Sucker Bet

39

Club Hedo was located on a narrow street in South Beach, the windows papered with eight-by-ten glossies of naked lovelies. TOPLESS, BOTTOMLESS, TWO-DRINK MINIMUM. A meanlooking bouncer sat on a stool outside the door.

Ray Hicks found a parking spot at the block’s end. Mr. Beauregard sat beside him, listening to the radio. Leaving the hospital, Mr. Beauregard had managed to snatch a green surgeon’s hat off a passing tray, which he now wore comically on his head.

Hicks stared at his friend. Mr. Beauregard’s previous owner had neutered him, but Hicks had long suspected that the surgeon’s knife had not cut deep enough, and a vestige of manhood still remained. Mr. Beauregard loved women. He loved to stare at their pictures, or when they walked into Hick’s trailer. The fact that he’d never acted on these impulses meant nothing. He had them, and that was the problem.

Hicks shut the radio off. Mr. Beauregard flapped his gums disapprovingly.

“We are going across the street,” Hicks said. “There will be women inside. Naked women. You must not touch them. Is that understood? You must not touch them.”

The look on Mr. Beauregard’s face was forlorn. Hicks had once found a Playboy in his cage. All the naked pictures had been pawed until the colors had faded. The chimp let out a sigh.

“Thank you,” Hicks said.

They crossed the street, looking no stranger than any of the dozens of bizarre couples Hicks had spotted driving through South Beach. The bouncer leapt off his stool.

“You can’t come in here!”

“Deal with him, Mr. Beauregard.”

Even in his weakened state, Mr. Beauregard was more powerful than any man, and the bouncer sailed over the hood of a parked car and hit the pavement with a dull thud. Mr. Beauregard thumped his chest triumphantly.

The club was cavelike, the patrons bathed in fruity-colored strobe lights. Hicks walked through the beaded entrance. Up on-stage, three naked women were dancing. Mr. Beauregard let out a primal yell.

It was a frightening sound, and the patrons dived under tables or into the johns or out the front door. From behind the bar, a man in a ruffled tuxedo shirt ran out, swinging a baseball bat. Mr. Beauregard took it from him, then whacked him.

“Give me that, Mr. Beauregard.”

The chimp tossed him the bat. Hicks crossed the room. A smoky mirror hung on the back wall, and he hit it with the bat. Glass rained down, exposing an office on the other side. Hicks and Mr. Beauregard entered through the door.

At a desk sat a startled Hispanic with his pants off. Beneath the desk hid a naked girl.

“Where is Rico Blanco?” Hicks said.

“Get that fucking ape away from me! I’m just the DJ.”

The naked girl was crying. Hicks pointed the bat in the DJ’s face.

“Answer me,” Hicks said.

“He’ll be at the basketball game tonight,” the DJ said.

“What time?”

“Seven, seven-thirty.”

“Where?”

“American Airlines Arena.”

“Is that nearby?”

“Up the road.”

“Will he be driving his limousine?”

“It’s the only wheels he’s got.”

“I would suggest that you avoid calling him,” Hicks said.

The DJ was shaking. Mr. Beauregard had seen the girl and was drooling.

“Get him away from me!”

“Do you know what a chimp’s greatest sense is?”

“No . . .”

“Smell. I could set him loose on South Beach, and he’d find you in an hour. Maybe less. And do you know what he’ll do?”

The DJ didn’t want to know. He removed the gold cross that was hanging around his neck, and said, “I swear to God I won’t call Rico.”

Back in the car, Hicks gave Mr. Beauregard a Snickers bar as a reward for not touching the girl. The chimp tossed it out the window. Seeing so much flesh had set his heart on fire, and Hicks watched him pick up his ukulele. The song that came out was instantly familiar, and one that Hicks had not heard in years.

Layla.