Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  “I’m sure Leonard could fashion some fine disguises for them,” Chuck said. “If not, the Holy Rollers sure could.”

  I was silent for a while. “Well, I’ll admit your idea has . . . merit,” I finally said.

  “Wow. Thanks for the gushing praise, darlin’.”

  “But I don’t know if they’ll go for it . . .”

  Oh, who was I kidding? I sighed as I wiped the last of the grime off my Hog. There was only one way those two Botox Babes would react when I told them the plan: they’d go Hog wild.

  Chapter 7

  THE CONCLAVE convened that night at the Hog Heaven biker bar to discuss the takedown of Thurman Merrill Worthington III. Present, apart from me, were representatives of the Kucharski, Goldblatt, von Phul, Sherman-Morales, and Ben Yehuda families. That would be, respectively, Mom, Leonard, the contessa, Chuck and Enrique, and my . . . martial arts instructor, Lior. Just your typical Polish-Catholic-Jewish-Austro-Hungarian-Southern-Redneck-Latino-Israeli mob.

  The Hog Heaven was a dive favored by Chuck and chosen by me for strategic value. A Saturday night crowd of leather-clad bikers and their motorcycle mamas occupied the other tables in the smoke-filled space. The jukebox blared Bob Seger. My favorite bartender, Marla, a baby-boomer-biker-babe with a take-no-shit attitude, served up suds to would-be studs at the bar. Essentially, not a joint where Worthington and his associates were likely to congregate.

  Our little group hadn’t been together for a couple months, since we’d all gathered in the same spot to celebrate my exoneration of Honey du Mellon for the murder of Chuck and Enrique’s wedding officiant. So the others were all yapping away.

  On my left, the contessa, clad in her customary Chanel suit, with her ever-present Chihuahua, Coco, in her lap, was chatting with the Armani-attired Enrique.

  “Can you believe all the Fucci the Boca girls are carrying around these days?” Enrique was saying.

  “I know, dahling,” the contessa said. “Young people these days have no shame.”

  “Excuse me?” I butted in. “Fucci?”

  “Fake Gucci,” they both replied simultaneously.

  “And what about all the Chan-hell purses?” the contessa continued, flipping her mahogany pageboy. “That is an absolute travesty.”

  Okay. I had nothing to contribute to the bogus bag babble. I turned my attention to Chuck and Mom, seated across from me. Mom had apparently just come from the golf course, as she sported a pale pink short-sleeved top, pink and white plaid Bermudas, and a white visor. A red neon “Coors” sign directly behind her head gave a pink cast to her platinum hair, providing a perfect match for her outfit. Natch.

  “Charles, I have found the perfect recipe for low-cal fried chicken for you,” she was saying. “I already emailed it to Enrique.”

  “Miz Stella, that’s mighty thoughtful of you. We’ll have to have you and Leonard over to try it out. By the way, can I ask you some marital advice?”

  “Certainly, Charles. You know I know a thing or two about marriage.”

  I’d say. Or I’d hope one would pick up a thing or two in four or five tries.

  But this was a topic I definitely had nothing to add to. And frankly, I was feeling just a little put out. Mom certainly seemed enamored of Chuck, whom she treated as her honorary adoptive son, inasmuch as his own family disowned him when he came out decades ago. And he was playing right into her parental attentions, asking for her advice. Something I never did. For good reason. She always gave it unsolicited.

  This was just great. I grow up an only child, only to get saddled with sibling rivalry in adulthood. Did I need this?

  Sighing, I tuned in to the discussion on my right. Leonard, ex-Cold War operative, and Lior, ex-commando of the Israeli Defense Forces, were exchanging assassination anecdotes.

  “You remember that time the Russkies did in their own double agent in London by stabbing him with an umbrella tip filled with poison?” Leonard was asking, his gray eyes sparkling as he swiped a hand through his brush cut.

  “That was before my time, Len,” Lior said, “but of course, it’s a classic case. Textbook. Love it. Now tell me what you think of the time we took out Arafat’s second-in-command in Tunisia . . .”

  I stared at the two men. Same height, same buff build. Same intense eyes—one set gray, one dark brown. Same thick hair—one short and silver, one long and black. Same . . . passions. Suddenly it struck me.

  Son of a bitch. My mother and I were dating the same man.

  Just shoot me.

  Social hour was over, I decided.

  I tapped my water glass with a fork to get the group’s attention. They kept right on yammering.

  “Yo!” I yelled. Nothing.

  I motioned to Marla, the bartender. She set down the glass she was drying, tossed her long gray braid behind her shoulder, and bent down below the bar. She reemerged holding her long-barreled Colt. She fired a slug into the ceiling. A tile came crashing down onto the bar.

  That did the trick. The group fell silent.

  Marla replaced the gun and strolled over to our table. Her black leather halter did little to halt gravity’s toll on her bust. The furrows on her forehead attested to her forty years behind the bar and on the road. There was no boob job or Botox on this biker babe. She was the real deal.

  “Cocks and apps?” she asked.

  We all stared in silence.

  “Supersize mine,” the contessa finally said.

  Lior reached over and squeezed my knee. I kicked him in the shin.

  “Marla,” Enrique said, “it seems our friends are not familiar with hospitality-speak. That’s cocktails and appetizers, everyone.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, darlin’, I’ll have me a Bud . . .” Chuck said, “. . . Lite! Bud Lite!” he amended. I guess there was more shin-kicking going on under the table.

  Cocks were ordered all around. The apps posed a challenge. The Hog Heaven lacked anything that might remotely be termed healthy cooking or haute cuisine. Ultimately the group agreed on a couple platters of buffalo wings.

  Finally we got down to business.

  “As I told each of you on the phone today,” I said, “I invited you here to discuss bringing down the wise guy who may have wasted Junior Castellano, and, uh, more importantly, broke Miss Lil’s heart.”

  Heads nodded all around.

  “The ratfink,” Mom said.

  “Low-down dirty dog,” the contessa agreed.

  “We’ve got to keep other women of our fine community safe from this predator,” Leonard said. “If we don’t, who will?”

  The group grumbled and nodded in agreement.

  Great. Looked like a little posse of mini-me vigilantes was forming.

  “Listen up, everybody,” I said. “Here’s the deal. This guy is either already back in town or will be soon. Now let me spell this out for you: we may be dealing with a dangerous man. I don’t want anybody going gonzo on me. We need to work as a team. You all have a part to play. So, are we tight on this?”

  “Like Spandex,” Enrique said.

  Everybody nodded.

  “Okay. Mom and your Highness, you two will serve as . . . um . . .”

  “It’s called bait, honey,” Mom said.

  “Yeah. Right. Leonard and Chuck, you will be the bodyguards.”

  They bumped fists across the table. God help me.

  “Leonard, you will also develop disguises for Mom and the contessa. Wigs, glasses—”

  “Got it, Harriet,” he interrupted.

  “Enrique, you will set up the electronic surveillance.”

  “On it,” he said.

  “And Lior, you are going to provide some basic self-defense training to Mom and the c
ontessa, in case the aforementioned security measures fail.”

  “Yes, boss,” he said.

  “Tomorrow morning, Mom and Your Highness, report to Lior’s studio at eight o’clock.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the contessa said. “I do not appear in public before nine a.m. Do you have any idea the amount of time it takes to do this face and hair?” She waved a hand across said features.

  Actually I did. I thought back to my Babe days. Let’s see . . . foundation and concealer, ten minutes . . . eyeshadow, liner, mascara, 15 minutes . . . lip liner, lipstick, five minutes…

  “You’re going to a gym, Contessa,” I said. “You don’t have to . . .” I trailed off as she gave me a stare. “Oh, never mind. Fine. Nine a.m.,” I said. “Lior, please advise your students what to wear.”

  “Sweats,” he said.

  “Sweats?” Mom asked. “I do not own any . . . sweats.”

  “Nor do I,” said the contessa. “Stella, it seems we must go to Saks this evening.”

  “Why yes, indeed we must, Contessa,” Mom said. “You don’t mind, Leonard, do you?”

  “It shall be my pleasure to escort you ladies,” Leonard said.

  “Hellooo?” I said. “Can we get back to the logistics here? Mom, I’m putting you on the internet detail. You and Leonard work together to set up a profile on SuperSeniors.com. Provide plenty of hints to mark you as a rich, grieving, desperate widow. And don’t use your own name.”

  “Please, Harriet,” Leonard looked offended.

  “Uh, right. Pardon me, Leonard. I have nothing but the utmost respect for your decades of experience in covert operations.”

  “Forget about that. All I meant was, nobody uses their real name on those sites.”

  “Yeah. Of course. Now, after you post your profile, you wait for a guy going by three WASP names followed by Roman numerals to . . .”

  “To send me a wink or an IM,” Mom said.

  Hey, how come she was wise to winks?

  “Yeah. Right.”

  I described Worthington’s appearance and personal preferences as related by Miss Lil. “Bear in mind that he can change his looks,” I said. “But tastes are going to be a little more difficult, so pay more attention to those. Any guy who could possibly be him, arrange to meet in a public place. Enrique will hook you up with a hidden videocam and transmitter before you go out. And Leonard will shadow you. Now, this is important, Mom. Don’t try to get this guy to incriminate himself. All we need is to get him on tape so we can make sure we’ve got the right guy. Miss Lil should be able to recognize him from his voice and mannerisms. You just keep him interested, keep him talking.”

  I knew Mom would have no problem doing that. After all, I’d learned all my Boca Babe tricks from her.

  “Now, Contessa, I’m sending you and Chuck down to the Hard Rock. You seat yourselves at one of the high-stakes tables. Contessa, you have a few drinks, shed a few tears, get maudlin over your late husband, flash some cash. I’m betting—no pun intended—that our boy will come running. Same thing, you’ll be wired and Chuck will be there for backup.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So that’s the plan. Any questions?”

  “What do we do when we find the lowlife?” Leonard asked.

  “After we get a positive ID from Miss Lil, I’ll bring the cops in,” I said.

  “This is so exciting,” Mom said.

  “Yes,” Leonard chimed in, “it reminds me of the time in Istanbul that . . .”

  “Yes. Absolutely,” I cut him off.

  They all resumed their chatter. I got up and sauntered over to the bar, taking my Corona bottle with me.

  Marla was bent over the sink, rinsing glasses.

  “Hey, thanks for the assist,” I told her.

  “Anytime, hon,” she replied. The grit in her voice spoke of years of smoke. “Heard you talking about Castellano. You catch that fella who whacked Junior, you bring him by for a drink on the house.”

  “Not an admirer of Junior’s, were you?”

  “Honey, that sumbitch was fixin’ to buy the land out from under me and put me outta my home. You know I live out in Valley View, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Valley View was a mobile home park in the far western reaches of the Boca ’burbs, on the edge of the Glades. There was no valley and no view. Just a fenced lot filled with rust-belt refugees from Pittsburgh and Detroit and Toledo who’d followed the rainbow to Florida and hadn’t found a pot of gold.

  “Word was Junior had cut a deal with the park owners to buy the property for one of his developments. Woulda put us all out on our asses. You tell me, where would I put my double-wide? Mizner Park, maybe?”

  Guess not. Downtown Boca’s trendy outdoor shopping plaza didn’t exactly cater to “trailer trash.”

  “And you know my sixteen-year-old just had her baby, and I finally kicked my old man to the curb,” Marla went on. “I’m telling you, we were up shit creek. And all my neighbors was in the same boat. But I heard some rich folk had filed some kinda injunction to stop the deal. Don’t know what that was all about. Your friend, the judge, was gonna hear the case.”

  “You mean Judge Harrison? Honey du Mellon?”

  The Holy Rollers were Hog Heaven regulars.

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm. Small world. Well, you might get a reprieve,” I said, “but I don’t know if Junior’s death will put the kibosh on the deal.”

  “Maybe not,” Marla said. “All the same, I can’t say as I’m sorry Junior’s been put to bed with a shovel.”

  “No kidding. A bulldozer-sized shovel.”

  She took off to serve other patrons. I took a long sip of my brew.

  My Inner Vigilante was acting up. It wanted to hop on my Hog and ride to Marla’s rescue—and that of all her down-and-out cohorts.

  I was getting seriously worked up when a guy sat down on the stool on my right.

  “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” he asked.

  I swiveled my head and swept my eyes over him, from his beer gut to the crack of his ass at the top of his jeans.

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s why I don’t go there anymore.”

  I turned away and took another sip. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him relocate to the end of the bar to try his luck with another woman.

  My mind went back to Marla. No doubt Junior had had some politico in his pocket on that land deal. And that pissed me off more. With that kind of setup, you really couldn’t fight City Hall.

  A voice broke into my thoughts. “Is this seat empty?”

  I looked to my left and saw a pimply-faced teenage guy with an ass smaller than mine.

  “Yeah,” I said, “and this one will be if you sit down.”

  “Jeez, take a chill pill, grandma,” he grumbled as he shuffled away.

  Something started to elbow my Inner Vigilante aside. What the hell was that? My ego? Yep. Both were ready to kick ass and take names.

  I felt a hand on the small of my back. Okay, that did it. I wasn’t putting up with one more come-on tonight.

  I shot my right elbow up and back. A pair of hands caught it then spun me around on my barstool and came to rest on the bar on either side of me.

  I stared into a pair of dark brown eyes. Then my vision expanded to take in the rest of the package. A square jaw with a five o’clock shadow and a set of dimples. Black, wavy, collar-length hair. Around thirty years old, six-foot-three, two hundred pounds with zero percent body fat.

  Just as I opened my mouth to speak, his lips came down on mine.

  Chapter 8

  MY INDIGNATION turned into excitation. Lior. His tongue traced the outline of my lips as he leaned against me, forcing my back up against the bar. As my lips opened and my hands wa
ndered over his body, my mind wandered into imagination.

  I imagined climbing onto the bar, climbing out of my jeans, unzipping his, guiding him into me . . .

  I’d conjured up many such scenarios over the last few months. But I’d never let fantasy turn into reality. Reality meant a relationship. I didn’t need that. I was doing just fine as a loner. Had been since that day I blew away Bruce and my Boca Babe life. I liked my solitude and the freedom that came with it. I didn’t want any complication—just copulation.

  It had been years. Maybe it was time. But not here. Not this time, anyway.

  I pulled my head back and took a breath.

  “Your place or mine?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Both. You go to your place, and I’ll go to mine.”

  Of all the—

  Before I could respond, he went on, “I know exactly how your mind works, Horowitz. You’re thinking casual sex. You should know by now there’s nothing casual about me.” He moved closer so his lips were touching mine. “When I have you, I’ll have all of you—your body, your mind, your soul, your heart.”

  I pushed on his chest and turned my face away. Then I did climb up on the bar—so that we’d be eye to eye. “You’re not having any of me,” I said slowly and quietly, slitting my eyes. “I am no one’s property. Got that?”

  “Yes, boss,” he said. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and turned on his heel.

  Marla appeared beside me.

  “Nice ass,” she said as we watched him walk away.

  THE FOLLOWING morning I sat in my rocking chair on my porch, drinking coffee, as Lana and I listened to the news. The day’s heat was already starting to rise, and a bluish haze enveloped the Spanish moss draping from overhanging branches. Lana submerged herself in the swamp water then slowly came back up, eyeballs first. Gonna be a scorcher, she seemed to be saying.

  Something on the broadcast caught my ear. “Hold on, I want to hear this,” I said.

  “Boca police have now confirmed that yesterday’s death of prominent builder Frank Castellano, Jr. was a homicide,” the announcer said. “However, no suspects have been arrested as of yet. Detective Reilly, chief investigator on the case, states that police are pursuing numerous leads.”