I cut a death glare at Felicia. “God’s just going to have to deal with it.”
“Yeah,” Rosa said, “if it’s all so big-deal important to God, let him keep the cats away.”
We returned to the lot and slowly drove around. Hooker stopped at the end of the second line of parked cars. He was looking at one of the cars and grinning. “This is the car,” he said.
I looked past Hooker. It was Spanky’s gift car from Huevo. It was a brand-new, shiny red Avalanche LTZ sport utility truck. The vanity license plate read DICK69. Most likely sounded good on paper.
“What’s Spanky’s truck doing here?” I asked.
“Huevo probably invited him to spend a couple days on the boat,” Hooker said.
We hauled Huevo out of our SUV and put him into the back of Spanky’s truck. We sat him with his knees tucked up, facing the road behind him, looking like he was waiting to go for a ride.
“There’s something funny about the dead guy,” Rosa said. “From this angle, I could swear he got a stiffy.”
“Have some respect,” Felicia said. “You’re not supposed to look there.”
“I can’t help it. It’s right in front of me. He got a big boner.”
“Maybe it’s just rigor mortis,” Felicia said.
Hooker and Gobbles went over and took a look.
“Died in the saddle, all right,” Hooker said. “I hope I don’t go blind from seeing this.”
Felicia made the sign of the cross, twice.
A half hour later we were back in Little Havana. We dropped Rosa off, Hooker hung a right at the next cross street, drove one block, and pulled to the curb in front of Felicia’s house. It was a two-story stucco deal, crammed into a block of identical two-story stucco deals. Hard to tell the color in the dark, but peach was a good guess. No yard. Broad sidewalk. Busy street.
“Where are you going now?” Felicia asked Hooker. “Are you going back to your condo or your boat?”
“Sold them both. Didn’t get enough chances to enjoy them here in Miami. We’ll check into one of the hotels on Brickell.”
“You don’t need to do that. You can stay with me tonight. I’ve got extra room. And everybody would like to meet you in the morning. My grandson is here. He’s a big fan. Just pull around to the alley in the back where you can park.”
Minutes later, Gobbles was tucked into a bunk bed above Felicia’s grandson, and we were standing in a bedroom that was charming but roughly the size of a double-wide bathtub. It contained a chair and a twin bed…and now two adults and a Saint Bernard. The curtains on the single window were mint green and matched the comforter on the bed. A crucifix hung on the wall over the headboard. We had the door closed, and we were whispering so our voices didn’t carry through the house.
“This isn’t going to work!” I said to Hooker.
Hooker kicked his shoes off and tested the bed. “I think it’ll work just fine.”
Beans looked around the tiny room and settled onto the floor with a sigh. It was way past his bedtime.
“I like it,” Hooker said. “It’s homey.”
“That’s not why you like it,” I said. “You like it because there’s only a twin bed in here, and I’m going to have to sleep on top of you.”
“Yeah,” Hooker said. “Life is good.”
I unlaced my sneakers. “You make a move on me and life as you know it will be nonexistent.”
“Boy, that really hurts. Have I ever forced myself on you?”
“I’m talking about wandering hands.”
“Jeez,” Hooker said. “You’re a real spoilsport.” He unzipped his jeans and had them halfway off his ass.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-shouted.
“I’m getting undressed.”
“No way!”
Hooker was down to his T-shirt and Calvins. “Darlin’, I’ve had a long day. I lost a race, I stole a truck, and I left Oscar Huevo DOA in an Avalanche. I’m going to bed. And I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ve had just about all the excitement I could handle in one day.”
He was right. What was I thinking? I wriggled out of my jeans and cleverly removed my bra without removing my T-shirt. I carefully stepped over Beans, crawled in next to Hooker, and tried to find a place in the bed. He was against the wall on his side, and I was plastered against him spoon fashion, my back to his front, wrapped in his arms, his hand cupping my breast.
“Damn it, Hooker,” I said. “You’ve got your hand on my breast.”
“Just holding on to you so you don’t fall out of bed.”
“And I’d better be wrong about the thing poking me in my back.”
“Turns out I have a little energy left for some more excitement.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Did you ask the man in the boat?”
“Do not even think about the man in the boat. The man in the boat isn’t interested. And you’re going to be sleeping on the floor with the dog if you don’t get a grip on yourself.”
I opened my eyes to sunlight pouring in through the pretty mint green curtains. I was partially on top of Hooker, his arm draped around me. And I hate to admit it, but he felt nice. He was still asleep. His eyes were closed, and a fringe of blond lash lay against his suntanned, stubbled face. His mouth was soft, and his body was warm and snuggly. It would be easy to forget he was a jerk.
Barney, Barney, Barney! Pull yourself together, the sensible inner Barney yelled. The guy slept with a salesclerk.
Yes, but it wasn’t as if we were married, or even engaged. We weren’t even living together, Barney the slut answered.
You were dating…regularly. You were sleeping together…a lot!
I blew out a sigh and eased off Hooker. I slipped out from under the quilt, stood, and stepped over Beans and into my jeans.
Hooker half-opened his eyes. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft and still husky from sleep. “Where are you going?”
“Time to get up and go to work.”
“It doesn’t feel like time to go to work. It feels like time to be asleep.” He looked around the room. “Where are we?”
“Felicia’s house.”
Hooker flopped over onto his back and put his hands over his face. “Omigod, did we really steal a hauler?”
“Yep.”
“I was hoping it was a dream.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “And Oscar Huevo?”
“Dead.” I had my shoes on and my bra in my hand. “I’m going to the bathroom and then I’m going downstairs. I smell coffee brewing. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Ten minutes later, I was across from Hooker at Felicia’s kitchen table. I had a mug of coffee and a plate heaped with French toast and sausage. Felicia and her daughter were at the stove, cooking for what seemed like an endless supply of grandchildren and assorted other relatives.
“This is Sister Marie Elena,” Felicia said, introducing a bent little old lady dressed in black. “She come from the church on the corner when she hear Hooker is visiting. She’s a big fan. And this guy behind her is my husband’s brother Luis.”
Hooker was shaking hands and signing autographs and trying to eat. A kid climbed onto Hooker’s lap and scarfed down one of Hooker’s sausages.
“Who are you?” Hooker asked.
“Billy.”
“My grandnephew,” Felicia said, putting four more sausages on Hooker’s plate. “Lily’s youngest boy. Lily is my sister’s middle child. They’re living with me while they look for a place. They just came here from Orlando. Lily’s husband got transferred.”
Everyone was talking at once, Beans was barking at Felicia’s cat, and the television was blaring from the kitchen counter.
“I have to go,” I shouted at Hooker. “I want to get to the car. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided to take a look. Just in case.”
Hooker stood up at the table. “I’ll go with you.”
“When Gobbles gets up, tell him to stay in the house,” I told Felicia. “
Tell him we’ll be back later.”
“Dinner at six o’clock,” Felicia said. “I’m cooking special Cuban for you. And my friend Marjorie and her husband are coming. They want to meet you. They’re big fans.”
“Sure,” Hooker said.
“But then we have to leave,” I said to Felicia. “We need to get back to North Carolina.”
“I’m in no rush to get back to North Carolina,” Hooker said, grinning down at me. “Maybe we should stay another night.”
“Maybe you should take out more health insurance,” I said to Hooker.
FOUR
It was early morning and the sky over Miami was a brilliant azure. Not a cloud visible, and already the sun was heating things up. It was the first day of the workweek in a neighborhood of hardworking people. Clumps of Cuban immigrants and first-generation Americans stood waiting at bus stops. Not far off, in South Beach, the traffic was light and the gleaming and immaculate pricey cars of the rich and famous were cooling off in air-conditioned garages after a night on the town. In Little Havana, dusty trucks and workhorse family sedans hustled down streets, carrying kids to relatives’ houses for day care and adults to jobs citywide.
Hooker drove past the front of the warehouse and turned at the corner. He circled the block and we looked for cars occupied by cops, Huevo henchmen, or crazed fans. There were no occupied cars that we could see, and the traffic was minimal, so Hooker found a parking spot on the street and we unloaded Beans. Felicia had given us a key to the side door. We let ourselves in, switched the lights on, and closed and locked the door behind us.
Everything was just as we’d left it. I found a jumpsuit, pulled on a pair of gloves, and went to work on the car.
“What can I do?” Hooker asked.
“You can go through the hauler and make sure there aren’t any more dead people in there.”
Hooker prowled through the hauler and cleaned up after me as I methodically examined the car.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t here. It just means I haven’t found it yet.”
Hooker looked inside the car. “I have to give Huevo credit. They take every opportunity to make the car better. Right down to the gearshift knob.”
“Yeah, I’m taking the knob with me. It’s aluminum and super light. They’ve even used a carved design to shave an ounce off it. I thought we might adapt it for your cars. Steal the concept but change the design.”
The side door opened and Felicia and Rosa bustled in.
“It’s all over the television,” Rosa said. “It’s a big hoohah.” She looked at Beans, sprawled on a blanket we’d lifted out of the hauler. “What’s with him? Why isn’t he trying to knock us over?”
“He’s got a stomach full of French toast and sausage. He’s sleeping it off.”
“Good to remember,” Rosa said.
“We saw pictures of Mr. Dead Guy,” Felicia said. “He was on the news. They have a television at the cigar factory and Rosa saw it and called me so I could put the television on at the fruit stand. First they had pictures of Mr. Dead Guy getting taken away in the truck thing…what’s it called?”
“Meat wagon,” Rosa said.
Felicia shook her finger at Rosa. “Don’t stand near me if you’re going to disrespect the dead. I don’t want God to get confused when he sends the lightning bolt down.”
“You worry too much,” Rosa told Felicia. “God’s a busy guy. He don’t have time to micromanage. What are the chances he heard that? It’s early in the morning. He’s probably having breakfast with Mrs. God.”
Felicia made the sign of the cross two times.
“Anyway, they had him covered up with a blanket in those pictures,” Felicia said. “You couldn’t actually see him. But then they interviewed the restaurant worker who found Mr. Dead Guy, and this is the good part…the worker said this was the work of some kind of monster killer who eats dead flesh. He said Mr. Dead Guy was all wrapped up like a mummy, but that he could see through the plastic wrap that he was shot in the head and that someone ate part of Mr. Dead Guy’s shoulder. And it was someone with real big teeth.”
“And then there was a press conference and the police person said it was true that someone or something had eaten part of the deceased. And they think the fact he was all wrapped up might be part of some devil ritual,” Rosa said.
“They didn’t say devil,” Felicia said. “They just said ritual.”
“They didn’t have to say devil,” Rosa said. “What other kind of ritual could it be? You think they used him for shrink-wrap practice at butcher school? Of course it would be a devil ritual.”
“Then they showed some pictures of him before he got wrapped up,” Felicia said. “Pictures of him with his wife. And a picture of him with his race driver.”
“What about the hauler?” Hooker asked Rosa and Felicia. “Did anyone say anything about the missing sixty-nine car hauler?”
“No,” Rosa said. “Nobody said anything about that. And I got a theory. You ever see the girlfriend that goes along with the Mr. Dead Guy race driver? I bet she’s the one ate Mr. Dead Guy.”
“Beans ate Mr. Dead Guy,” Felicia said. “We saw it.”
“Oh yeah,” Rosa said. “I forgot.”
“We gotta get back to work,” Felicia said, heading for the door. “We just wanted to tell you.”
“We need to talk,” Hooker said to me. “Let’s take a break here and find a diner. I didn’t get a chance to eat at Felicia’s house. And after the diner, I need to go shopping. You took your bag with you, but I’ve just got the clothes on my back. I thought I’d be home by now.”
I pulled my gloves off and peeled myself out of the jumpsuit. Hooker snapped the leash on Beans and we locked up and loaded ourselves into the SUV. It was a couple blocks to a bunch of coffee houses and small restaurants on Calle Ocho. Hooker chose a restaurant that advertised breakfast and had a shaded parking lot attached. We cracked the window for Beans and told him to hang tight and promised to bring him a muffin.
It was a medium-size restaurant with booths against the wall and tables in the middle of the floor. No breakfast bar. Lots of signed photographs on the wall of people I didn’t recognize. Most of the booths were filled. The tables were empty. Hooker and I slid into one of the two empty booths, and Hooker studied the menu.
“Do you think the fact that Oscar was shot while naked and flying his colors would suggest angry husband?” I asked Hooker.
“It’s possible. What I don’t get is the shrink-wrap, hide him in the hauler, and ship him to Mexico thing. Wouldn’t it have been easier and safer to dump him in the ocean? Or turn him over to an undertaker for transport? Why would someone want to smuggle him across the border?”
The waitress brought coffee and gave Hooker the once-over. Even if you didn’t recognize Hooker, he was worth a second look. Hooker ordered eggs, sausage, a short stack of pancakes with extra syrup, home fries, a blueberry muffin for Beans, and juice. I stayed with my coffee. I figured I wasn’t going to look great in prison clothes. Best not to compound it by getting fat.
Hooker had his cell phone in his hand. “I have a friend who works for Huevo. He should be at the shop by now. I want to see what the guys know.”
Five minutes later, Hooker disconnected and the waitress showed up with his food. She gave him extra syrup, a complimentary second muffin, more juice, and she topped off his coffee.
“I’d like more coffee,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “Let me get a fresh pot.” And she left.
I looked over at Hooker. “She’s not coming back.”
“Darlin’, you’ve gotta have more faith in people. Of course she’ll come back.”
“Yeah, she’ll come back when your coffee cup is empty.”
Hooker dug into his eggs. “Butch says everyone’s in shock over Oscar Huevo. He said a lot of people weren’t all that surprised to hear Huevo was shot, but everyone’s having a cow over the
shrink-wrap and the biting thing. Butch said half the garage thinks it’s the work of a werewolf, and the other half thinks it’s a contract hit. And the half that thinks it’s a hit thinks it was bought by Huevo’s wife. Apparently Huevo was getting ready to trade up, and Mrs. Huevo was mucho unhappy with Mr. Huevo.”
I looked into my coffee cup. Empty. I looked for our waitress. Nowhere to be seen.
“Anything about the hauler?” I asked Hooker.
“No. Apparently word hasn’t gotten out that the hauler’s missing.”
I saw the waitress appear on the other side of the room but couldn’t catch her attention.
“NASCAR has to know,” I said to Hooker. “They track those haulers. They’d know when it went off their screen.”
Hooker shrugged. “Season’s over. Maybe they weren’t paying attention. Or maybe the driver called in and said the GPS was broken so NASCAR wouldn’t get involved.”
I clanked my teaspoon on my coffee cup and waved my hand at the waitress, but she had her back to me and didn’t turn around.
“Darlin’, that’s just so sad,” Hooker said, trading coffee cups with me.
I took a sip of coffee. “There are some worried people out there. They’re scrambling to find the hauler, and they’re going to want to find the idiots who stole it because those idiots know Huevo was stuffed into the locker.”
“Good thing we’re the only ones who know we’re the idiots,” Hooker said.
The waitress stopped at our table and filled Hooker’s empty cup. “Anything else, sweetheart?” she asked Hooker. “Everything okay with your breakfast?”
“Everything’s great,” Hooker said. “Thanks.”
She turned and sashayed off, and I gave Hooker a raised eyebrow.
“Sometimes it’s good to be me,” Hooker said, finishing his pancakes.
“So we’re sticking to our plan to check out the car and leave the hauler on the side of the road somewhere.”
“Yeah, except I don’t know what to do about Gobbles. No one knows we’re involved, so we can go home and get on with our lives. Gobbles has a major problem. Gobbles’s life expectancy isn’t good. I have no idea how to fix that.”
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