by Carl Hiaasen
“I’m sorry.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask what he got busted for?”
“OK What?”
“Dope,” Patti said.
“Grass?”
“Mostly, but he was getting into coke and ludes, too. We lived the grand life, all right. Big home on the Intracoastal, matching Corvettes…too bad he was such a greedy shithead.”
Meadows got the feeling Patti wasn’t losing much sleep over poor Larry.
“Know what he did? He and three buddies went out one night on a big Bertram sportfisher docked up at Hillsborough. The Margie Doll or Maggie Doll, something like that. The guy at the fuel dock asks where they’re going, and Larry, the dumb shit, says they’re going out all night swordfishing. This dockmaster is no idiot, so he mentions to this friend of his in the Marine Patrol that a bunch of young hotshots are taking out a big Bertram for a night of long-lining. And the Marine Patrol officer thinks this is hysterical because there isn’t a fisherman in his right mind who goes swordfishing in January off Hillsborough. It isn’t even swordfish season. So the Marine Patrol mentions this to a buddy of his in Customs, and to make a long story short, when the Maggie Doll comes back into the inlet at four A.M., eight jillion drug agents are waiting for her. And there’s my Larry, bless his dumb heart, snoring away on top of five thousand pounds of Colombian weed. He’s up at Lowell now, doing two years. He’s very mad at me because I won’t visit him, but I made up my mind. I’m through with him. There’s a good chance he’ll be disbarred because of this.”
“Sounds likely,” Meadows said.
Patti lit a cigarette and looked around. “I wonder where Manny ran off to.” Meadows spotted the stocky dark man at a table with two women. Patti saw him at the same instant.
Meadows steered the conversation back to drugs. “You didn’t mind that your husband was smuggling dope?”
Patti looked up from her soda water. “Jesus, it wasn’t heroin or anything. He was selling to doctors, accountants, lawyers like himself. The year before he got popped, his income from the law practice was only twenty-three thousand dollars. He made another hundred and thirty-five thousand selling grass. I went from a shitty two-bedroom apartment in Pompano to a seven-bedroom house on the Intracoastal. Did I mind? No. Don’t tell me you don’t toot a little yourself.”
“When I can afford it,” Meadows said.
Patti smiled. “What about if it’s free?”
“Absolutely.” My mother would despair, Meadows thought bleakly, and Terry would bust a gut.
“Well, I’ve got a little coke at my place if you want to share it,” Patti said expectantly.
“What about Manny?”
“Manny’s busy with his new friends,” she said sardonically. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Meadows paid the tab. They rode to Patti’s place in her car, a black Firebird that had seen better days. The sand-colored house was handsome in floodlights, and Meadows quickly assessed the design: a one-story Mediterranean layout with heavy emphasis on dark tropical woods. He guessed the price at $200,000.
“It’s beautiful,” he told Patti as she walked him through the front door.
“You’ll get a tour later,” she said huskily, leading him into a bathroom of alabaster tile and deep wine-colored shag. The powder was stashed in the hollow plastic handle of a man’s razor. Patti handed him a pinch that topped off a small gold spoon. This time Meadows did not resist, and it had nothing to do with being drunk. The coke kicked in instantly.
Patti took Meadows to her bedroom and opened the curtains on a spectacular view of the Intracoastal Waterway, slick under a clear tropical sky. A channel marker winked a dim red eye from a distant bend in the dark waterway.
Meadows stood for several moments at the window, wide awake and excited. His heart hammered in his ears. He willed himself the concentration of a diamond cutter; tonight there could be no confessions.
“That’s very good dope,” he said awkwardly. He thought it seemed the gracious thing to do.
“The best,” Patti answered as she sat on the bed. “It’s getting late, Chris. Take off your clothes.”
Chapter 19
SHE WAS awake early. Meadows held his eyes closed, concentrating on the morning sounds. He listened to her footsteps from the bathroom to the kitchen. Soon he smelled coffee. His stomach stirred irritably, but he didn’t move from the bed.
Meadows permitted himself his old identity for a few moments. He longed for Terry’s comfort, seethed over losing the Ecuadorean oil ministry project, prayed that his parents and his friends were not calling out the National Guard to hunt for his body. He had left word at the office and with his service, inventing an architects’ convention and other obligations that would officially keep him out of town for weeks. He had also cabled friends of his parents in New York, asking them to assure his relatives that he was alive and well.
Meadows rubbed his sore eyes and stared up at the bedroom ceiling and wondered if he was out of his goddamn skull. This is Disneyland, he told himself. It will never work. If he could corner José Bermúdez today, tonight, this minute, and do what he planned— who would believe his story later? Or understand?
“Hi there,” Patti said.
“Morning,” Meadows said, propping himself on his elbows. “You been up long?”
“Just a little while. I thought I’d give you a nudge before the races start.”
Meadows fell back on the pillow. “What races?”
“The speedboats. Every kid in Fort Lauderdale gets a boat for his birthday, and I think they all take turns racing behind my house. The racket is awful.” Patti sat down on the bed and put her hands on his chest. “Did you have fun last night?”
“It was wonderful,” Meadows said. For the first time in weeks he was telling the truth.
“That’s good stuff, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, burrowing back into the sheets. “Where’d you get it?”
“From Manny,” Patti said. “Come on, let’s eat some breakfast.”
They had omelets on a small shaded patio. A breeze stirred off the Intracoastal. Two magnificent Hatteras fishing boats thundered past the house and sent deep curling wakes against the concrete sea wall. Copper-skinned young men with sun-bleached hair could be seen in the cockpits, working at the fishing rods, rigging baits for dolphin and sailfish. With the offshore winds, Meadows imagined the Gulf Stream was probably as calm as a lake.
“This is a wonderful house,” he said to Patti.
“Larry said it was practical. Seven bedrooms for two people! Practical.” Patti took a sip of hot Jamaican tea. “I do like the place though. See that?” She pointed to a dock that ran parallel to the sea wall. “You can put a thirty-four-footer there and still have room for the Donzis. We needed a pier like that.”
“You had boats?”
“Different ones. The walkway that comes up from the dock leads right into the garage. This house has a three-car garage, but we never once put our cars inside. You understand?”
Meadows nodded. “The pot.”
“You can’t very well stash five tons in a glove compartment.” Patti stretched one of her legs across Meadows’s lap. It was smooth and tan. She wore a man’s long-sleeved shirt and a pair of silk panties. Whenever she turned her head to the water, her blond hair caught the sun.
“So while Larry’s gone, you’ve got the whole place to yourself?”
“For a while,” Patti said. “Until the IRS finds a way to get it. They’re very curious about how an attorney making the kind of money Larry did could afford a setup like this. They make me go downtown every other week to answer questions.”
“What do you tell them?”
“I play dumb wifey. Larry never told me anything about the money. The house was an anniversary present. I just assumed he was making lots of money at work. I don’t even know how much the house cost. Blah, blah, blah.” Patti stood and stretched. “They don’t believe a word, of course.”
“Don’t
you have a lawyer?”
“I’ll get one if I need to.”
“What about Larry’s?”
“Redbirt? Lot of good he did us. I’d never hire that asshole. This is an amazing business, Christopher.”
“I know.”
Patti laughed and sat on his lap. “Arthur says you’re interested in getting started down here.”
“Yeah. The problem is, I don’t know anybody.”
“Not yet anyway,” Patti said enigmatically. “Are you thinking about grass or coke?”
“Cocaine.”
“Could have fooled me,” Patti teased. “Last night, when I gave you a hit, I thought you were going to sneeze it all over the bathroom.”
Meadows chuckled quietly and kissed her cheek. Patti looked at him appraisingly. “I’m not sure I believe you. Hell, you could be a cop for all I know.” She pecked him on the nose. “’Cept you’re too skinny.”
She got up and started clearing the breakfast dishes. Meadows grabbed her around the waist. “Stop, I’m gonna spill something,” she protested, but Meadows led her back to the bedroom, where he swiftly unbuttoned the shirt. He leaned over and began kissing the freckles on her breasts.
“Damn,” Patti muttered.
“What’d I do?”
“Listen.”
“Another boat,” Meadows said. “So what?”
“So we better get dressed fast. That one’s stopping out back. It’s probably Manny.”
MEADOWS SQUIRMED. They all sat in the living room: he, Patti, Manny and Manny’s friend, Moe. “Call me Maurice,” Manny’s friend had said. “Call him Moe. Everybody does,” said Manny.
Manny was Cuban. Up close in the daylight he was not quite as broad or heavily muscled as he had seemed at Lenny’s the night before. His friend Moe was the reverse, a six-foot-six beanpole from Mississippi whose ivory skin was raw with sunburn. He and Manny scavenged a couple of cans of Michelob from Patti’s refrigerator and then plopped down, Manny in a canary-colored bean-bag and Moe on a mushy camel sofa.
“So, Patti, you must have had a good time last night ’cause I didn’t see you leave,” Manny said.
“Did you go home?” she shot back. “Jesus, Manny, Susan is probably out of her mind. Call her, would you?”
“Naw, she’s OK. I met one of those cheerleaders. What the hell are they called now?”
“The Dolphin Dolls,” Moe said helpfully.
“Right. She’s gonna get me a sideline pass to the Jets’ exhibition game. What’d you say your name was?”
“Christopher Carson,” Meadows said.
“What do you do?” Manny demanded.
“I’m in real estate. How about you?”
Manny was all teeth. When he grinned, the rest of his face seemed to disappear.
“Manny’s a businessman; Moe’s a partner,” Patti explained with evident caution.
“What kind of business?” Meadows aimed his question at Manny.
“Import-export.”
Moe laughed, and Manny joined him. Meadows realized they both were stoned out of their minds. The shirtless Manny fingered a gold chain around his neck. A crucifix dangled into dark chest hair, matted with sweat. He finished off the Michelob and mashed the aluminum can with two fingers.
“How’s the real estate business? Sold any houses?”
“I’ve only been down here a couple months.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
Meadows shrugged. “I’ve had one sale,” he said. “Down in Homestead. In a subdivision called Valencia Gardens.” The development was legitimate; its architect was an old classmate of Meadows.
“One sale in two months? That’s pretty goddamn miserable, pal.”
“Easy, Manny,” Patti interrupted.
Meadows waved her off. “No, he’s right. Business stinks. That’s why I’m here.”
“Chris is a good man,” Patti said to Manny. “I told him about Larry and everything.”
“That was real fucking smart.”
“Hey, he’s OK”
Manny gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, then he must be OK”
“I’m gonna work on my tan,” Moe grumbled. He got up and walked outside. Meadows watched him amble down to Manny’s red Magnum, peel off his shirt and stretch out across the bow.
Manny stared at Meadows through small chocolate brown eyes. “You got a lot of money?”
“Let’s drop the whole thing,” Patti said curtly. “Manny, why don’t you and Moe take off, OK? Chris and I are going for a swim.”
Meadows put a hand on her shoulder. “No, I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Manny, at least call Susan and tell her you’re OK”
“Later, Pat. I want to find out how come your new boyfriend came to Florida.”
“I got a little heat in Atlanta,” Meadows said quickly. “A couple friends got popped. And I got scared.”
“Tell me about it,” Manny said. “Take that boy out there.” He nodded in Moe’s direction. “Talk about heat. Did two years at Eglin. The feds got him in a shrimp boat out of Mobile. It was packed to the decks with grass. They wanted to flip him, but Moe said no way. They told him he could walk away from it if he would only flip. Moe’s a good man, and he’s smart. This prick from DEA sits him down and tells him they’re going to ask fifteen years for conspiracy, possession, firearms, the whole nine yards. Moe tells him to fuck off. So he gets two years and spends the whole time playing volleyball at Eglin. Not bad.”
Manny dug into his jeans and pulled out an amber glassine container. He unscrewed the cap and dipped a tiny spoon. “You want a blast?”
Meadows shook his head.
“Know why Moe didn’t turn over? Maybe Moe should tell this story.”
“Manny, leave Chris alone,” Patti said. “I don’t think he’s interested in any of this.”
“Oh, I think the real estate man is very interested. Am I right?”
Meadows tightened. For a moment he thought Manny was going to lunge at him and break him in half like a cracker. The Cuban was waiting for some kind of answer, and Meadows realized sickeningly he could not even speak the language.
“Like I said, business is slow.”
Manny cackled. “Times are tough. You should get hold of some condos. Condos move real good down here. Patti, how about another beer? Anyway, Christopher, you want to know why Moe didn’t flip? Patti’s heard this story.”
“A million times,” she said on her way to the kitchen.
“Joey Dent.”
“Yeah.” Meadows felt like standing under a hot shower until Manny and his friend rinsed away.
“Joey Dent was a friend. Pat knew him, too. Very heavy into the export-import, import-export business. But at a safe and respectable level. One day he does a dumb thing and goes along for the ride. A DC-6 lands at Opa-Locka one night, tries to land, I should say, but the nose gear snaps like a twig, and the plane skids off the runway. Twelve fire trucks show up. Joey Dent’s legs are broken, and the pilot is dead. They haul Joey out of the plane and kablam! Two million bucks’ worth of grass and ludes.
“It’s four in the morning, Joey Dent is in Parkway General and in walk two DEA jerkoffs. ‘Your wife, your kids, your house, your mistress, all down the toilet, Joey. Help us out, and you fly like an eagle. We’ll send you off to Montana with a new name and a little ranch in the valley. It’s so nice out there, Joey. If you don’t help, however, we send you to Atlanta for seven years. By the time you get out your wife will be gone with the TV repairman and the kids won’t recognize you.’ Dammit, can you get this open? My hands are wet.” Manny tossed the cold bottle of Miller’s across the room, and Meadows snatched it before it hit the tile. He wrapped a corner of the terry-cloth robe he was wearing around the cap and twisted it off. He handed it back to Manny, and the smuggler drank half in four huge gulps.
“Imagine you’re Joey Dent,” he went on. “You’ve just had the shit scared out of you in a plane wreck; you’re lying broken up in a hospital and
loaded on Dilaudid. And these two DEA pricks tell you your life is over.”
“He talked,” Patti said wearily.
“Yup. Joey Dent talked. Two of the men he worked for got set up. And busted. They even did time, not much time, but they did go to the can. And Joey Dent never got to Montana. The feds gave him a new name, Jack Somethingorother, and moved him all the way from Miami to Tampa. Wasn’t that generous? One day Joey didn’t come home from his job at the post office. They found him in the Port Charlotte waterway. Before he died, someone cut off his tongue with pruning shears. Then they shot him in the head.” Manny drained the Miller’s. “So you see why Moe didn’t mind Eglin at all.”
“It works the same way everywhere,” Meadows said casually. He had heard plenty of these stories from Octavio Nelson, bless his black heart.
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to scare you,” Manny said.
“Like hell,” Patti hissed.
“I just wanted you to know why Moe’s so…careful. He doesn’t trust many people. He’s a good influence on me. He’s saved my ass more than once.”
“Well, he’s not going to save your ass from Susan if you don’t call her,” Patti said. The phone rang, and she sprang up to get it. “That’s probably her now. What should I tell her?”
“You haven’t seen me.”
After Patti left the room, Manny leaned forward and motioned for Meadows to come closer. “What are you doing tonight?” he whispered.
“Nothing.”
“You want to make some money?”
“Yeah. How?”
“Me and Moe got a big errand to run. We got to pick up some goodies, and we need a helper. Guy we were counting on bugged out. Patti says you’re OK, you’re OK”
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
“Are you kidding?” Meadows’s incredulity was genuine.
“It’s toilet paper to the people I work for,” Manny boasted. “My boss appreciates risk. We’re taking a small risk tonight. So you’re interested, huh?”
“Well, sure.”
“Don’t bring a gun, that’s one rule. And don’t get loaded before you come, that’s another. The third rule is the Joey Dent Rule. You know that one already.” Manny held Meadows’s gaze for a moment, then rose. “We’ll pick you up here at midnight.”
