Now that it was almost party time, I was revisiting the thought. Laverne too sketchy for this crowd? I laughed under my breath. A spoon-sucking peanut head, a crazy, freckle-faced redneck, a Latin lager lout, a barnacle-sized barrister, and a cop with whom I’m committing crimes of passion…and I’m worried about Laverne being too sketchy?
I checked the fridge. It mirrored my guest list. The usual suspects. A cheese tray. Carrots and celery. Ranch dip. Chicken wings. A case of Fosters. Tonic and lime. I made a mental note to work on my lineup – of both food and friends.
A cool blast hit my face when I opened the freezer. I clunked three ice cubes into a highball glass. Next to the ice-cube trays, a half-gallon, emerald-green jug of Tanqueray stood frosty and alone except for the company of two frozen, chicken potpies. The pies were my “going-out insurance.” I hated pot pies. Tom despised them even more than I did. Whenever he came over and asked what was for dinner, I’d pull out the pot pies. He’d take one look and say, “Let’s eat out.” I’d put the disgusting things back in the freezer, and they and I would live to fight another day. Like Rita’s booze bottles back in Germany, my pot pies were “only for looking.”
I poured a shot of gin into my glass of ice and rummaged around the fridge for the lime and tonic. It was getting close to six. The party was in half an hour. Just enough time to get a quick shower and a TNT buzz….
***
The doorbell rang at 6:30 on the dot. I pinned back my damp hair and thanked my stars that I was almost dressed. I pulled a light sweater on over my tank top and jeans and padded barefoot to the front door.
“Hey there, Val Pal!” bellowed Winky as I opened the door.
To my surprise, the short, ginger-haired redneck wore pants that reached all the way to his bare feet. Stretched over his freckled beer belly was a clean Hawaiian shirt – with all its buttons. And – be still my heart – a brown tweed sport jacket! Compared to Winky’s normal raggedy attire, this qualified as a tuxedo. His effort made me smile.
“You ‘member Winnie?” Winky hooked a thumb to his left and a short, pudgy girl with black hair and red glasses stepped into view.
“Oh! Sure. From Water Loo’s. Nice to see you again, Winnie.”
“You, too, Val.” Her brow furrowed. “You don’t mind I came along, do you?”
“Oh. No! Not at all! You’re more than welcome. I could use a girl to talk to. Come on in!”
“Thanks!”
Winnie showed her teeth, making her puffy cheeks rise like hot biscuits. Her eyes squeezed into curving slits like an Asian Buddha. Combined with her short-cropped, jet-black bob and bangs, she made the perfect Japanese anime character. I stepped aside to let the pair enter, then hooked Winky by the arm as he tried to pass by.
“Are you two together?”
Winky grinned like a poorly carved Jack-o’-lantern.
“Yep. Shackin’ up for nearly a month now. Good thing, too. I got tired of campin’ in the woods all by my lonesome.”
“I thought you and Goober –”
“Nope. He took the money you give him and got hisself a place downtown – near your old ‘partment, I think.”
“Oh. Well…congratulations. On Winnie, I mean. She’s really cute.”
Winky puffed himself up.
“Hey now, Val. Keep yore facts straight. Winnie’s got the car and the job. I’m the one’s got the looks.”
My head wagged involuntarily from side to side. I wasn’t sure if Winky was joking or really thought himself a prize. With men, you never could tell.
“Right.”
Winky grinned and slapped me on the back.
“Damn straight! Got any beer?”
“In the fridge –”
Winky took off like a future train wreck, my words trailing behind him like piss in the wind. Winnie followed after him at a slightly slower pace. I turned to face the door again and saw tall, lean Goober standing there, wagging his bushy eyebrows at me. He lifted his Rays baseball cap from his bald pate and set it back again. The act of a true, Florida gentleman.
Broody, mysterious and perpetually inebriated Jorge stood beside him. Even though Jorge and I were the same height, he rarely looked me in the eyes. He preferred to stare at my shoes. Tonight, he’d have to settle for my bare feet. Both he and Goober sported stubble beards tonight, but they’d showered and put on clean clothes. I could tell because they smelled like the April Fresh Downy packets they sold at the laundromat.
“Hey Val,” Goober said. “Where’s the beer?”
“Wherever Winky is.”
“Cheers.” Goober raised one eyebrow and made a straight shot for the kitchen. Jorge was hot on his heels like a droopy hound dog.
I started to close the door when I heard a noise.
“Haruuummm.”
I looked down and saw the diminutive J.D. Fellows, Esq., standing at the door. Dressed in khaki slacks, a short-sleeved yellow shirt and a light-blue sweater vest, he looked alarmingly like a lawn jockey.
“Oh! Hello Mr. Fellows!” I nearly shouted. I tried to hide my amusement by faking surprise. “Come in!”
“Thank you, Ms. Fremden.”
The attorney straightened his four-foot tall frame and took a tentative step inside. He surveyed the living room like a man used to keeping an eye out for danger.
“I always wondered what your parents’ abode looked like on the inside…minus all the…extraneous paraphernalia, that is.”
“You mean hoarder crap? Yes, it looks a lot bigger without the tons of garbola.”
“Yes. It certainly –”
“Hiya, Hottie.”
The familiar voice, deep and sexy, grabbed my attention and curled my toes. I turned to see Tom, my law-enforcement lover. He was leaning against the doorframe, demonstrating his unique brand of laidback, Southern gorgeous. His sea-green eyes twinkled, as if they held a secret just for me. The brawny, blond cop always took my breath away, but tonight he looked like a cowgirl’s dream come true in his denim jeans and blue, button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows.
“Brought you a little housewarming gift,” he teased. “An old friend.”
“Really? Who?” I looked around, but didn’t see anyone.
“Well, it’s more like a ‘what’ than a ‘who.’”
Tom pointed to the street where his vehicle was parked. Hanging halfway out of the back of his Toyota 4Runner was that butt-ugly couch I’d left on the curb to fend for itself or die. Apparently it had fended for itself.
“What the…?”
“Happy forty-ninth birthday,” Tom said with a smirk.
“Gee, thanks, Tom. It’s just what I always wanted.”
Chapter Four
I woke the morning after my birthday party with a cop in my bed and a dead body in the kitchen. Okay, it was just a roach carcass. But I swear it was big enough to draw a chalk line around. It was legs-up in the middle of the floor. I’d fumbled, bleary-eyed, toward the cappuccino machine in nothing but Tom’s t-shirt, and had managed, of course, to step right on it. The disgusting crunch of its carapace underfoot made me scream like a little girl.
“Aaahhhh!”
As a native of the Sunshine State, I’d grown up learning to deal with the worst that Florida’s flora and fauna had to throw at me. Poison ivy. Cabbage-palm spikes. Daddy long-leg spiders. Fire ants. Kamikaze tree frogs. Ghoulish house geckos. Deadly rattlesnakes and cottonmouths. Even the occasional gator on the road or in a swimming pool. I’d managed to make my peace with all of them – except one.
Let a roach get anywhere near me – especially a flying one – and my bravado disappeared faster than Oreos at a Weight Watcher’s convention. When I’d stepped on that nasty bug, I’d let out a scream that could be heard on the International Space Station. If that marked me as a sissy, so be it. But there was something abhorrently primeval about a creature that could live for months without its own head.
“What’s going on in there!?”
Tom dashed into the room. He was n
aked except for his state-issued revolver. The sight of his tan, muscular body almost made me forget about my predicament. Almost.
“A roach,” I grimaced. I held up my foot like it needed stitches.
Tom grinned at me and shook his head.
“There appears to be no permanent damage. What happened to my fearless partner? Valliant Stranger?”
“Hey. Roaches are my kryptonite, okay?”
“Duly noted. I thought you put out some traps. Roach Motels, right?”
I took a paper towel off the roll and ran it under the tap. I bit my lip in disgust and wiped my foot.
“Yeah, I did. I guess there was no room left at the inn.”
Tom sniggered. “Don’t those things come with ‘No Vacancy’ signs?”
“Very funny, Mr. Morning Sunshine. Can we please change the subject now?”
“Okay.”
A dirty grin crept across his face. Tom sidled up to me and put his hands on my hips.
“Have you got a vacancy that I can fill?”
I knocked his hands off of me.
“Geeze, Tom. I think that may go down in history as the most disgusting foreplay line ever.”
Tom scooped me up into his arms. His naughty grin deepened his dimples and crinkled the corners of his hypnotic, green eyes.
“Okay, how about this? I’ve got a gun, lady. Better do what I say.”
Both my hormones and my imagination went haywire.
“Now that’s something I can work with.”
***
After all the crapshoot relationships I’d been in, I kind of hit the jackpot with Tom. He was good looking and he was good with his hands and other assorted body parts. When it came to pleasing me, he’d proven to be a quick study. In fact, this morning he’d just aced another oral exam before he’d disappeared into the kitchen.
Yes. High marks all around.
I smiled up at Tom from the bed as he padded back into the room carrying two toasty, yummy cups of cappuccino sprinkled with cinnamon, just the way I’d learned to love them in Italy. I sat up and stuffed a pillow behind my head. Tom handed me a cup and crawled in beside me. My rickety little full-sized bed creaked under his weight. I suddenly wondered if it creaked when we made love. Funny, I never had the presence of mind to notice….
“Off in Lady La La Land already this morning?” Tom teased.
“Are you calling me an airhead? Fair warning. I’m armed with scalding coffee.”
“Aww shucks,” Tom said playfully. “All sweetheart this morning. And you haven’t even had your first sip yet.”
I sneered and raised the cup halfway to my lips and stopped.
“If you didn’t make such good cappuccinos, I’d be mad as a hornet at you, Tom Foreman. Whatever possessed you to bring that hideous sofa over here? That roach probably came along for the ride.”
“Dang it! And that freeloader died before he paid me my cab fare.”
I giggled and elbowed Tom in the ribs, nearly spilling my coffee in the process.
“It’s not funny,” I said, trying not to laugh. “It’s disgusting!”
Tom winked devilishly. “Come on now, sugar doodle. Don’t be like that. I only had to shoo three cats and a possum off-a that there couch. I didn’t see no roaches.”
“Enough with the hick routine, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.” He set his cup on the nightstand and snuggled next to me. He kissed me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear. “I like that couch, Val.” His warm breath tickled my neck. “We’ve had some great times on it.”
“I didn’t know you were the sentimental type,” I sneered, but I knew full well my sarcasm was no match for his persistent sexiness.
“You’re obviously not.”
“Not when it comes to flea-infested furniture.”
Tom gently took my cappuccino from my hand. His tan, muscular arm reached across me and set the cup on my nightstand. He kissed me on the lips, then began to nuzzle my neck. I closed my eyes….
All of a sudden, a familiar whirring noise caught my attention. I sat up in bed.
“What’s that sound, Tom? Hey, wait a second….”
“What now?” Tom sat up on an elbow.
“I think the air conditioner compressor just kicked on.”
“I thought it was broken.”
“So did I.”
I jumped out of bed and made my way to the hall closet. I opened the door. Sitting atop the old air handler was a crumpled note scrawled in child-like handwriting. It read: “Gaul-dang great party, Val. Thanks.”
“Winky!” I yelled.
“Winky?” Tom called from the bedroom. “Is he crashed out drunk in there?”
“No!”
Winky had disappeared for a while during the party last night. I’d assumed he’d just gotten hammered and passed out somewhere. But he hadn’t been up to no good. He’d been up to good. A smile slid sideways onto my face. That freckle-faced little redneck rascal. I closed the closet door and padded back to the bedroom. Tom wasn’t there. I lingered in the doorway, collecting my thoughts. A moment later, Tom came up behind me…in more ways than one. Either that, or he was still toting that gun….
***
Twice in one morning was my limit, so I showered, dressed, and left Tom in bed reading the Sunday paper. A big smile had settled on my face about Tom and me, and I wanted to keep it there. I jumped in Shabby Maggie and rumbled off to Water Loo’s, the chosen hangout of my deadbeat friends, Winky, Jorge and Goober.
The wonderland of ironic fodder dished out by Water Loo’s never ceased to both amuse and appall me. The rat hole disguised as a restaurant was the kind of dingy, hole-in-the wall place that could never hope to rise to the esteemed status of, say, a run-down, truck-stop diner. Hobbling along on its last legs for years, Water Loo’s was being run – no, run into the ground – by Loo, a disgruntled ex-pat Brit and his potty-mouthed girlfriend Latrina. The fact that both of their names were not-so-subtle monikers for toilets propelled them, in my mind, to the reigning king and queen of the St. Pete irony scene.
The two burned-out restauranteurs appeared to have given up on the idea of quality and service so long ago that it was no longer even a distant, plaguing memory for either of them. Instead, their sole goal in keeping Water Loo’s afloat was to make enough money to bet the afternoon trifecta at the Derby Lane greyhound track. This habit, along with their wanton inattentiveness to customers and cleanliness, offered me a daily-double dose of delicious irony whenever I overheard them yelling from the kitchen that their lives were “going to the dogs.”
Which, actually, was pretty often. From what I could tell, their love of gambling was second only to their love of bitching and complaining. Loo and Latrina could be counted on to burst into shouting matches at any given moment. Occasionally, it escalated to pushing and shoving, but more often than not, neither sticks nor stones broke anyone’s bones, but the cuss words they hurled were foul enough to curdle the creamer.
As a result, Water Loo’s clientele had dwindled to a mere trickle. Nowadays, it was frequented solely by hard-core locals – mainly those with no other choice due to DUI-related lack of transportation or severe, blinding hangovers. On the rare occasion, their ranks would be boosted by the random lost or grossly misinformed tourist.
But Water Loo’s did get one thing right. It lived up to its name. It was a shit hole – the final splash down spot for the effluence of humanity as it passed on to its foul, inevitable end. That’s why I was pretty sure that the gang would be there this morning. I cracked open the door and took a peek.
“Hey Val Pal!” Winky shouted.
He was the first to spot me from his vantage in the corner booth. Peanut-headed Goober turned around and gave me a silent salute, his long fingers grazing the top of his shiny, hairless pate.
“Look who’s all bright bald and bushy lipped this morning,” I chirped as I walked up.
“Yeah, and look who just got laid,” Goober said, shooting me a sneer of mock anno
yance. “I like you better when you’re a sourpuss in the morning.”
My face grew red as the guys snickered amongst themselves.
“Scoot over, butthead.” I shoved Goober on the shoulder.
Goober muttered complaints under his breath and scooted his butt across the greasy vinyl. I slid in beside him and he stuck a spoon in his mouth. I blanched when I realized I’d grown fond of the tinny, hollow sound the utensil made as he clicked it against his teeth.
“Great party last night,” Jorge slurred.
The Latino’s blue-black hair, usually wavy, looked more like a tsunami this morning. His big, puppy-dog brown eyes rolled lazily in his skull, unable to focus. Despite his inebriated state, I could have kissed Jorge’s drunken lips for changing the topic.
“Thanks Jorge. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I don’t remember,” he managed to blurt, just before his head hit the table.
Mr. Dude whiskey had claimed its first victim of the day. I turned my attention to the two guys still clinging to consciousness. Actually, they both seemed pretty sober this morning, all things considered.
“Thanks for fixing my air conditioning, Winky. I didn’t know you were handy.”
“Oh, he’s handy alright,” joked Goober. He pointing his spoon at Winnie, who was busy doing nothing behind the coffee counter. “Ask her yourself.”
“Good ‘un, Goober!” Winky chortled.
The two slapped hands in a high-five. Winky turned toward me. His freckled face shifted from silly to serious in the blink of an eye.
“You know Val, I can fix purty-near anything with a pocketknife or a roll a duck tape.”
“You mean duct tape,” I corrected.
“That’s what I just said,” Winky huffed. His ruddy face tinged a shade pinker. “Get the cotton’s balls outta yore ears.”
“Yeah, Ace Face over here was an auto mechanic until things got all computerized,” Goober explained. “Ain’t that right, buddy?”
“Yep,” Winky nodded solemnly, then grinned. “I don’t know nothing about no mother boards. Less’n you count the one my momma used to beat me on the hind-end with.”
Two Crazy: Fickle Finger of Fate (A Val Fremden Mystery Book 2) Page 2
