“C’mon, BeBe,” Sabrina said, collapsing into the Miata. “We’ll have a blast.”
“Can’t,” I said, pointing to the Electra. “My friend’s here.”
Sabrina stood up in the seat and craned her neck to get a look. “Hey, is that your boyfriend?” she said, her voice shrill.
“No,” I said quickly. “He’s just a friend.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harry. Gotta go. Call me if you remember anything else. ’Bye now.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tightly.
“Hey, Harry,” she hollered, releasing me.
Harry had a map unfolded on the steering wheel, but he looked up now, startled to hear a strange woman screeching his name.
“Hi, Harry,” Sabrina repeated. “You’re cute!”
He laughed and gave her a bashful finger wave.
“Whyn’t you fuck BeBe?” Sabrina yelled. “She needs a good fuck!”
“Sabrina!” her blond friend trilled. “You’re shit-faced!”
The two women laughed uproariously, and M’Linda peeled the Miata out of the restaurant doing at least forty miles an hour.
I watched them screech down Seventeenth Street, sighed, and got in the Electra.
“New friends?” Harry said, putting the map down.
“The gorgeous black woman was Sabrina Berg. She had four lemon martinis,” I said. “I’m thinking she was seriously overserved.”
“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. He pulled the car out into traffic, at a much safer, more conservative speed, which was good, because it was a spring Friday evening in Fort Lauderdale, and traffic was thick with showy cars and showy people, out to show just how young and beautiful and carefree they were.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing,” Harry said. “How’d it go?”
“Better than I expected,” I said. “How’d it go with you guys? Did you find us a place to stay? Did Granddad get some Scotch?”
“Yes, and yes,” Harry said. A white Mercedes pulled in front of him, and he had to jam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending it. “Damn,” he muttered. “How do people here stand it?”
“You mean the fabulous weather?” It was just getting on to six o’clock, but the sun was still shining, and the palm trees that lined the street were rustling gently in the wind being blown in off the nearby ocean.
“All of it,” he said. “It’s all too much. Too many cars, too many people…too much.”
He was in a mood, I could tell.
“Where’s the motel?” I asked, changing the subject. “And where are Granddad and Weezie?”
“Grocery shopping,” he said. “The motel’s not far from here.”
“Pretty awful?” I asked. “I told her we can’t afford beach prices. And it’s still high season.”
“Not too bad,” he said. “A little mom-and-pop joint. It’s called the Mango Tree. I guess because there’s a gnarly old mango tree in the parking lot. It’s clean. We’re sharing a room, though.”
“Who? You and me?”
“In your dreams,” Harry said, laughing. “No, I meant boys and boys. Me and Spencer, and you and Weezie. They only had the two rooms, and it’s not cheap, either. Hundred bucks a night.”
“Oh.” I’d hoped to find something much cheaper. But with Granddad along, I didn’t want to check into a really risky neighborhood.
“The rooms are efficiencies. We’ve each got a little stove and refrigerator. That’s why Weezie went shopping. We figured we could save money by fixing cereal in the morning, and maybe keep some sandwich stuff too.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Although I hope we won’t be here too long.”
“Did you get a lead on Reddy-Boy’s whereabouts?”
“Sort of,” I said. “He took Sabrina to his quote ‘condo.’ It’s in a new high-rise on the intracoastal waterway. She got the idea he’s sort of squatting in a decorated model.”
“Not bad,” Harry admitted. “She tell you all this before she got wasted?”
“She’s a nice lady,” I said, feeling the need to defend my new friend. “She got screwed by her ex-husband. Sabrina is actually pretty damned shrewd. She spotted Reddy for a fake the minute she laid eyes on him.”
“But she still went home with him?”
I shrugged. “He’s got a way about him. That’s all I can tell you.”
He glanced sideways, started to say something, then thought better of it.
“Didn’t James tell you Sabrina met Reddy only once?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But as it turns out, she doesn’t always tell her lawyer everything. She actually saw him a second time. On a date.”
“Christ!” Harry said.
“Don’t start,” I warned. “We’ve got more than we had when we got here, although I admit, it’s not much. I’ve got the name of the restaurant where they had dinner. It’s called Mark’s, and it’s on Las Olas.”
“That’s the main drag,” Harry said. “Expensive stores and restaurants.”
“She said it was maybe a ten-minute drive from the condo. A new development, and they had a furnished model. It’s better than nothing. Tomorrow we can find the restaurant and try to figure out which condo development he took her to.”
“He’s probably long gone,” Harry said.
I knew he was right, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear just then.
Harry flipped on the turn signal and slowed the Electra in front of a narrow band of lush greenery. “This is the place,” he said.
The Mango Tree Motel had seen better days, probably twenty years ago. The concrete parking lot was cracked, with weeds growing up through patches of dirt, and the symbolic mango tree was dropping dead branches onto the ground. A sputtering neon arrow pointed toward a concrete-block cube that had been designated “Office.”
“Oh,” I said, getting out of the car. “For this we’re paying a hundred bucks a night?”
“It gets better,” Harry said.
I followed him down a cracked concrete sidewalk toward the rest of the units. There looked to be maybe two dozen in all, arranged in a squared-off U shape around a swimming pool. The pool itself was surprisingly clean, a sparkling turquoise oval set in a band of white paving stones, with fiberglass lounge chairs set around its circumference. A couple of little girls splashed in the shallow end of the pool, and nearby, a balding middle-aged man in swim trunks was grilling hot dogs on a portable grill. Salsa music spilled from the open door of one of the units, and people sat out in folding lawn chairs in front of other doors, sipping from soda cans, reading paperback novels, or smoking.
In spite of its somewhat faded shabbiness, I was surprised to find that the Mango Tree felt warm, cozy even.
“These two are ours,” Harry said, gesturing toward units 14 and 15, the second and third units in from the middle of the courtyard. I had my hand on the doorknob when the door opened and Weezie popped her head out.
“Hey!” she said, opening the door wide. “Welcome to Mangoville.”
The unit was approximately the same size as our units at the Breeze, maybe a little larger. A pair of twin beds with bright floral spreads had a blond-wood nightstand between them holding an incredibly ugly lamp. There was a long, low dresser with a mirror, two lumpy armchairs, and in the corner, a little kitchenette with a dorm-size refrigerator, a two-burner range, and a toaster oven. The walls were painted a virulent shade of orangeish-yellow and the terrazzo floors were bare. A window air-conditioning unit rattled above one of the beds, and a picture window opened out with a view to the pool area.
“Home sweet home,” I said, bouncing up and down on one of the mattresses, which produced an alarming spoinnnging noise.
“That one’s yours,” Weezie said, plopping down on the opposite bed. “What do you think of the place?”
“It’s not the Breakers,” I said. “But it looks okay.”
Weezie sighed. “Think what I could do with this pl
ace!”
“Maybe you could work a deal with the management,” Harry suggested. “Decorating advice in exchange for rent.”
“Don’t think I didn’t ask,” Weezie retorted. “The owner manages the place. Mr. Patel. He didn’t think much of the idea. Can you believe he just painted all the units this nightmare color?” She shuddered. “I’ll bet all this furniture came from the same close-out place. Flophouse ’R Us.”
“Is my soup ready?” Granddad stood in the connecting doorway to his room. He wore a pair of loud red-plaid swim trunks, black socks, and a blue plaid sport shirt. He’d fit right in with the rest of Fort Lauderdale’s senior citizenry.
“Oh, sorry, Spencer,” Weezie said, jumping up from the bed. “I was just getting ready to heat it up for you when BeBe and Harry came back.”
She went to the kitchenette and opened a can of generic cream of tomato soup.
“Soup for dinner?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
“Four cans for a dollar,” Granddad said. “And I had a coupon too!” He reached in the pocket of his sport-shirt and pulled out a wad of newspaper clippings.
“Spencer here is a great shopper, BeBe,” Weezie told me, dumping the soup into an aluminum pan.
“I’d of done even better if it had been senior-citizen day,” Granddad said. He sat down, and clicked the remote control for the television. “How did your meeting go?”
“Fine,” I said. I’d been deliberately vague about the details of my relationship with Reddy Millbanks. As far as Granddad was concerned, Reddy had simply been a “business adviser” who’d cheated me out of everything.
“The lady I met at the Binnacle was pretty helpful. Tomorrow we can start looking for the condo Reddy was staying at.”
“They’ve got the weather channel in Spanish down here,” Granddad said. “Ain’t that something?”
While he stared at the television, Weezie turned toward me and raised one eyebrow. “Later,” I mouthed.
Harry looked down at the pan of soup with barely disguised disgust. “Is there enough for everybody?”
“We’ve got four cans,” Weezie said cheerfully. “And cheese and crackers.”
“And canned fruit cocktail for dessert,” Granddad added. “The good kind with the big chunks of pineapple. But you kids don’t have to eat soup,” Granddad said, flipping channels now. “Go have a nice dinner out. My treat.”
With a grand flourish he produced a twenty-dollar bill from his coupon pocket. “Your grandmother made me promise to treat you to a nice dinner our first night.”
“Grandmama!” I said. “Did you call her? Is she feeling all right?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “She was going to American Legion bingo with the bridge club girls tonight. They have fifty-cent beer, and you know how Lorena likes her beer.”
“Who was driving?” I asked.
“They’ve got a whole busful of ’em going,” Granddad said. “Can you imagine what that sounds like? A whole busful of beered-up biddies?”
“Well,” I said dubiously, looking at Weezie and Harry. “I guess we could go out. We wouldn’t stay late, though. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“I’m in for the night,” Weezie announced. She held up a glossy magazine. “Spencer even had a coupon for the new issue of Coastal Living. I’ll have dinner and a nice shower, then it’s reading and lights out for me.”
“We couldn’t just leave you guys here,” I said.
“I don’t know why not,” Granddad said indignantly. “Think I need a baby-sitter?”
“No!” we all said in unison.
“You guys go,” Weezie urged. “Really. I’m not even that hungry. Spencer made me try one of his Kit Kat bars while we were shopping.”
I tried to give her the look. The look that said “Quit trying to pair me off with Harry.” She was ignoring me.
“You up for supper?” Harry asked.
“I’m starved,” I admitted.
“There’s a little Brazilian cafe right around the corner,” Harry said. “I spotted it earlier. We could walk over and check it out. Do you like Brazilian food?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never had any.”
40
Maria’s Cafe was in a grubby little strip shopping center, situated between a check-cashing storefront and a coin laundry.
“This is the place you had in mind?” I asked, looking dubious.
“Yeah,” Harry said. He grabbed my hand and dragged me in the door. “Come on, open your mind. You’ll love this food. It’s very homey, not fancy, just plain good cooking. It’s my favorite kind of Latin food.”
Not fancy was an understatement. Maria’s Cafe consisted of a single long linoleum counter and a few tiny tables topped with flowery vinyl tablecloths. The menu was written on a huge blackboard hanging in back of the counter. None of the dishes was recognizable to me, but the whole place was enveloped in the delicious aroma of roasting meats. My stomach growled in approval.
A young Latina girl, with streaky hair worn in a lopsided topknot, and a too-tight white nylon nurse’s uniform, stood behind the counter. She was the only one in the place. The restaurant owner in me calculated how much it was costing to keep the place open. She also wondered why there was so little business on a beautiful Friday night.
“This looks great!” Harry said, standing back to study the menu.
“You eating here or you wanna take out?” the girl asked.
“Your choice,” I told Harry. “I’m completely in your hands tonight.”
He waggled an eyebrow. It was the single sexiest thing I’d ever seen him do, and I was completely taken aback.
“We’ll eat here,” he told the girl. “Can we get a cocktail?”
In answer, she pushed a laminated menu card across the counter at him. “You can seat yourself,” she said. “Just let me know when you’re ready to order.”
Harry pulled out a chair for me, and we sat at the window.
“Can I get a glass of wine?” I asked. “I mean, I know Granddad only gave us twenty bucks, but…”
“Don’t worry about it. This dinner’s on me,” Harry said, not looking up from the menu. “Are you up for the whole authentic Brazilian experience?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Okay,” he said. He called to the girl. “We’re ready to order now.”
She sauntered over and stood expectantly at his elbow.
He rattled off an order in what sounded to me like competent Portugese, although I recognized none of the words. She scribbled it down on a steno pad, and then disappeared behind a set of swinging doors into what I assumed was the kitchen.
A moment later, she appeared with two glasses of a milky liquid and a small plate of fried objects, which she set down in front of Harry.
He picked up his glass, sipped, and nodded approval. I picked up mine, and he gently clicked his glass against it.
“Cheers,” he said.
I took a hesitant taste.
“Mmm,” I said. “Sort of a turbocharged coconut milk shake?”
“You could say that. The English translation for it is virgin sweat.”
We both had a good chuckle over that one. The virgin sweat was sweet and cold and potent, and I finished it off quickly.
He pushed the plate of fried things in my direction. “These are salgadinhos. Appetizers. This one here is little bits of fried linguica sausage.”
The sausages were on the spicy side, but tasty.
“And this,” he said, placing a fritter-looking object on my plate, “is a fried cod ball. It’s originally a Portugese dish, but these cuisines have a lot in common.”
Before we’d finished the appetizers, the girl brought out a couple of plates of what looked like American salads.
“It’s just tomatoes and hearts of palm,” I said, feeling relieved. I ventured a taste. “With a really yummy vinaigrette dressing.”
“Brazilians love their hearts of palm,” Harry said, digging into his own plate. “The
y sell huge jars of them in every Latin groceria I’ve ever seen.”
He made a quick, barely discernable gesture, and the waitress reappeared at the table. He murmured something to her, and she came back again, with another weird-looking cocktail. It was like the first, but slightly different.
“Jaguar piss,” Harry said, laughing “You said you were up for the whole authentic experience. Anyway, it’s another variation on the coconut scheme. You like?”
“Sure.” The jaguar piss was giving me a healthy buzz. What was not to like?
After the salad, we were presented with bowls of soupy, mashed-up black beans.
“Caldinho de feijao,” Harry announced.
The beans were delicious, fragrant with some kind of pork. I scraped the bowl to get every last bite of the broth.
“And now the entrée,” Harry said as the girl arrived back at our table with a huge tray of more food—more little fried things, this time pie-shaped objects, and a platter of skewered meat.
“I can’t,” I said, groaning. “I’ll absolutely bust.”
“You can and you will,” he said, forking pies and meat skewers onto my plate.
“These,” he said, pointing to the pies, “are empadinhas. Same thing as what the Mexicans call an empanada. These happen to be made with shrimp. And this,” he said, pointing to the skewers, “is churrasco. Brazilian barbecued beef.”
I nibbled at the food. It was all wonderful, but more than I could possibly eat. Harry, on the other hand, happily shoveled it all in. It was fun to watch him. He ate with undisguised gusto, licking his fingers, sopping up the meat juices with a piece of bread, smacking his lips in appreciation.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, propping my elbows on the table.
“Sure,” he said, between chews.
“How does a fisherman from Savannah know so much about Brazilian food?”
“They have fish in Brazil,” he said simply. “It’s a great place. Wonderful people.”
I took another sip of my jaguar piss. “I want to apologize for Sabrina,” I said, emboldened by the buzz.
“For what?”
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