Motor Mouth

THIRTEEN

Hooker was stretched back in his seat, hands locked behind his head, eyes closed against the ambient light from the terminal.

“Surveillance doesn’t actually work if you keep your eyes closed,” I told Hooker.

“Are your eyes open?”

“Yes.”

“Good enough.”

We were parked to the side of the Signature terminal, and there wasn’t a lot of activity.

“The plane’s late,” I said to Hooker.

“If they’re coming from out of the country, they have to go through customs and immigration, and it’s in a different part of the airport. After they clear customs, they’ll get back into the plane, and the plane will taxi them over here. I’ve been through the process at this airport, and it usually goes pretty fast, but the plane still has to get from point A to point B.”

At nine thirty-five, three men in suits and two men in uniform exited the terminal. The men in uniform and two of the suits carried luggage. Three small rolling suitcases and a computer case. They were traveling light. The third man was luggage free. They were all Caucasian. The uniformed men were young, in their twenties. Flight attendants. The three men in suits were forties to fifties. I didn’t recognize any of them. That didn’t say a lot because I never recognized anyone. Okay, maybe if Brad Pitt walked by. The Russian premier, the queen of England, our own vice president (what’s-his-name), the ambassador to Bulgaria, were all safe with me.

“Do you think this is our man?” I asked Hooker.

“Seems to be the only plane with a nine o’clock landing.”

“Do you recognize any of these guys?”

“No. They look like average middle-management businessmen.”

A six-seat limo pulled up, the luggage was loaded, the three suits got into the limo, and the limo pulled away with us a couple car lengths behind. We followed the limo south on Route 95 and then east on 395, across the MacArthur Causeway. The lights of South Beach were directly in front of us. Four behemoth cruise ships parked at the Biscayne Bay cruise ship docks were to my right. I’d expected the limo to take Collins and head for Loews or the Delano or the Ritz. Instead, the limo right turned onto Alton.

“He’s going to the boat,” I said to Hooker. “What does that mean?”

“I’m guessing no one’s told him about the missing Ray.”

The limo pulled into the marina lot and stopped at idle in front of the walkway leading to the piers. Lights still on. Motor running. Hooker cut his lights and slid into a shadowed slot at the back of the lot.

Two uniformed crew members came running from dockside. They were followed by someone who was also in uniform but clearly was higher on the food chain. Maybe the captain or purser. The limo driver got out and popped the trunk. The three suits got out, and after a brief conversation, the luggage was turned over to the crew members, and everyone headed for the boat. The limo driver got into his car and drove away.

“Looks like these guys were invited to stay on the boat and the invitation stands,” Hooker said.

Hooker and I got out, quietly closed the car doors, skirted the lot, and found a dark bench on the marina boardwalk where we could watch the action. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be any action to watch. The three men had disappeared into the bowels of the ship and all was quiet.

“This is sort of boring,” Hooker said. “We should do something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He inched closer to me.

“No,” I said.

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“I want to see what’s going on inside the boat. Let’s walk down the pier and look in the windows.”

We passed through the gate that said OWNERS AND GUESTS ONLY and walked the length of the wood dock. The Huevo boat was still tied up at the very end of the pier. Both decks were lit, but the salon and cabin windows were tinted and not much could be seen. A uniformed crew member stood watch.

Hooker took his cell phone out of his pocket and called the boat number. We could very faintly hear Huevo’s phone ringing inside the salon. A male voice answered and said that Ray Huevo was not available. Hooker didn’t leave a message.

“He could be in there,” I said. Wishful thinking.

“It’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible. Maybe we could see more from the other side.”

“Darlin’, there’s water on the other side.”

“Yeah, we need a boat.”

Hooker looked down at me. “And you would get one how?”

“We could borrow one. There are lots of little boats here. I bet no one would mind if we borrowed one for a couple minutes.”

“You want to steal a boat?”

“Borrow,” I said.

“Okay,” Hooker said, taking my hand. “Let’s go for a stroll and look around.”

We got to the last pier and Hooker stopped in front of a medium-size cabin cruiser. Dark inside. Nobody home.

“I know the guy who owns this boat,” Hooker said. “He’s only here weekends. And he keeps a dingy tied to the back. It should be easy to borrow.”

We climbed onto the boat and made our way to the back where the dingy was tied, just as Hooker had predicted. We scrambled into the boat, Hooker released the rope and turned the key. The motor hummed to life and Hooker pushed off.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hooker said. “I don’t want to run into anything.”

There was just a sliver of moon in the sky. The piers were lit and some of the boats had their running lights on. A few boats had interior lights on, as well, but not much light reflected onto the black water. The air was still. No wind. Not a lot of tide running.

Boats occasionally came and went at night here, but none was currently under way. Only us. We came abreast of the Huevo boat and sat at a distance, watching. Not much was happening. Windows and doors were closed and sound wasn’t carrying.

“Huh,” I said. “Disappointing.”

Hooker was fidgeting around in the dingy. He’d turned to the back and was poking through a watertight chest. “I might be able to produce some action. At least get everyone on deck so we can take a head count.”

I looked over his shoulder, into the chest. “What did you have in mind?”

Hooker pulled a snub-nosed, fat-barreled gun out of the chest. “Flare gun. I could lob a flare over the boat and maybe draw them out.” He two-handed the gun, holding it at arm’s length, raised the barrel so the flare would arc high, and pulled the trigger. A flare went off with a loud phunnf and sailed into the night sky. The flare gracefully curved up and away from us, reached its zenith, fell on a sloping downward trajectory toward the Huevo yacht…and crashed through a window on the first deck.

“Oops,” Hooker said.

The flare exploded with a burst of light that danced around the main salon like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sound carried out through the gaping hole in the tinted window, and we could hear the hiss of the flare and the panicked voices of the people inside.

Hooker and I sat in stupefied, bug-eyed silence. There was a small explosion, and then the crackle of fire, and a yellow flame licked up the side of the salon.

“Oh shit,” Hooker whispered. “If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

“You have some good luck. You have me.”

“I don’t have you. You won’t even sleep with me.”

“That’s true, but I’m here with you now.”

Hooker got that look in his eyes.

“No,” I said.

“How about you tie the anchor to my ankle and throw it overboard.”

“I have a better idea. How about we sneak away before someone sees us sitting out here.”

Five minutes later, we eased up behind the cabin cruiser, secured the line, and scrambled out of the dingy. Emergency vehicles were on the scene four piers down. Fire and rescue. Police. Lots of people. Strobes flashing. The unintelligible chatter of police band. No one paying attention to Hooker or me. And thank goodness, no smoke or flames shooting out of the Huevo boat.

Hooker stayed back in the shadows, but I edged closer to the pier. One of the three men who’d flown in earlier stood off to the side on the cement walkway, watching the activity. I moved next to him and gestured to the boat.

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Something came through the window and started a fire. It didn’t burn much. Everything on the boat is fire resistant.”

I was thrown for a moment. I’d expected a foreign accent. Russian maybe. His accent was New Jersey. “Wow,” I said. “Was it a firebomb?”

“I don’t know. They’re investigating. I was below in a stateroom when it happened. I didn’t actually see anything.”

I was scanning the crowd as I was talking, looking for Ray Huevo. “I can’t help noticing, you’re not wearing Miami clothes. Did you just arrive in Florida?”

He looked down at his wool suit slacks. “I flew in earlier. It’s been a long day.”

“Let me guess. Jersey?”

“Not for a lot of years.”

“But originally, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you never really get rid of the Jersey in you.”

I stuck my hand out. “Alex.”

“Simon.”

“Where are you living now?”

“The world.”

“That narrows it down,” I said.

“My employer travels, and I travel with him.”

“Is your employer originally from New Jersey, too?”

“Yeah. Originally.”

He was looking down at me, and there was a quality to his eyes and the set of his mouth that I’d seen before. It was the same look Hooker got…a lot. “And now?” I asked.

“The world.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

I could see him weighing his desire to stay anonymous against his desire to get a playmate for Mr. Frisky. He shifted slightly, leaned a little closer to me, and I knew Mr. Frisky was at the wheel.

“For the last couple years, we’ve been based in Zurich,” he said.

“That would explain the suit.”

“We ran into some problems when we arrived, and I haven’t had a chance to change. What about you? Do you live here?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I live in the world.”

“Trying to make fun of me?” he asked.

“Trying to flirt with you,” I said. Might as well use the few weapons I had in my arsenal, right? I just hoped Hooker was armed and keeping close watch.

That got a smile from him. “Nice,” he said.

And just for the record, I was fully aware that he would have smiled and said nice if I had scabs over two-thirds of my body and had an ass like Francis the Talking Horse.

“So, what is it that you do in Zurich?” I asked him.

“I’m an expediter.”

In my neighborhood in Baltimore, an expediter is someone who makes sure things move along smoothly. For instance, if the owner of a bar isn’t making his protection-money payments on time, an expediter might go talk to him and break his kneecaps as a performance incentive.

“An expediter,” I said. “What kinds of things do you expedite?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Making conversation. I read somewhere that men like it when you seem interested in their work.”

More smiling. “The guy I work for is in the import-and-export business. I facilitate movement.”

“What does he export? Carburetors?”

“Maybe we should take this conversation somewhere else,” he said. “Like over to the bar.”

The night’s game plan. Get the dumb chick liquored up. “Sure,” I said.

We walked a short distance and went up the stairs that led to the outdoor bar attached to Monty’s. We wrangled a couple stools and ordered drinks. I looked over Simon’s shoulder and saw Hooker watching from an alley, making signs like he was going to hang himself.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I followed Hooker down the alley and around the corner.

“What was that all about?” I asked him.

“Did you order a drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh man, you’re gonna get drunk, and then I’ll have to rescue you from King Kong there. He’s got about thirty pounds on me. It’s going to be ugly.”

“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.”