“Oh, Harriet, it’s so thoughtful of you to call,” she said. “Of course, I am still completely traumatized. But Leonard is here with me, being a complete doll. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Well, I’d heard that one a few times before, what with Mom’s multimarried past, but I kept my mouth shut. And mentally patted myself on the back for it.
“You’ve heard that the reverend’s funeral is at Mort’s on Wednesday?” I asked.
“Yes. Of course, we’ll be there.”
Then she pulled out the big one.
“Now let’s talk about something less depressing. Why don’t you come over for dinner with Leonard and me one of these days soon? And bring your friend.”
That last word was drawn out and emphasized.
There it was. Mom was once again trying to ignite my romantic life.
I knew perfectly well whom she was referring to, but feigned ignorance.
“What friend?” I asked.
“Lior, of course. Who else? Don’t play games, honey.”
Me, playing games? Please. Just exactly what was she doing?
Lior Ben Yehuda was my tall, dark, hard-body instructor of Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art of street fighting. Lior was an Israeli ex-commando whom I’d met while I was still a Boca Babe and married to Bruce. My personal trainer had suggested I take up Krav Maga for fitness, so I’d enrolled in Lior’s studio. And as it turned out, it was Krav Maga that gave me the guts to gun down Bruce and end ten years of abuse. Not that Lior had encouraged that. But his training had transformed me from a victim to a victor.
So Lior knew about my past—how I’d married Bruce, an aspiring attorney, right out of college and was sucked into the Boca Babe addiction. Then Lior had witnessed my recovery from Babeness—leaving the megahouse, the Mercedes, and the clothes to the creditors, selling my jewelry to buy my hog, moving to the swamp, getting an office job for a private eye, and finally getting my own license and opening ScamBusters.
So I’d known Lior for a few years now. He wasn’t intimidated by my Dirty Harriet persona; in fact, it seemed to turn him on. However, I’d kept up a good shield of denial of the simmering attraction between us. For one thing, following my murderous marriage, the last thing I wanted was another romantic involvement. For another, Lior was thirty years old to my almost forty. Even though I still had my looks, if not the artificial enhancements, from my Boca Babe days, I felt awkward about the age gap. But recently I’d experienced chinks in my longstanding armor. Lior and I had gotten together a couple times lately outside the fitness studio, and I’d made the mistake of telling Mom about it.
So something was happening between Lior and me, but I sure as hell wasn’t ready to dive into something serious. And, of course, dinner at Mom’s with him would mean exactly that.
“No, Mom,” I said. “That’s not happening. I’ll come to dinner but not with Lior.”
“Oh, Harriet,” she whined. “You’ve got to move on, honey. Lior sounds like a lovely young man, and it’s time you let down your guard a little.”
I was about to come back with a nasty retort when I heard Leonard in the background.
“Stella, sweetie, why don’t you let up a little? Harriet is a grown woman. She’s fully capable of making her own choices. Let’s just enjoy a dinner with her. We’ll have a nice time.”
Yeesss! Man, did I like this man.
“Very well, Harriet,” Mom said stiffly. “I’ll get back to you with a date. In the meantime, we’ll see you at the funeral on Wednesday. Goodbye.”
As I hung up, my mind wandered back to those two outings—I refuse to call them dates—with Lior. The first one had been at the local gun club, where we’d teamed up in a mixed-doubles target-shooting competition—Lior with his Israeli-made Uzi pistol and me with my all-American Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, the one that used to be Bruce’s and that I now carry concealed in my boot.
We’d won first place. After that he’d asked me to go out to celebrate our victory. I’d told him our trophies were celebration enough, but he’d kept needling me every time I went to the studio to work out until I’d finally agreed.
Then another battle of wills had ensued—where to go, how to get there, what to do? The thing is, Lior and I didn’t seem to have a whole lot in common except street fighting, sharpshooting, and sensual simmering. His taste in music ran to seventies disco, while I was into Madonna and Shania. That is, when I listened to music, which was rare, since I usually preferred the sounds of the Everglades bog or the Evolution Hog. Lior liked to watch the sunrise after staying out all night; I liked to watch the sunset before sleeping in all night. He was an observant Jew; I was an observant gumshoe.
We’d finally agreed we both didn’t mind eating and didn’t mind the ocean. So we’d decided on a brunch at the Breakers, a fancy-ass hotel in Palm Beach, where old money from the Northeast and Midwest comes to while away the winter months.
I’d said I would drive. That meant, of course, that Lior would be riding on the back. He was cool with that. And I was cool with him being cool. Let’s face it, how many guys would be secure enough in their masculinity to be seen riding a bike behind a woman, their backs up against the sissy bar?
So one Sunday morning we took the ride up the coast. Lior turned out to be a great passenger. With an extra two hundred pounds on the back, the driver has to subtly shift his or her riding maneuvers. Most passengers, unfortunately, are literal backseat drivers. They try to anticipate your moves, try to shift their own weight when you lean into a curve. Then you have to make an unnatural, compensatory shift in the opposite direction to keep from going down.
But Lior didn’t do that. He just let me have complete control, going with my moves instead of directing them. I started to wonder . . . if he was that way on a bike, would he be that way in bed? Not an unappealing prospect.
He also didn’t wrap his arms around my waist the way you see so many women do when riding behind a guy. If passengers can’t keep their hands to themselves without falling off, they have no business riding.
So we were in sync as we took in the dazzling ocean views. Eventually, we arrived in the thriving necropolis of Palm Beach. I swear, all those oceanfront homes up there look like mausoleums. It’s the Land of the Living Dead.
When we got to the Breakers, I pulled right up to the opulent entrance. There was a time when the Breakers would have run bikers off the property, but now that the rich have co-opted Harleys as a status symbol, the hotel is more than happy to display hogs right up front alongside the Rollses and Bentleys.
We proceeded to the outdoor terrace overlooking the beach. We ordered a couple Bloody Marys and took it all in: the ocean waves, the white sand, the swaying palms, the blue sky. Damn, another day in paradise.
We didn’t talk a lot. I figured I’d done plenty by even agreeing to go out. Actual conversation would take it to another level. One where I wasn’t sure wanted to be. So, we just enjoyed observing the social milieu. The Breakers was plenty entertaining. That day, it seemed as if half the population of New York City had come down for brunch, judging by the accents of the crowd. And apparently, when those New Yorkers were told they were going to a family reunion at the Breakers on the Island, most of them thought they’d heard Rikers Island. Evidently, they’d been looking forward to seeing the godchildren and such in the prison cafeteria, when, to their utter bewilderment, they found themselves in this strange place that bore a bizarre resemblance to the Doge’s Palace in Venice.
As Lior and I sat there on the terrace, we eavesdropped on the conversation at the next table. This guy was saying, “Jeez, Ma, why’d you have Uncle Luigi fix that mess I got into back in eighty-seven? Lookit how I could be livin’ large here at Rikers, instead of busting my balls—” At that point, his sister smacked him upside the head.
“No, you numskull!”
she cried. This is the Breakers, not Rikers! Now look what you did, Ma’s upset!”
“Huh? Mazola spread? Yeah, sure, pass it over. You know how health conscious I am,” the guy said as he forked a deep-fried cheeseball into his mouth and chased it with a shot of Southern Comfort.
Then there was the house band. In keeping with the Palm Beach locale, they were . . . well, how can I put this? Undead. They looked as if they’d been rooted in that same spot since 1954 and hadn’t changed their tune since. I think they called themselves Vincent Zamboni and the Zombies.
So, all in all, Lior and I had a good time. There was only one minor snafu, when the server brought Lior ham instead of the steak he’d ordered. Since Lior kept kosher, ham was out. But he’d been totally charming and gracious in asking the server to take the meal back and bring another. And I had to admit that scored points with me. What a contrast to my ex (okay, dead) husband, who would have thrown a fit and made a complete ass of himself under similar circumstances.
My Breakers reverie was suddenly interrupted by Lana making an inauspicious reappearance.
“Hey, girl,” she said. “I know you’re hot to trot with Lior. But think about it. He knows all about you, but what do you really know about him? You admitted you didn’t talk much. Did he actually tell you anything about himself?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“So for all you know he could be a killer or something.”
That gave me pause.
“Well, I’m one,” I replied. “He doesn’t hold that against me, so if he’s one, which he isn’t, why should I hold it against him? I’d rather hold him against me.”
“Yeah, right,” Lana said. “Just don’t let your hormones run off with your judgment.” With that she flipped her tail and took off again, this time into the darkness.
Chapter 5
THE NEXT morning I dropped by Laurence’s dental office to have him sign the contract for my services on behalf of all the Holy Rollers. He informed me that Trey had been released from jail on a million-dollar bond put up by the contessa. I decided to talk with him later.
Afterward, I proceeded to the city-council meeting to check out the antigay protesters. I arrived at City Hall and went into the council chamber. It was an auditorium with rows of seats for the audience and a dais up front supporting a large curved table for the council members. I was a little early and only a few others had arrived. I sat down in the back row so that I would be able to observe everyone.
A couple minutes later, someone sat down next to me.
“Harriet, what a surprise! So good to see you!”
I looked over and recognized Howard Levine. He had been my late stepfather Mort’s partner in Mort’s Mortuary and Crematorium. Since Mort had gone to his heavenly reward a few years ago, Howard was now the sole owner of the lucrative funeral-parlor chain.
I’d known him since my teen years, when Mom had married Mort, who’d set us up in the good life. Howard used to come over to our big new house most weekends to play cards with Mort and a bunch of other old geezers out by the pool.
I hadn’t seen him since Mort’s funeral. He was in good shape for a septuagenarian. He was slightly taller than me, trim and a natty dresser. He wore a well-cut navy suit with a crisp white shirt and a paisley tie. The white hair on the back of his bald head was neatly combed in place. Now there’s something I’ve always respected: bald guys who just let their natural appearance be instead of doing those ridiculous comb-overs that fool nobody and only advertise the poor schmuck’s low self-image.
“So what are you doing here?” Howard asked, gazing at me through his rimless glasses.
“Oh, looking into a possible connection on a case I’m working on,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right, your mother did tell me that you’re a private eye now.”
“Yes. By the way, I understand that you’re doing the Reverend Botay’s funeral tomorrow. I plan to come.”
“Oh, yes. You knew her?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t,” he said, “but what a shame about her death.” He paused a moment. “Say, I read that she was in the forefront of the gay-rights movement, and today the council is having a hearing on the same-sex marriage issue. Her murder wouldn’t be the case you’re investigating, would it?”
“Actually, yes.”
“But I thought the killer had already been apprehended.”
“Well, there are some who doubt his guilt. So I’m looking into it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. If the police suspect didn’t do it, I’m sure you’ll find out who did.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. By the way, what time is the funeral?”
He frowned. “Oh, dear, I can’t recall exactly. I’ve got a few scheduled for tomorrow. But I’m pretty sure it’s at two.”
“Okay,I’ll be there. Now, what brings you here today?”
“Oh, a different matter altogether. You’ve heard of the city’s proposal to renovate the bridge that spans the canal separating Boca from Deerfield Beach?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, they want to make the bridge the gateway to Boca. A real eye-catching spectacle. The architectural plans call for adorning the new bridge with statues.”
“Well, that sounds nice. They have that in all the European cities, and it’s beautiful.” I’d done some international travel in my Boca Babe days. Now my excursions were strictly limited to my hog rides. Those didn’t take me far, but it was as far as needed to go.
“No, you don’t understand,” Howard said. “These aren’t statues of saints or knights. They’re iguanas!”
I blinked. “What?”
“Yes, they want to put giant green iguana statues on the bridge.”
“Why?”
“The city planners, a bunch of whippersnappers with BURP degrees—”
“Wait, what?” I interrupted.
“BURP—bachelor of urban and regional planning. These kids have been taking their lunch breaks on the banks of that canal, and they’ve seen these live iguanas lying around there, sunning themselves. They get the bright idea that iguana statues would provide a great symbol of Boca.”
“Well, that has possibilities,” I said. “You know, there’s a Saint Ignatius of Loyola, so why not a Saint Iguana of Lake Boca? Or how about a Knight of the Iguana?”
“Please, Harriet. This is no laughing matter. These proposed iguanas are totally tasteless. Completely kitschy. And you know my funeral home is located right by that bridge. Can you imagine grief-stricken mourners coming to pay their respects to their departed loved ones and being confronted with those iguanas? It would be a slap in their face! My business would plunge right into the canal!
“So that’s why I’m here. The city council is taking public comments on the bridge proposal today, and I’m here to express my vehement opposition. In fact, you know, I’m sure your mother would fully agree with me on this. Surely she would not want the business that Mort—rest his soul—worked so hard to build to now be demeaned and ruined in this way.”
“Yes, I’m sure Mom would be mortified,” I said. “I’ll mention it to her.”
At that point the council members filed in and took their seats. The mayor, a fortyish man with slicked-back hair and sharp facial features, sat in the center.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we have numerous orders of business before us today. I’m sure you all have the agenda, so we’ll go ahead and get started.”
Actually, I didn’t have the agenda, but I didn’t really care. I knew what I was there for.
“Our first item of business is to receive public comments on the proposed same-sex marriage ordinance.”
Great! Since my own agenda item was first, I wouldn’t have to sit through the iguana-bridge issue and whatever els
e there was. As soon as the gay marriage hearing was done, I could leave and get on with the investigation.
The mayor continued, “Anyone who wishes to speak, please line up at the microphones at the front of the room. Each speaker will have three minutes.”
They were already lined up, and the first was a boyish-looking guy with blond hair and a pointy goatee, wearing a white suit and white tie. He looked like a young version of Colonel Sanders of KFC fame. Once that image entered my mind, so did one of extra-crispy, all-white meat with mashed potatoes and a flaky biscuit. My mouth started salivating.
“Mr. Mayor and honorable members of the council,” he began, “I am Pastor Fred Hollings of the Church of the Serpentine Redeemer.”
What the hell was that? My indoctrination into the religious realm was becoming weirder and weirder.
The pastor went on, “I am here as the leader of the Christian Righteous Against Perverts.”
Christian Righteous Against Perverts. I needed an easy way to remember that. Acronyms were always good mnemonic aids. So this one was . . . CRAP.
“We firmly believe that passage of this ordinance would seriously undermine the moral values of our community,” the pastor said. “As you all know, the Holy Bible unequivocally condemns homosexuality. Homosexuals will suffer eternal damnation unless they repent and accept Jesus Christ as their savior from their satanic temptations. And, as you all know, the Bible defines marriage as between a man and a woman.”
Hey, wait a minute. Wasn’t it more like a man and multiple women?
“So passage of this ordinance would mean rejecting the Judeo-Christian principles that we all share. It will defile the state of holy matrimony. If homosexuals are allowed to marry, what’s next? Man and child? Man and beast? I’m telling you, Mr. Mayor and honorable council members, if you pass this ordinance, Boca Raton will become Sodom. And it will all be on your heads. You will all be Sodomites. And you know what God did to them. He’s already given Boca numerous warnings. First we had that anthrax incident right after 9/11. Then we’ve had four major hurricanes in the last two years. These are direct expressions of the Lord’s displeasure, ladies and gentlemen. Boca will be wiped off the face of the earth. Just look at what happened to New Orleans, that den of iniquity with all its vice and sin and homosexuality.”
Dirty Harriet Rides Again Page 4
