He screamed and snatched for my arm. But Lupe was quicker. She seized his wrists, then twisted his arms behind his back. I looked at her in awe. Damn! We made a hell of team.
I turned back to Miguel. His eyes bulged.
“Now, you were saying?” I asked as I casually inspected the chewed nails on my other hand.
“I don’t know what it is,” he repeated, but this time his voice sounded as if he’d just taken a toke and was trying to speak without exhaling.
Gosh, my attempt at smoothing the flow of cross-cultural communication was falling a little short. I screwed the nuts and bolts a little tighter.
“Say, Lupe,” I remarked. “Have you ever tried those hand-grip exercises? You know, with those spring-loaded resistance gizmos? Look like the clamps on a pair of jumper cables? You oughtta try ’em. They really increase your grip strength.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Not gonna translate.”
I turned back to Miguel. “So you’re sure you’ve never seen this piece of paper before?”
This time his voice came out in a falsetto. “It’s a shipment record. Gladys kept the records because she could write and add.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting. Just what kind of shipments are we talking about, Miguel?”
He didn’t respond, so I ratcheted the pressure up a notch.
“Food,” he squeaked. “Tomatoes, oranges. For the people back home. They’re starving back there.”
“Well, how humanitarian of you. And what’s this?” With my free hand I pointed to the letters—FLGI—beneath his name on the ledger sheet. “Some kind of UN relief agency?”
More pressure, more squeaking. Lupe prefaced her translation, “It’s Spanish. An acronym. La Frente por la Liberación de la Gente Indígene, the Indigenous People’s Liberation Front.” She went on in Miguel’s own words. “It’s a small group of us here, trying to help our brothers back home.”
Beads of sweat were starting to trickle down his face. I figured I couldn’t squeeze any more out of him without him passing out, and then what use would he be? I let go. Lupe followed. He fell to the ground, writhing and moaning.
“Thank you ever so much for your time,” I said sweetly. “You’ve been such a help. I tell you, just when I start to despair of the human race, a ray of sunshine like you comes along to restore my faith. Well, we’ll be going now. You stay in touch, ya hear?”
We reached Lupe’s truck without any trouble and started our drive along the dusty road out of the fields.
“Okay,” I said, “So we’ve got some kind of renegade exile group here supporting the freedom fighters back in the old country. Sending food, ostensibly. So what’s the big deal? Is Big Tomato upset about employee pilferage? Worried about a few tomatoes getting diverted from their destiny with Taco-to-Go? There’s some missing pieces here, Lupe. I don’t totally buy Miguel’s story.”
“I’m with you, chica,” she said.
Just then we passed by a large concrete warehouse that was located away from the workers’ living quarters. A few Mayan men were standing outside. As we drove by, they stopped talking to turn and watch us. I could see their faces reflected in the sideview mirror, the red glow of our taillights making them look like jack-o’-lanterns. They looked wary.
“Lupe,” I said. “Keep on trucking. Don’t let on that anything’s up. But let’s pull off a couple miles up ahead. I want to go back and do some reconnaissance on those boys. I’d like to know what’s in that building that they seem so protective of.”
We pulled off the road and into some tall grasses that surrounded the truck, blocking it from view from the road.
“Okay, I’m off,” I said to Lupe. “You don’t mind waiting?”
“No way, José. I haven’t had this much fun since Father Hidalgo and the Holy Ghosts came through here with their unsanctioned tent revival a couple years ago. Go on, girl, I’m not going anywhere.”
I took off into the darkness.
Chapter 8
I HIKED ALONG the edge of the dirt road, ready to dive for cover in the tall grasses at the first sign of anyone approaching. The air was still, and I had only the crickets for company. They leapt up in front of me, as if to guide my path. Or block it.
Up ahead, I saw the building where the men had been gathered. They were no longer standing there, but a faint light shone from inside. I stepped off the road and into the tomato field. I got down on my hands and knees so that I would be hidden by the vines and crawled up to the back of the building. There was a small window about seven feet up. I looked around for something to boost me up. I found a packing crate, turned it on its side, climbed up, and slowly raised myself to the window.
Peering inside, I saw the group of Mayan men. They were packing tomatoes into crates, then loading the crates onto a tarp-covered pickup truck. Except along with the tomatoes, they were packing something else—ammo. They were disassembling a collection of guns as well as some hand grenades and what looked like a couple of land mines. They were putting a layer of tomatoes in each crate, followed by a layer of weapons, and topped with another tomato layer.
Well, I guess that would make for some pretty fiery chili at Taco-to-Go. Yep, I could see the menu items now. Today’s Specials: Bullets ‘n’ Burritos. Grenades ‘n’ Guacamole.
Suddenly I felt something crawling up my right pants leg. Oh, shit! Some creepy crawly insect or slug or whatever. My whole body shuddered. I swatted at my leg, then balanced on the crate with my left leg and spasmodically shook my right.
Well, you can guess what happened. The crate and I came crashing down with a resounding thud. Immediately there was commotion and noise inside the building.
Damn! It would take them a few seconds to get out the door and around to the back of the building. I looked around frantically for a hiding place. I spotted an old porcelain tub by the side of the building, covered with a wooden lid. I rushed over, shoved aside the lid, climbed in, and wrestled the lid back over me just as pounding footsteps and voices came around the corner.
I lay there, holding my breath. Well, at least I’d gotten rid of the bug. Except—wait—now I had another problem. What had I gotten myself into? Oh, shit squared! I was lying in a vat of rotten tomatoes!
The ripe juices oozed all over me, seeping into the seams of my clothes right down to my thong underwear. I was a human stew. And I was trapped.
I lay there, helpless, until the footsteps and voices faded into the distance. Then I lay there some more till I was sure they had gone.
Finally, I climbed out, dripping tomato sauce. I started the hike back to Lupe’s truck. There I was, walking down the dusty, deserted road—a biker chick cacciatore. Just sprinkle some oregano on me, bake for an hour, and serve with rotini al dente.
At last I reached the truck. Lupe was standing in front of it, barefoot, legs spread wide, arms reaching toward the sky, face turned toward the moonlight. I hated to interrupt what looked like a private moment, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand around and marinate.
I cleared my throat. Lupe came out of her trance and ran toward me.
“What took you so long?” she said frantically. “I was about to call my brothers for backup.”
“Your brothers?”
“Yeah, Balthasar, Gaspar, and Melchior.”
I blinked. “The Three Wise Men?”
“Yeah, Mamá and Papá were a little devout, if you haven’t guessed already. But never mind that now. Holy shit! What the hell happened to you?”
“Let’s move,” I said. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Chapter 9
IT WAS THE wee hours of the morning when I finally reached my cabin. I stood on the porch, peeled off my clothes, and dropped them right there. I’d have to take them to the laundromat in the morning. I went
straight into the shower, where I stood till the hot water ran out. Then it was back to the porch with my Hennessy.
Lana was nowhere in sight. She must have been snug in her gator bed, like the rest of the sane world. I drained my Hennessy and turned in.
When I woke up, it was almost noon. With yesterday’s starring role in Revenge of the Rotten Tomatoes, I wasn’t operating at peak performance. On top of that, last night had been one of my Nightmare Nights. I get them every couple months or so—replays of my marriage, from the beatings and put-downs to the final showdown at the Shapiro wedding shindig. That last part plays out in slo-mo.
We’re at the reception, sitting at a big round table with four other couples, all friends from the country club. It’s a formal affair, and the setting is beautiful, with soft lights and flowers everywhere. The bride and groom are young and attractive. They’re in love, happy, and confident of their future. Like Bruce and I once were. I’ve downed a couple glasses of champagne, and I have a warm feeling inside. I start to think maybe Bruce and I can be that way again. If we both just try . . . a love like ours doesn’t just die, does it?
Bruce is talking to the woman on his other side. I reach for his hand, wanting to connect, to let him know I still love him and want him.
He pushes my hand away.
“Don’t interrupt me,” he snaps.
My heart sinks, my whole insides just collapse. Tears start streaming down my face.
“Oh, come off it with the hurt act,” he says. “Poor baby,” he mocks me.
He stands abruptly, knocking his chair backward to the floor. The table goes silent, all eyes on us. I can’t believe it. He’s never acted like this in public, in front of our friends.
“Now look what you made me do,” he yells.
“Hey, Bruce, take it easy,” somebody says. But Bruce doesn’t listen. He pushes me, and I go tumbling back in my own chair.
In that moment I know that’s it. Our relationship will never be like it once was. His abuse will just go on and on. And no one will stop it. Except me. The love is dead. And so is the hope. I can’t live this way anymore.
People have gotten up from their seats and are moving toward us, but my vision narrows, and they recede into blackness at the edges. I see Bruce’s tuxedo jacket on the back of his chair, on the floor next to me. I know his gun is in the jacket pocket. He’s gotten really paranoid lately. He’s been carrying it everywhere.
I sit up on the floor, reach into the pocket, grab the gun, and point it at him with both hands.
“Go ahead, make my day,” I say.
He lunges at me, fist raised.
There’s a blast. My arms fly up and over my head. My torso slams backward on the floor.
I can’t hear anything. But my vision starts to expand. I see blood spattered everywhere. I see our tablemates, petrified, horrified.
Then my hearing returns, and I hear their screams. And then I hear my own.
I wake, still screaming.
So now you know my deep dark secret. I’m not as unfazed by the killing as I make out. Truth be known, after the big face-off, l just went balls to the wall hurtling into my new life.
But on these Nightmare Nights, the past haunts me. You really can’t just get over having killed someone. So for all my tough exterior, there’s a tormented interior. I remind myself that, ultimately, it was him or me. If I wasn’t Dirty Harriet now, I’d be Dead Harriet. Maybe the fatal blow wasn’t coming right then and there, but it was on its way.
But I couldn’t think about all that now. I employed my usual coping strategy—suppressing it all to the most remote corner of my mind. I fixed myself a hearty brunch of bacon-and-cheese omelet and hash browns. Yeah, I know, cholesterol city. My arteries would just have to deal with it. As for my cellulite, it wasn’t going anywhere anyway, so what the hell. One of the things I didn’t miss about my former life was the constant dieting in order to maintain the perfect bod. As a Boca Babe, some of my friends had snorted NutraSweet because they thought it was diet coke.
Just as I took the last bite, my phone rang.
“Harriet, how are you, dear?”
Oh, no—Mom! Just what I needed right now.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. But I loathe her. But I know that someday my mother won’t be around to chap my ass anymore, and then I’ll be Seriously Alone. But she always calls at the most inconvenient times. But she calls because she cares. But . . .
Okay, so maybe you’ve gathered that my relationship with my mother is . . . ambivalent. As a Botox Babe who raised me to follow in her Manolo-clad footsteps, she, of course, represents everything I’ve turned my back on. And she, of course, takes that personally.
The thing is, it took me till my thirties to go through my teenage rebellion phase. I haven’t grown out of it yet—and don’t intend to—so Mom and I are locked in what looks to be a perpetual battle of the wills. During my marriage, I had carefully kept my domestic abuse secret from her, and she’s never quite gotten over my blowing away her “perfect” son-in-law. She has, however, accepted the fact that he’s gone, and therefore, the only logical conclusion is that I need to get a replacement. And in her view, my A & A—Appearance and Attitude—aren’t going to cut it. So she’s forever on my case for me to change my hair, my clothes, my ideas . . . basically myself, that’s all.
“Harriet! Are you there?”
I took a deep breath, determined to do my best to avert a long-distance confrontation.
“Yes! I’m fine, Mom,” I said. “How’s the Merry Mermaid?” That was the cruise ship she was on, attending those lectures on Cold War espionage in between snacking, sunning, drinking, shuffleboard, and whatever else it is people do on those things.
“It’s wonderful,” she replied. “The things I am learning about! Underground tunnels, dead drops, reconnaissance missions. And all the tools of the trade—lipstick pistols, buttonhole cameras, shoe transmitters. It’s fascinating!”
“And how are the islands?”
“Absolutely beautiful. We stopped at Saint Vincent today, tomorrow it’s on to Saint Lucia, then Saint Kitts.”
“So it’s the All Saints Spy Tour,” I said. “Cool.”
At least she hadn’t mentioned anything about meeting some mysterious man on board. I almost asked but then stopped myself. Did I really want to go there?
“And what’s new with you?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve got a new case. A murder, actually—”
“A murder!” she said, cutting me off. “Oh, Harriet, that is so unseemly. Don’t you think it’s time for you to stop this private investigator silliness and move on with your life? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You need a man to take care of you, and you’re not going to find him in that swamp you call a home!”
I took a deep breath, but it did no good.
“I have moved on with my life,” I snapped. “And I intend to stay a single swamp-dwelling ScamBuster!”
“I only say this because I love you,” she managed to say before I hung up.
Just like that, we’d both reverted to my childhood patterns. Not to be too psychoanalytic about it, but my problems all started at birth—really. You see, I was born with a facial deformity. The two sides of my face were asymmetrical. To fix it meant surgery. That meant money. We didn’t have any.
After my father met his untimely demise, my mother moved us from Tampa to Boca—which, as I said before, has some of the world’s finest plastic surgeons. And she set out to find a man who would provide the financing. So, yes, she loved me. At the same time, there was this message: You’re ugly. You’re abnormal. You’re not acceptable. Now imagine growing up poor and deformed in the town of the rich and beautiful. Yeah, my self-esteem was below zero.
As I said before, Mom went through a few guys before she hit the jackpot
with Mort. By then, I was fifteen. That’s when life started to imitate reality TV. Mort picked up the tab for my surgery, and suddenly I was like a perfect case for The Swan or Extreme Makeover.
So now you know: I’m not a natural-born Babe. Of course, most Boca Babes aren’t. But hey, at least I didn’t cut off my Jewish nose to spite my race, as Golda Meir once said.
The thing about being a Boca Babe is that it’s addictive. Once I had the new face and a taste of the bucks, I wanted more. I loved the attention I got from men and the jealous glares from other women. And to be honest, I liked the new house, the pool, the tennis lessons, the fine restaurants, the parties, the pampering. I mean, what wasn’t to love after years of seeing my mom and her husbands struggle with money? Seeing my mom so depressed and then seeing her so happy when Mort and his money came into her life, and how his money helped make me acceptable—finally—to my mom, I thought that to stay happy, I had to find a rich man. Of course, this fit perfectly with Mom’s plans for me.
Right now, I had to get a grip. I wasn’t about to sit on my ass and analyze my mother. Or myself. I had work to do.
I called the contessa to give her a progress report.
“So here’s where I am now,” I summed up. “Clearly, the Indigenous People’s Liberation Front is supplying Mayan rebels with arms, not food. Gladys was the group’s record keeper. Now, was this of her own free will or at Miguel’s behest?”
“And why did Gladys give the ledger sheet to Eulalia?” the contessa asked.
“Obviously, for safekeeping. But what—or whom—was she, and Eulalia for that matter, afraid of? Miguel? Other FLGI members? Jake Lamont, the crew boss? Does he even know about the operation?”
“Remember,” the contessa said, “Gladys had recently obtained her legal status and had left the fields. Maybe her compatriots then perceived her as a threat, since she no longer had the same incentive that they did to keep quiet about the gunrunning.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “So one of them—or all of them—might have silenced her.”
Dirty Harriet Page 5
