“Are you kidding me?” I said more for myself than the audience. The guy in the coat came around in front of me.
“Forget the college. Don’t ever go there again. They open a hospital on campus and you have a heart attack, make sure they take you someplace else. You ever have a kid goes to college, send him to Harvard. You got it?”
I just looked at the guy. I had nothing to say. The guy turned, and we watched his pal finish off the rear panels, and then take a switchblade to the canvas roof and tires. When he was satisfied, the guy in the coat whistled and the roof ripper stopped, looked up and then came forward like a Labrador. They both got in the Mercedes and pulled out of the driveway. I noted pointlessly that the guy in the coat was driving. I felt bile and anger in my throat as the Merc did a gentle K turn in the cul-de-sac. I stood up like a newborn lamb, stumbled to the rock garden beneath the wounded royal palm and picked up a baseball-sized piece of quartz. The Mercedes pulled away and I flung the rock with everything I had, which wasn’t much. My vision blurred and nausea rose with the effort. But even in my incapacitated state I still had some stuff. The rock flew into the night and hit the rear taillight, smashing it. The driver didn’t miss a beat, and the Merc pulled away into nothing. I collapsed back on the grass, spent. I thought I could hear distant sirens, and I closed my eyes as the heavens decided to do what they had promised to do all day, and the rain fell down on me in sheets.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I SPENT THE next thirty-six hours in bed, drinking green tea and munching Vicodin. The Riviera Beach cops had arrived promptly and upon seeing the house, the car and me on the lawn, had called the sheriff’s office and Danielle arrived shortly thereafter. The cops figured I was drunk and had smashed my own car, but had the good grace to wait for Danielle before they did anything about it. She backed my assertion that I had not had a drop of alcohol, and the cops said I’d need to prove that if I hoped to make an insurance claim, so I gave them a breath test and surprised everyone with a negative result. I explained the story of Pistachio and his hoods, but I left out most of the details about the college and Jake Turner, so it must have sounded like BS. The EMT guys turned up and suggested I go to the hospital for observation, but I refused, so they wrapped my ribs and slipped me the Vicodin. Danielle put me to bed, and I woke early. My head was clearer, but my back felt like I’d been in a bomb blast. The cracked ribs only hurt when I breathed. Danielle stayed with me, kept me from taking more painkillers than I should and away from the booze cabinet, and generally did what she did regularly, which was make me wonder how I got so lucky in the first place. It was the following morning before she left, having confirmed that the worst of the pain was gone and my head was clear enough to not suffer an aneurysm or OD on painkillers and scotch. She slipped into her uniform and kissed my forehead and headed off to her shift. I slept for a while and then got up. It was quite a process, like I’d aged fifty years in a day. I was stooped and shuffled into the kitchen for a glass of water and to call Ron.
“I’m glad you’re still with us,” he said.
“Only just.”
“I dropped by yesterday, but you were out of it.”
I had no recollection of his visit.
“I wanted to let you know I got some info back on the Lawry boy, Sean,” said Ron.
I had a vague recollection of meeting the kid. “Aha.”
“Turns out Alice Chang’s gossip vine is good. I went through back channels and wound up with a copy of the arrest report. Seems Sean was at a frat party in Georgia, and a girl got doped.”
“Rohypnol?”
“No, Alice Chang was right again. She called it liquid ecstasy. The arresting officer called it Liquid X. From what they told me, it dissolves like Rohypnol, and it’s salty. But they got a toxicology report says the girl was also full of tequila.”
“Isn’t ecstasy an upper rather than something you’d dope someone with?”
“Not my area,” said Ron.
“So what happened?”
“Apparently Sean planned to have his way but got interrupted by some of the girl’s friends. Long story short, cops come, arrest Sean, but since he was interrupted nothing illegal happened, just the drugs charge. And the cops up there figure it was slipped into her drink, but they can’t trace the drink or the glass back to Sean. So when Senator Lawry turns up, he promises that he’s taking the kid back to Florida, so they put it into the too-hard basket and let Sean go.”
“So he’s a wannabe rapist. What a quality DNA line that is.”
“Quite right. But since getting back to Florida, the kid seems to have flown under the radar. No trouble I can find.”
“Maybe his uncle put the fear of God in him. Either way, we got more immediate issues. I need to get a bead on this Pistachio guy. Where he goes, what his movements are.”
“I’ll see what I can find. Was it the same guys you ran into in the office parking lot?”
“No, I doubt those guys will be up and at ’em just yet. These guys were Brooklyn locals. I guess they’ve given up on the stuff I flushed. They were making a point.”
“I wonder if their advice might be worth heeding. This job at the university isn’t paying enough to make it worth getting dead.”
“And if they’d just beat me up, I might agree. But they trashed my car, Ron. Now I’m just really annoyed.”
“I get it,” he said. “Let me get back to you. Get some rest.”
I sat on the sofa and stared for the longest time at the space in my living room where a normal person might keep the television. I was concerned that Pistachio not only knew where I lived, but had the cojones to do what he’d done, so far from his turf in Miami. My cell phone rang. It was Sally. He’d heard the news through his extensive vine, and wanted to make sure I was still ticking. He said he’d send over a fruit basket and assist with any retribution that needed handing out. I told him I was too sore and he was too old for that kind of silliness, and he told me to keep my head down and enjoy the fruit. Shortly after Ron called back. I put him on speaker because it hurt too much to hold the phone to my ear.
“Pistachio, aka Alexander Montgomery, seems to be attempting to ingratiate himself into South Florida society. He attends the opening of a champagne bottle apparently, mostly in Miami. One contact at a club for the well-heeled down there told me there’s a difference between getting in and being welcomed. But you’ll never guess what guest list he’s on tonight.”
“I’m having trouble spelling cat right now.”
“Then I’ll guess for you. He’ll be at The Breakers.”
“Slumming it in Palm Beach? What’s the do?”
“You’ll love this. It’s a fundraiser for the governor. Word is he’s considering a presidential run.”
“Save us. So how do we get in?”
“Whoa, boy. You’re not in any condition to leave home, let alone hobnob with the hoi polloi.”
“I’ll be fine. More or less. But I can’t let this rest. I need to get in this guy’s face.”
“Sometimes you really are a macho moron, you know that, right?”
“And sometimes I’m a teddy bear. How do we get in?”
“Best way I can think of, take a room at the hotel. Then wing it.”
“Make it so. What time’s check in?”
“Usually about four o’clock.”
“Pick me up at three thirty.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE BREAKERS IS Palm Beach wrapped up in a building. It’s old money, expensive and stuffy. It has views to die for, and the walls ooze old-fashioned class. That class showed in the security guard at the gatehouse who never even batted an eyelid at Ron’s beat-up, ’88 Corolla, or the fact its inhabitants claimed to be checking in to a room that cost over a thousand bucks a night. He checked us off on his computer and directed us to the valet. The room was on the low end of the scale for the establishment, with a queen bed and a view over the pool and cabanas. If one stuck one’s head out the window one could cat
ch a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. I lay on the bed and took two more Vicodin while Ron did a recon tour of the building. He must have found a bar or some nice ladies, or both, because he took his sweet time coming back, and when he did, he had that look in his eye.
“I can’t believe I don’t get here more often,” he said, grinning like a kid in FAO Schwarz.
“Keep your kit on for five minutes and tell me.”
“Killjoy. So the governor’s function is in the Mediterranean ballroom and courtyard. There’s the usual gubernatorial security, but I just had a drink at the bar with a lovely filly who can get us access to the courtyard. Getting into the ballroom will set us back two thousand apiece.”
“I don’t think I want to get that close to the governor, and I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”
“We might catch Pistachio on his way in or out.”
“Which would be fine if we knew what he looked like.”
“I think I can help with that,” said Ron.
We wandered into the Mediterranean courtyard in our tuxedos, looking a million dollars. I felt like James Bond, except I wasn’t carrying a gun or a license to kill. A tux was about as far away from my usual shorts and shirt as I could get, but my mentor, Lenny Cox, had insisted that a tux was mandatory for our line of work. Lenny always said there wasn’t a room in Palm Beach you couldn’t get into in a tuxedo. It didn’t hurt that Ron had a socialite on his arm. He had introduced her as Lady Cassandra and offered no further explanation, but her elegant blue dress and shoulder-length bottle blonde hair pegged her as a wealthy divorcee or widow. It didn’t seem prudent to ask which. But a simple they’re with me from her and we were in. I ordered two champagnes and a martini. The Vicodin and martini did the trick so I could stand up straight without pain. I let Ron wander the courtyard with Lady Cassandra, and I took a chair in the corner and watched the party. There was a light breeze coming in off the ocean, keeping the night brisk. A hint of grilled chicken satay hung on the air. As tempting as the martini was, and as much as it put me in character with my sweet tux, I hung off it. Ron and his escort sauntered back to me.
“That’s your man, there,” she said in a voice dripping of Georgia plantations and summers in Europe. I followed her eyes. Alexander Montgomery was holding court with four other men by a tiki lamp. They were all in penguin suits and puffing on fat cigars. Even with the rich and fabulous, Florida’s laws drove the smokers outside. Montgomery was average height, with sandy white hair and the beginnings of a good set of jowls. From the way the gathering hung on his words I could see he held the power in the group, as well as a fair measure of charisma. I turned to Lady Cassandra.
“I trust this won’t get you in any trouble.”
She smiled. “Young man, at my age I could do with some trouble. Besides, I don’t believe the society of our little island is improved by the likes of him.”
I smiled and nodded and crossed the room at pace. I headed straight for Alexander Montgomery but had two other guys in my peripheral vision. They were vaguely the same, in the ways that a person would notice straight off the bat. Like their regular suits, conservative ties and stony expressions. They were the same except for the focus of their attention. One stood by the entrance to the ballroom, watching the gathering in the courtyard from the top of the stairs. The other guy stood in the corner of the courtyard next to a large palm, not taking his eyes off Alexander Montgomery. I hit Montgomery’s gaggle of chums and squeezed in between two shoulders. They all held shot glasses, and I could smell tequila. As expected the group fell silent and I felt all eyes on me, but I didn’t take mine off Montgomery. He frowned in a way that suggested he was trying to place me but failing. I nodded like we were old buddies.
“Pistachio,” I said.
The frown deepened. “What?”
“I think the phrase you are looking for is I beg your pardon.”
He grinned. “Have we met?”
“No. But I did meet the guys you sent around to my house the other night to beat me up and smash my car to pieces. Thanks for that, by the way. I’ve been looking at a new car, and now my insurance is going to pay for it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the foggiest what you’re talking about,” he said in his English accent.
“Sure you do. You recall two of your limey brothers you sent round to my office. They didn’t come away so well. No? Well, surely you remember the drugs you’re peddling on the university campus? And Jake Turner? He was the kid who refused to sell your drugs and then died of a suspicious overdose.”
Montgomery’s jaw clenched, and he glanced over his shoulder. The hired help in the corner stepped out from his post as the circle of men spread to leave me as a group of one. Pistachio’s security guy strode to me and put a hand on my elbow.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“No, I’m good,” I said. “You go on without me.” The grip on my elbow tightened, but it was still the only part of my body that didn’t hurt.
“Excuse me,” said the other security guy, who had stepped down from the ballroom entrance. I noted Ron and Lady Cassandra just beyond him.
“Get lost,” said the guy holding my elbow.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” said the other guy. “I’m with the governor’s security detail. I have reason to believe you are carrying a firearm.” He believed that because Ron had told him, on my instruction. There was no way a hood like Pistachio would go anywhere without a bodyguard and no way that bodyguard wouldn’t be armed. But there was also no way that the FDLE team tasked with the governor’s security would be happy with a concealed weapon in the room that wasn’t one of theirs.
“I’ve got a permit,” said the guy, dropping the grip on my elbow.
“I’m sure you do, but I can’t allow an uncleared firearm inside the security cordon.” He turned to Montgomery. “And we don’t want a scene, do we?”
Montgomery grinned again, and then threw back the shot of tequila he had in his hand and thumped the glass on the cocktail table beside him. He smacked his lips and grinned.
“We were just heading inside anyway.” He looked at the bodyguard. “Why don’t you wait out with the car, Nigel.” The other men in Montgomery’s posse downed their shots, puffed their chests and followed their guy into the ballroom. The two security men stared each other down, and I could smell the testosterone in the air. Finally the governor’s man spoke.
“Let’s take a look at that concealed carry permit then,” he said, leading Montgomery’s man away from the courtyard. I watched them go, planted to the spot by pain and adrenaline and martini. Ron came over to me.
“I think you got his attention,” he said.
“You think?”
“Question is, do you really want it?”
“That’s a big fat no,” I said, rolling my shoulders and wincing at the pain. I stepped to the cocktail table and slipped a tequila glass into a freezer bag in my pocket. “But the only way to catch a weasel is to draw him out of his hole.”
“What happened to the grouse?”
“I am nothing if not a mixed metaphor.”
“Well, let’s hope he’s not more patient than we give him credit for.”
I shrugged my eyebrows in response and patted his arm. He looked good in the penguin suit, almost distinguished. I slipped my key card into his jacket pocket.
“The room is all yours.”
“What will you do?”
“Head to the bar for one more of those martinis, then Danielle’s coming to pick me up.”
“You’ll be okay?” he said.
“Time will tell, my friend. Time will tell.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
WHEN I WOKE the next morning I was alone and the Vicodin and martinis had worn off. I lay still in bed. There was a swarm of bees in my gut, but none of my muscles hurt as long as I didn’t move. My head was clearer than it deserved to be, but I put that down to my ever-vigilant girlfriend who had collected me from the Seafood Bar at The Bre
akers and deposited me in bed before returning to her shift. I gave her the rundown of my tête-à-tête with Alexander Montgomery. She gave me an I hope you know what you are doing look and a goodnight kiss. Lying in bed with the bees reminded me that maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought I did. Driving Pistachio out from under his rock was a risky strategy, but I figured I had no hope of playing on his turf, so I had to get him out in the open. Besides, the visits from his henchmen had the potential to grow tired very quickly. I rolled with a groan onto my side and pushed myself to sit up. The vertigo had gone, but the pain still bit into my shoulders. I took a deep breath and grimaced and stood up. I found that I was dressed in a pair of boxer shorts that I recalled neither buying nor putting on the previous evening, but as they would save me bending over I decided to go with them.
I padded out to the kitchen, put some coffee on and took a couple of ibuprofen. The coffee machine was giving its final gurgle and splatter when the doorbell rang. My shoulders tensed at the sound. I really wasn’t in the mood for another beating just yet. I didn’t move immediately, as I had visions of my Glock handgun sitting in the gun safe in my office. My car was in pieces in a wrecking yard, so if I were quiet, perhaps they’d figure I wasn’t home. The coffee machine finished coughing up the last of its brew, and I vigorously pursued my strategy of keeping quiet, until I was interrupted by someone banging on the rear sliding door of my house. My open-plan living room and kitchen exposed me to the patio and Intracoastal beyond, which was normally the best thing about the place, but proved to be a bummer when I was trying to hide. I turned to the patio and saw the sly grin of Detective Ronzoni. He wore his stock JC Penney suit, gray on gray, with a yellow tie featuring a large-mouth bass. The bass sat on top of Ronzoni’s belly, making it look like it was staring up at the sky. Ronzoni resembled a tulip bulb in a cheap suit. I padded over and slid the door open.
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