw a group of seven white men in their teens and early twenties sitting around a campfire, the flames alternately casting their faces in light and shadow. The men all wore red robes and fezzes and were drinking beer out of aluminum cans and smoking. They turned to the rumble of my hog. A skinny, pimply faced guy rose and came over to me as I pulled up and turned off the ignition.
“I’m Lucas Morse,” he said when I removed my helmet. “You must be the TV chick. Didn’t expect to see a woman on no hog. Nice bike. Your husband’s?”
I wasn’t there to challenge his sexist assumptions, so I played along. “Yeah, that’s right. He lets me borrow it once in a while, and I’m really grateful. Of course, I’ll reward him for his generosity tonight.”
“Now, you’re my kind of woman. Know how to please your man. If you ever decide to ditch your old man, give me a call.”
“Sure. I’ll do that. Now how about we get on with the meeting?”
I pulled my mini videocam out of my saddlebag.
“Okay, I’m ready to roll,” I said. “Now I want you guys to really dramatize this. Television is getting more and more extreme. So you’ve got to make it really over-the-top to make an impression on my executive producer.”
I was hoping that by hamming it up they’d get carried away and let something slip if they’d had anything to do with the reverend’s murder.
“Gotcha,” Morse said. “Okay, brothers, let’s gather around the fire.”
I stepped back and turned on the camera.
They began chanting in unison, “We, the Loyal Brotherhood of Aryans, pledge to preserve these United States of America as the white Christian nation of our founding fathers. We gather around this fire, which represents the light of Christ. We unite to promote the gospel of racial separation and to fight the plot to destroy Western civilization. We condemn . . .”
Now they went around the circle, each one denouncing a particular group.
“Race-mixing.”
“Homos and dykes.”
“Hairy-legged women’s libbers.”
“Christ-killing Jews.”
“Negroes.”
“Immigrants.”
“Pope-worshipping Catholics.”
Well, that just about covered everyone I knew and loved.
“All hail to white Christian supremacy for the restoration of moral values in these great United States,” they concluded in unison, raising their arms Sieg Heil style.
It was all I could do to keep myself from pulling my Magnum out of my boot and showing them who really held supremacy here.
“That’s great, guys,” I choked out. “My boss is going to love this. I can almost guarantee you’ll be signed for American Patriot. But he might want more detail. So tell me about some of the actions you’ve taken to further your cause.”
“We’re very politically active,” Morse said. “We hold rallies, speak to church youth groups, circulate petitions, and we’re planning a run for public office.”
Hmm, which public office would that be? Village idiot?
Still, they’d said nothing about painting swastikas or killing uppity black women ministers.
As if reading my mind, Morse went on.
“A lot of folk got the wrong ideas about us. We ain’t no hate group. We don’t hate nobody. We just think these United States belong to the white man, and those other groups can find their own places on earth somewhere else. A lot of folk think we’re violent, like we do lynchings and stuff. No way. Like I said, we are simply promoting a political agenda, as is our right as citizens of this great land.”
“So you’re very misunderstood,” I said.
He failed to grasp the sarcasm in my voice.
“Yeah, exactly! You get it, why can’t everybody else? You’re pretty smart for a woman. You’ll make sure we get on the show, right?”
“Sure, I’ll be in touch,” I said. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
As I was putting the camera away, a white Cadillac pulled up. Pastor Fred Hollings climbed out of the driver’s seat. Okay, now the situation became clearer. Hollings was the hidden puppet master behind this bunch of
whack-jobs.
He took a look at me.
Shit. My cover was blown, and a blowup was about to ensue.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
“She’s a TV producer,” Morse said. “We’re gonna be on one of them reality shows.”
“No, you idiots,” Hollings yelled. “She’s a private eye. She’s got you bamboozled.”
“What?” they yelled and came at me.
As Morse bore down on me, I kicked him in the chest, and he went down. Another one approached, and I kneed him in the groin.
I had three down and four to go when I heard a distant rumble. It was the familiar rhythm of hogs in harmony. Then they rolled around the corner—the Holy Rollers, in drag, no less.
They dismounted, and the real battle began. Hollings locked himself in his Caddie as robes, fezzes, sequined dresses, wigs, girdles, and bras went flying.
Chapter 13
I WAS THE ONLY one whose clothes remained intact. I guess there’s something to be said for clean, simple, formfitting lines.
The Rollers and I kicked the Aryans’ white butts and rode off in victory with a thunderous roar. As soon as we reached the edge of town, I pulled off the road and took off my helmet. The Rollers pulled up beside me. With their wigs gone, their dresses and undergarments in tatters, but their makeup intact, they presented a bizarre blend of male and female elements.
“What’s up?” Lady Fingers asked.
I lost it.
“What the hell did you guys, uh, ladies, think you were doing?”
“Sweetie, we were worried about you,” Virginia Hamm said. “We had an engagement this evening but afterward we had this bad feeling that you were in trouble so we felt that we had to come to your rescue.”
“My what? My rescue? Do I look like a damsel in distress to you? Where do you guys get off with this sexist attitude? And you being drag queens, no less. Don’t you find that just a little bit ironic? You hired me to do an investigation. So get the hell out of my way and let me do it!”
They hung their heads.
“We’re sorry,” Cherise Jubilee said. “We’ll let you run the show from now on.”
Dirty Harriet Rides Again Page 8