1 Margarita Nights (20 page)

I grinned at him. “I’m just a fool for you, Bobby.” The three amigos were there though they don’t usually show up on a Saturday. I took it as a sign of moral support.

“Haven’t any of you got a home?” I asked.

“Yup,” said Peter, “and we’re in it.”

Between pulling beers, opening bottles of wine and mixing drinks I told them about the break-in. “Only four people knew I had the tape. You guys and Evan. So which of you broke into my joint and took the video?”

They each pointed a finger at the guy beside them and said, “Him.”

“Very funny. I’ve got some orders to fill. By the time I get back I want you to tell me who did it.”

When I got back they’d decided it was Evan who’d searched my apartment. “Well that was easy, wasn’t it?” I said. “I’m glad we got that taken care of.”

Brian pushed the wire rims back up his nose. “You should stay somewhere else until this is settled.” His worry lines deepened. “Stay with a friend . . . stay at your mother’s.”

I made a face.

“No really, he’s right,” Peter put in. “Don’t go back to the Tropicana. You can stay with me if you like.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Safe as can be.”

I laughed. “Honey, you ain’t never going to get that lucky. I’d rather face Hannibal Lecter than a night fighting you off.”

“Oh, I’d like it if you fought,” Peter said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Clay ignored us and said, “Peter’s right. I have a couple of rentals out on the beach. I’ll go back to the office and see what’s available. You can stay there for the next month.”

“I can’t afford the beach!”

“I’m not going to charge you.” He seemed almost indignant.

I stopped in my tracks, a carafe of house wine in each hand.

Clay, the cheapest guy in the world, was offering something for free. He was really worried about me.

“Thanks, Clay.”

I put the drinks down on a tray and came back to him. “Thanks, but I’ll stay put.” I reached out to touch his hand and then quickly withdrew it. I made busy until I got my wonky emotions under control.

“You need protection,” Clay said when I came back to them.

“Like a police car parked outside my door? My neighbors are already leery about inviting me to the annual cookout.”

“Screw the neighbors,” Clay snarled. This guy just takes things so literal it makes jiving him difficult. “At least stay somewhere else for a while.”

“There is something you all can do for me,” I told them.

“Would you all keep your eyes open for that white SUV? The three letters to the right of the orange spell OFF. I’m sure it belongs to one of those guys on the video. If we know who they are, we may know why Jimmy was interested in them enough to video them.”

“How be I check out Windimere?” offered Brian.

“I tried today but no luck.”

“They’ll be there Sunday morning if they’re golfers. I’ll check the Royal Palms as well.”

“I can tell all my agents to watch for it,” Clay put in.

“They’re up and down the island every day.”

Peter turned to Brian and asked, “Can’t you call someone in vehicle registration and see who that plate belongs to?” “You watch too much TV. I am just a real estate lawyer. I don’t know anything about getting a plate number. Hell, I can’t even get my own tickets fixed.” He stared glumly into his drink. Lately it didn’t take much to sink him into a gray funk.

Marley strode in and settled her bony bottom onto a stool beside Brian, talking before she’d even sat down. “No luck on finding Andy. David checked all the shelters. I even called Mrs. Crown. He isn’t in a private facility.”

I would have liked to hear the conversation between Marley and Betsy Crown, liked to have heard Marley say, “So, have you got Andy stashed someplace?” Diplomacy wasn’t one of her talents.

It was a wild night at the Sunset. It started out as people simply dropping in to express their condolences and then the memories started flowing along with the booze.

Skip Howard took the floor with people three deep at the bar around him. “One time Jimmy and I were coming back from a basketball game up in Bradenton. We’d won so we’d kind of been celebrating. Jimmy was stretched out in the back seat, sound asleep, when this cruiser pulls me over.” Skip started to laugh, a high wheezing laugh that leaves him helpless. His Santa Claus belly shook like a bowl of jelly while everyone waited, nudging each other and laughing along with him though they didn’t know what the joke was yet.

“Jimmy is sound asleep,” he repeated. “Sheriff’s deputy has me spread-eagled on the hood of my car.” The memory doubled him up with laughter. “Jimmy wakes up, gets out of the car and walks back to the cruiser. The deputy left it running, see?” Now everyone one was laughing, waiting for it.

“Jimmy gets into the cruiser.” More wheezing hilarity from Skip. “Takes the deputy a few seconds to figure out what’s happening here. Maybe it was just the surprise of seeing Jimmy when he thought I was alone. Or maybe he was slow at guessing what Jimmy intended to do. Anyway, the deputy finally figures it out when Jimmy is getting in the car. The cop is going crazy. Yelling at Jimmy to stop. Running back to stop Jimmy. Even pulling his gun. Honest to god, I thought he was going to shoot Travis.” The whole bar was laughing now.

“Jimmy just pulls out around him and takes off.” Tears are running down Skip’s face. Gasping for breath, he stammers, “The deputy . . . the deputy threw me in the back of my car . . . swearing . . . ranting. Takes off after Jimmy. Followed him all the way through town and out to South Beach. He’s got no jurisdiction inside city limits but he wants his cruiser back.”

Now the bar around him goes crazy but Skip isn’t done. “When we get out to South Beach, the cruiser is parked in the Travises’ driveway, door open, car still running but no Jimmy. The crazy son of a bitch just went into the house, climbed into bed and went back to sleep.”

That was my boy all right . . . a crazy son of the bitch named Bernice.

From a wake it turned into a loud boisterous party that Jimmy would have loved, but things had started to quiet down by the time Tony Rollins came by. He wasn’t smiling and he wasn’t joining the “Remember Jimmy” party. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Come out to my office.” I led the way down the corridor to the exit door. As my daddy would say, it was as cold as a witch’s tit outside.

“Andy Crown called the club looking for Jimmy today.”

“God!” It just about knocked me over. “Here I’ve been running around looking for him and he calls you. You didn’t tell him Jimmy was dead, did you? That would send him spiraling off the planet for sure.”

“Nah.”

I sagged back against the railing. “Did he say where he was? Leave a message of any kind?”

“He just asked for Jimmy and when I said Jimmy wasn’t there, he said, ‘Tell him Andy called.’ I’m thinking he might be the one who took the blades off the pump.”

I froze. It was a long fall off the narrow little platform to concrete below. “How did you know about that?”

“What?”

“How’d you know what caused the explosion?” His face screwed up in distress. This boy really didn’t come from a gene pool you’d want to dip your toes into, but you don’t have to be real bright to kill someone. “You told me?” The fact that he put a question mark at the end of the sentence said he really wasn’t expecting me to go for it.

I wrapped my hands tight around the railing ready to kick out if he moved towards me. “No I didn’t.” “I guess I read it in the papers.”

“Don’t think so.” The rough block bit into my shoulder as I wedged myself into the corner against the wall.

“I guess the cops told me. What does it matter?”

It mattered. There was one for sure way he could know what happened on the
Suncoaster
.

“That nutcase, Crown, doctored Jimmy’s boat. You should tell the cops.”

“It’s your story. You tell them.”

His body jerked closer to me. “You’re the one they’re interested in. People saw you on the boat. I’m trying to help you here.”

“People?” Things were getting better and better. “Who said?”

He leaned towards me. I could smell the mint of breath spray. “If you want this thing to go away, you have to give them something.”

“It’s nice of you to be concerned about me.”

“I don’t want cops snooping around.”

“I can see that would make your clients nervous . . . interfere with business.”

“Jimmy was fucking up everything.”

“Well, he can’t bother you now.” I started to ease around him. He blocked my way with his shoulder. “This Crown guy is perfect.”

“Right now I have to get back to work.” I pushed him away with my right hand but he grabbed my wrist and held me.

“I want us to be friends,” he said.

“Sure,” I lied. “I’ll call you.”

I stacked the last glass and wiped down the bar.

“C’mon,” Bobby urged, his hand already on the light switch.

“You got a promise, Bobby?”

“Yeah, I promised myself a hot shower and bed.” In the parking lot Bobby’s sedan sat beside Jimmy’s red pickup. But there was another car still there. The last place I’d worked there was always someone sleeping a heavy night off in the back seat, but not at the Sunset. Another thing the Sunset is too upscale for. At this time of the night everyone should be gone.

Bobby hesitated. “Who is it?” He was thinking about the night deposit in his inside pocket.

The door of the Lexus opened and Clay stood up, looking at us over the roof.

“It’s okay, Bobby,” I said.

I went around the Lexus to where Clay was waiting, hands stuffed into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket and looking uncomfortable. He always gives the impression of being tall although he’s not quite six feet. It’s the stillness that makes you aware of him, no wasted movements, nothing over the top, steel in the presence of reeds.

“Did they pick you to babysit?” I asked. “I figure you three tossed a coin to see who saw me home from the party.”

He hunched his shoulders forward. “I volunteered.” He didn’t look pleased to admit it.

I’d enjoyed them fussing over me, even encouraged it, but the joke had gone far enough. “Well, you’re off the hook. There’s no one waiting for me. They got what they came for.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t have any idea of what’s going on.”

“True, but then I never do.”

“It can’t hurt to be cautious for a few days.”

“Okay, but I want to go to Andy’s before I go home.”

“I’ll drive,” he said, turning on his heel and getting back in his car.

The leather seat was heated although my nether regions were hot enough and I really didn’t need the help; but I wiggled my bum down into the warmth as it wrapped around me like an embrace. We cruised out to Tamiami with Chris Isaacs singing about getting lucky in Texas while I was thinking of getting lucky right here in Florida. I told myself Clay wasn’t my type. Judging by Jimmy, my type was drunk, drugged out and totally beyond control while Clay was all about control and taking care of business. Where’s the fun in that? Definitely not my kind.