“I’m not going to get drunk.”
“Darlin’, you’re just about the worst drinker I’ve ever seen. You get drunk on fumes when you open a bottle of merlot. What did you order? I bet you got one of those froufrou drinks with the fruit and the umbrellas.”
“I got a beer.”
“Lite beer?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you want me to try to get information out of this guy, or what?”
Hooker stood hands on hips. Unhappy. “The only reason I’m agreeing to this is because I know how good you are at saying no.”
I returned to the bar. “So, talk to me,” I said to Simon. “Tell me about this importing and exporting. I imagine you import and export race cars.”
“Race cars?”
“You’re visiting on the Huevo boat, so I assumed you were involved in racing.”
“Not even a little. Huevo Industries has their finger in a lot of pies.”
He was drinking Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He slugged his down and glanced at me. I was sipping my beer like a lady. He looked like he wanted to tell me to hurry up, but he got himself under control and ordered another Jack.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I sell ladies’ undies.”
I have no idea where that came from. It just popped out. And from the expression on his face, it was a good choice. A lot better than telling him I was a mechanic, for instance.
“Like at Victoria’s Secret?” he asked.
“Yep, that’s me. I’m a Victoria’s Secret lady.”
He belted back the second Jack. “I always wanted to meet a Victoria’s Secret lady.”
“Well, this is your lucky day.”
He nudged my knee with his. “I like the sound of that. How lucky do you think I’m going to get today?”
“You might get pretty darn lucky.” Not.
I swiveled on my bar stool and watched the fire truck pull out. The ambulance had already departed. The only emergency vehicle left was a lone police car. Most of the crowd had dispersed, and crew members moved around on the first deck. “It looks like everyone’s back on the boat,” I said. “Hopefully there wasn’t too much damage.”
A third Jack magically appeared on the bar.
“Wouldn’t bother me if the whole friggin’ boat went down,” Simon said. “This operation is turning into a lost cause. If it was me, I’d write it off and go home.”
“Your employer doesn’t feel that way?”
“My employer’s on a mission.”
“I bet Ray Huevo isn’t happy about this fire. I’m surprised he didn’t get off the boat with everyone else.”
“Ray isn’t here. Ray’s out of town. Him and his two clowns.”
The bartender was standing in front of us, polishing glasses. “If you’re talking about Rodriguez and Lucca, I just saw them in the parking lot. I took a bag of garbage to the Dumpster and walked past them.”
Simon turned his attention to the bartender. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, they were sitting in their car. Black BMW.”
Yes! Excellent. Hooker and I could sneak up on them and rescue Gobbles.
“I need to talk to them,” Simon said.
No! Not good. Talk could mean make them mysteriously disappear if they don’t come up with the right answers. That would hinder my ability to rescue Gobbles. And I needed the police to find Rodriguez and Lucca with the murder weapon.
“Probably just a look-alike,” I said.
“I saw the tattoo on his neck,” the bartender said.
“Lots of thugs have tattoos,” I told him. “Look at this guy next to me. I bet he’s got a tattoo.”
“Not on my neck,” Simon said. He stood and dropped a couple twenties onto the bar. “Sweetheart, I’m going to have to cut out on you.”
“Boy, that’s too bad,” I told him. “I had plans. I was going to make you real happy. I was going to do things to you that don’t even have names.”
He slid a bar napkin my way. “Give me your number, and I’ll call you when I get off work.”
“Yeah, but the moment will be gone then. I’ll be all cooled off. I don’t stay hot forever, you know.”
“This won’t take long.”
“Okay, I don’t do this for everyone, but I’ll let you look down my shirt if you forget about the guys in the lot. Take it or leave it.”
“That’s it? Look down your shirt?”
“Hey, I’ve got good stuff hidden away under this shirt.”
“I’ll look down your shirt,” the bartender said. “I’ll even throw in a beer.”
“Why are you so interested in those guys in the lot, anyway?” I asked Simon.
“I want to talk to them.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“Can’t you talk to them some other time?”
He grinned at me. “Boy, you want me bad. Guess you don’t get around much, huh? When was the last time someone slipped you the old salami?”
Now there was a pretty mental picture. What woman doesn’t have romantic fantasies about a man who refers to a penis as a salami?
“It’s been awhile,” I admitted. And that was true. “Guess that’s why I’m so hungry for your…uh, salami.”
“I’d like to accommodate you,” Simon said, sliding off his stool, “but I have to do this first.”
I jumped off the bar stool and crossed the patio to Hooker.
“We have a problem,” I said to Hooker. “The bartender just told the chip buyer’s expediter that Rodriguez and Lucca were in the parking lot.”
“Expediter?”
“The gorilla at the bar. They’re Americans, but they’re living in Zurich. And Ray has definitely disappeared.”
We crept into a thicket of shrubbery at the edge of the lot and watched as Simon rapped on the BMW’s driver’s-side window with his gun barrel and persuaded Lucca and Rodriguez to get out of the car. They stood talking for a couple minutes. Looked amicable. Simon gestured that they should go to the boat, and Rodriguez shook his head no. Rodriguez didn’t think that was a good idea.
Bang. Simon shot Rodriguez in the foot.
“Fuck,” Rodriguez said. And he sat down hard on the pavement.
I jumped back when the shot went off, and I felt myself go light-headed. Hard to watch someone get shot with such cold calculation. Of course, I’d just whacked the poor guy in the knee with a flashlight, but it had seemed different at the time. I put my head down and did some deep breathing.
Even at this distance, in the dark, I could see Lucca was dumbstruck, eyes glazed.
“Do something,” I whispered to Hooker. “We can’t afford to have Rodriguez and Lucca disappear. We need them.”
“Darlin’, the gorilla has a gun.”
“So do you.”
“Yes, but the gorilla likes to use his. Mine’s just for show.”
“Call the police!”
Hooker punched in the emergency code.
“There’s a mugging going on in the South Beach Marina parking lot,” Hooker whispered into the phone. “Who is this? You want my name? My name is Dickie Bonnano. And you should hurry or someone might get dead or kidnapped.” Hooker snapped his phone closed and pocketed it.
“You didn’t tell the dispatcher about the shooting,” I said.
“I thought that was included in the mugging.”
“Not all muggings involve shootings. A shooting is much more serious than a plain old mugging.”
“Not necessarily. You could get beat to death in a mugging. And you might just get your toe nicked in a shooting.”
“Are the police on their way?” I asked.
“I guess so.”
“What do you mean, you guess so? What did the dispatcher say?”
“She said I should stay calm.”
Simon had also made a phone call, and three minutes later his traveling companion arrived on the scene. They did a pat down on Lucca and Rodriguez and loaded them into the BMW
’s backseat.
“Where are the police?” I said, feeling a little panicky. “I don’t hear any sirens. I don’t see any flashing lights. You should have told the dispatcher about the shooting. You should have been more assertive.”
“I was assertive. I just wasn’t freaked.”
“Well, maybe you needed to be freaked because I don’t see any cops on the scene.”
“Well, maybe next time you need to make the stupid call.”
“Count on it.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay.”
We were glaring at each other, standing nose to nose, hands on hips.
Hooker’s mouth curved at the corners with the beginning of a smile. “Did we just have a fight?”
“Discussion.”
“I think it was a fight.”
“It was not a fight.”
“Felt like a fight to me.”
“Forget it. We aren’t having make-up sex.”
“It was worth a try,” Hooker said.
Simon and the other guy got into the BMW and the BMW cruised out of the lot. Hooker and I scrambled for our rental, and we all drove north.
“I learned something interesting from Simon.”
“The guy at the bar?”
“Yeah. He said they weren’t associated with racing. He said Ray had his finger in a lot of other pies.”
“Did he mention any of the other pies by name? Apple, blueberry, poontang?”
“Nope. No mention of poontang pie.”
The BMW worked its way through traffic and, true to form, we lost them after a couple blocks and a couple traffic lights.
“Okay,” Hooker said, “here’s my assessment of the situation. If Gobbles is in the trunk, they’ll find him and probably his status won’t change much. At least not for a while. And as far as we’re concerned, we’re screwed.”
“Anything else?”
“We need to find Ray. And we need to identify the chip buyer. And before we do any of those things we need to go back to Felicia’s because I’m out on my feet.”
FOURTEEN
I woke up with Hooker on top of me, and Beans breathing Saint Bernard breath in my face. The disturbing thing is that I didn’t mind either. I slithered out from under Hooker, went to the Ibarras’ bathroom and took a fast shower, got dressed, grabbed some gallon-size plastic bags from the kitchen, and took Beans for a walk.
It was a little after seven and Felicia’s neighborhood was on the move. Pickup trucks and secondhand sedans motored down the side streets, people stood in line at the bus stop, dogs barked from postage-stamp backyards, and cats sat on stoops, soaking up the first sun of the day. The language spoken was Spanish, the kitchen smells were Cuban, and the skin tones were darker than mine. The rhythm of life felt normal and comforting, the setting seemed exotic.
Felicia’s niece was manning the Ibarra stove when I returned. Hooker was at the table with a pack of kids and an older man I didn’t know. Beans slid under the table, waiting for food to drop to the floor.
“Finish your breakfast,” Lily said to her youngest. “The bus will be here and you won’t be ready again.”
Hooker had coffee, juice, and a breakfast burrito in front of him. He had his hand wrapped around his burrito and his phone to his ear.
“Sure,” Hooker said into the phone. “You bet.”
I poured myself a mug of coffee and took a chair at the table.
“That was Skippy,” Hooker said to me when he disconnected. “He wanted to remind me that it was Tuesday.”
I was surprised Skippy was up this early. Skippy was known to come to track meetings in his pajamas if the meeting was called before nine o’clock.
“Skippy’s starting to sound nervous,” Hooker said. “There’s a ton of media scheduled for tomorrow, including the parade of cars that starts at Times Square.”
It wouldn’t be good for Hooker to miss the parade of cars. This is where the top-ten drivers get into their race cars and drive them through midtown Manhattan. It’s televised and photographed and thousands of fans line the parade route. “Maybe we should go to New York.”
“I’ll get arrested and charged with multiple counts of?” Hooker looked at the kids at the table?“misbehaving.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” I said to Hooker.
“Even if I’m just called in for questioning, it’ll create a ton of bad press. And if they decide to hold me, you’ll be left on your own to get us out of this disaster.”
Lily put a massive breakfast burrito in front of me and refilled my coffee. I ate half of the burrito and gave the other half to Beans.
Forty-five minutes later, Hooker and I were in the marina parking lot. The black BMW had returned and was neatly wedged between two other cars. We parked the SUV at the edge of the lot, far away from the BMW, and got out to take a look, bringing a tire iron with us.
“No blood dripping from the trunk,” Hooker said, standing to the rear of the car. “That could be a good sign.”
Hooker rapped on the trunk and called hello, but no one answered. I tried the door and found it locked, so Hooker rammed the tire iron into the crevice by the trunk lock and popped the trunk open. Empty. No blood. Hooker mashed the trunk down to make it catch.
I peeked through the driver-side window. “No blood on the seats or splattered on the windshield. The floor mat is missing from the back. Probably Rodriguez bled on it big-time. There are a few smears on the carpet but nothing major. Maybe they just drove Rodriguez to a doctor. Maybe they didn’t whack them or anything.”
“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.”
We crossed the lot to the cement walk that ran the length of the marina. Two piers down, the Huevo yacht was a hub of activity as crew members worked to clean up the damage caused by the fire. Five men in slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts stood talking on the dock, not far from the boat. From time to time, one of the men would gesture at the boat and everyone would look that way. Two of the men held clipboards.
“Insurance agents,” I said to Hooker.
After a couple minutes, the three men from Zurich emerged from the main salon and left the boat without a backward glance, two crew members trailing behind them carrying luggage.
“Dollars to doughnuts they’re going to be coming our way,” Hooker said. “I’m guessing they’re heading for the parking lot. We need to make ourselves disappear.”
We stepped off the walkway and were immediately swallowed up by the birds-of-paradise bushes and dwarf date palms that provided a greenbelt between the walkway and the parking lot. We snaked around the palms, skirted the lot, and hid behind the SUV.
The men from Zurich and the luggage toters weren’t far behind us. They crossed the lot to the black BMW, went to the trunk, and stared at the gouges we’d just made. They looked around. They did some disgusted head shaking. They tried to open the trunk. It was jammed. They loaded the suitcases into the backseat and got into the car.
“They’re leaving,” Hooker whispered. “They’re going home. What does that mean?”
“They aren’t going home. Home is Zurich, and it’s cold in Zurich now. They’d have their suits back on if they were going home. These guys are all in short-sleeved shirts. I think they’re just getting off the boat. Probably everything smells like smoke.”
We waited until the BMW left the lot, and then we hopped into the SUV and tailed them to Collins. Easier this time. No lights. Less traffic. They drove up to a small boutique hotel where they valet-parked the car, gave their luggage over to the bell captain, and followed him into the lobby.
“I’d really like to know who these guys are,” Hooker said. “Maybe one of us could go talk to the guy at the desk and be incredibly charming and get some information out of him.”
I did an eye roll. “I can’t just walk up to the desk and start asking questions.”
“You could if you hiked your T-shirt up so the desk clerk could see some skin.”
“You�
�re pimping me out,” I said.
“And?”
I reached for the door handle. “If I’m not out in ten minutes, come in guns blazing and rescue me.”
I pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and tied the hem into a knot so it sat just below my boobs, leaving a lot of skin exposed. I sashayed across the street and swung my ass Suzanne style into the lobby.
It was a pretty little lobby with black and white marble floor tiles and potted palms and an elaborate gold-trimmed art deco reception desk. An immaculately tailored and turned-out man stood behind the desk. His nails were buffed, his hair was perfectly cut, his skin was flawless. He wore a tiny rainbow pin in his lapel. I untied my shirt and tucked it back into my jeans. It was going to take more than a bare stomach to entice this guy. The bare stomach was going to have to be attached to equipment I didn’t possess.
“Oh, sweetie,” he said to me. “You’re too perfect to cover up. This is South Beach. You work out, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“What can I do for you? If you’re looking to make rent money, I might have something for you.”
Okay, so I came in half naked and swinging my hips…it was still sort of upsetting that I was instantly sized up as a hooker. “I’m not cheap,” I said to him.
“Of course not! Although, a manicure might not be a bad idea. And you are showing some roots.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Three men just checked in. Would one of them be looking for a…lady? The one with the blue shirt and touch of gray at the temples?”
“He didn’t request one. Although, Mr. Miranda has stayed here before, and in the past has used our ser vices to obtain female companionship.”
“I thought I recognized him. I did him last year. He was here for the Orange Bowl, right? I remember him because he has a crooked…you know.”
“Don’t you hate that?” the desk clerk said. “Did you charge extra?”
“What’s his first name again?”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony Miranda. Yep, that’s the guy.” I borrowed the pen on the counter and wrote a fake number on the back of a hotel brochure. “Here’s my cell number,” I said to the desk clerk. “Tell Anthony Miranda that Dolly says hello.” I swung my ass out of the lobby, across the street, and into the SUV. “Anthony Miranda,” I said to Hooker.
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