Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  Chapter 12

  HEY, NOBODY EVER said I was subtle.

  They all shook their heads.

  “Wish I had,” Cheetah said. I looked at her. Standard-issue Botox Babe, covered in designer status symbols from head to toe. Her wraparound catwoman dress was a Diane von Furstenburg, her red-soled shoes were Louboutins, and her watch was a Rolex. She was so fashion-conscious, she’d have to buy a hunting outfit to shoot her husband.

  “I didn’t kill my ex,” Martha piped up. “But somebody else did. Three days ago. Pissed me off royal.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Did you want the pleasure yourself?”

  “No! My life’s pleasure was to make his life hell on earth. First he left me for that Slovenian slut. Then he married that Danish dopehead. He thought he could just throw me away like used Kleenex. Well, I had news for him. I didn’t give him a day’s peace. Drove him so crazy he filed a restraining order. How great is that? Of course, that wasn’t going to stop me. I was having a great time coming up with more creative ways to drive him up the wall. Then this happened. It took the wind right out of my sails. It is so not fair. Death was too good for him. He didn’t deserve it! He deserved to live and suffer! Now what am I going to do? Tell me, what am I going to do?”

  With that, she broke down in tears.

  “Martha, remember what we’ve talked about?” Jaguar, the facilitator, asked. “How living well is the best revenge? How hurting him only hurts you?”

  “Bullshit!” Martha said. “Hurting him made me happy. And he’s not even here to see me living well, so where’s the revenge?”

  Now that was logical. The airhead had suddenly become erudite.

  Apparently everyone was as stunned as I was, because the question just hung in the air. But I’d gotten the answer to my own question: Martha hadn’t killed Junior. Or if she had, she was putting on one hell of an act as the grieving survivor—grieving over her lost ability to give him grief, that is.

  I’d spent the entire afternoon getting to this point. Now that I had my answer, I wasn’t about to spend one more minute there. Especially not listening to a bunch of ex-Queens of the Jungle bemoan their lost marital status. I had to get out of there.

  I gasped loudly and doubled over. I took a bunch of quick, shallow breaths. I stood up then staggered back into my seat.

  “Harriet! Are you all right?” Jaguar asked.

  “I . . . I’m having a flashback,” I panted. “I think . . . I’ve been retraumatized. I’ve got to go!”

  I rose and ran out of the room. Hey, nobody ever said I was subtle.

  NOW THAT I HAD dispensed with the ex-wife, my next target was the ex-girlfriend. But first I had to return Enrique’s BMW, since I didn’t need it anymore. I figured he wouldn’t appreciate getting his precious baby back covered in bird shit, so I drove through a car wash before returning the vehicle to the hotel’s parking garage. I dropped off the keys with the concierge and retrieved my Hog. Then I rode to Raquel’s, Natasha’s place of employment.

  Apart from strippers, the joint was said to have the best strip steak in town. As it was dinnertime, I figured the place would be packed and most of the dancers would be on duty. One thing I learned working as a decoy in my early investigative career was that the midnight hour is not the busiest in strip clubs—the dinner hour is. Guys go out with their business associates to get their T-bones and titties then get home in time to tuck the kids into bed. Here’s the thing, for you ladies out there: if you’re suspicious of your man, you’ve got to look at his unsuspicious behaviors.

  Raquel’s was a concrete-block, windowless building located on the edge of town not far from my office. There were no neon signs, nude silhouettes, or any other indications of the nature of the establishment. This was Boca, after all. Tawdriness was well hidden. But everyone knew it was there.

  I parked my Hog near the back entrance and waited. Eventually a tall, blonde Boca Babe wannabe—identifiable by her fake Fendi tote and her overdone makeup—approached the door.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m curious, how much do you make here on a good night?”

  “Five hundred?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

  “I just told you.”

  “No, you just asked me . . .”

  “No, you asked me.”

  I took a deep breath. We were off and running in the Bimbo Bowl, where every statement bore the tone of a question.

  “Oh. So you make five hundred on a good night.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  “No, you asked . . . oh, never mind. How about you take the night off and I double your money?”

  “For real?”

  I waited for her to make up her mind.

  “Hey, I just asked you a question,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I said, for real?”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said.”

  “Hellooo? That was a question.”

  “Huh? Oh. Yes. For real. I’ll give you a real grand for your fake Fendi and the night off.”

  “Okay . . . whatever?”

  She held out her hand. I pulled ten hundreds out of my boot and gave them to her. She gave me the bag.

  “That has my costume in it. You can leave it with Bruno? The bouncer?”

  How was I supposed to know whether it had her costume in it and whether Bruno was the bouncer? Oh yeah. Those were statements.

  “Bruno. Yeah. Right. I’ll do that. By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Courtney?”

  She didn’t know her own name? Oh right. I was getting the hang of this.

  “Okay, Courtney. Thanks. Have a great night!”

  “You, too?”

  I opened the back door and walked into a tree trunk. Oh, that was a man.

  “Bruno?” I asked, taking a wild guess.

  “Yeah,” a voice said from somewhere above my head.

  “Courtney’s on the rag. I’m filling in for her.”

  “Too much information. Dressing room’s that way.”

  The trunk rotated to allow me to pass.

  I walked down a barren corridor to a cheap, wooden doorway with a gold foil star glued on it. I opened the door to a room lined with mirrors and filled with malnourished women in various stages of undress.

  How would I ever figure out which one was Natasha?

  Okay. Martha had said Natasha was from Slovenia. That ruled out all the black, Asian, and Latina women—about half the group. And she would have a Slavic accent. I knew what that sounded like because one of my stepfathers—damned if I remember which one—had been from one of those countries—damned if I remember which one.

  I found an open chair next to a white woman and sat down.

  “Hey,” I said to the woman, who was squeezing her boobs into a bra that was at least two sizes too small.

  “Hey,” she said. “You new here?”

  Brooklyn accent. No dice.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m filling in for Courtney.”

  “I’m Tori. What’s your name?”

  My name? Quick. What was that formula for coming up with a porn star name? Take the street you grew up on . . . Eden Way . . . plus the name of your first grade teacher . . . Mrs. Priestley . . . Eden Priestley. Worked for me.

  “Eden,” I said.

  She smirked. “Welcome to paradise, Eden.”

  Just then, a wail erupted from the corner of the room.

  “I cannot believe det son of a beach did zees to me,” a gorgeous brunette with a chiseled face and body screamed. She sounded just like my stepfather.

  “What’s her problem?” I asked Tori.

  “Natasha
Number Four?”

  “Huh?”

  “She’s Natasha Number Four,” Tori said. “That’s how we keep them straight.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “All those girls from Russia and those countries like that who work here. They all call themselves Natasha, so we have to number them.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “Anyway, Natasha Number 4, her sugar daddy just died. Got himself killed.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah, that developer . . . what’s his name?” Tori asked. “Cattle . . . Cattlelano?”

  “Oh yeah, I heard about him,” I said. “But wait . . . wasn’t he married to some high and mighty bitch? Miss Denmark or something?”

  “Yeah, but he was with Natasha Number Four before her, and he told Natasha he was going to leave his wife and marry Natasha if she dropped some assault charges she’d filed against him. So she was about to do that. Girl thought she was going to be the next Melania.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Melania Knauss. Mrs. Donald Trump? She was a model in her country, Slovakia or someplace like that, and came over here and ended up marrying the Donald and living in Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach. Now all those girls from those countries think they can do the same thing.”

  Wow. Just like poor black boys dreamed of getting out of the hood by becoming star rappers or ball players, Slavic girls dreamed of escaping by marrying Donald Trump. Not only was the idea of doing Donald disgusting, something was seriously wrong with this world if kids couldn’t see more realistic routes to a better life.

  “She’s a pretty girl,” I said. “She’ll find somebody else. Maybe she can go for the Donald himself. I mean, the man isn’t known for his marital fidelity. And he does seem to go for the Eastern European types—wasn’t Ivana from one of those countries, too?”

  “I guess. But Natasha Number Four, she’s getting old. She’s like twenty-three. She had two years invested in the guy. She is so bummed.”

  No kidding. The woman was still screaming and had started burning her forearms with a straightening iron. The others around her were trying to tear the instrument out of her grasp.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. I got up, walked over, and pulled the plug out of the wall socket. There was a sudden silence.

  “If you hurt yourself again, I’ll hit you so hard when you wake up your clothes will be out of style,” I said, and walked away.

  Since I outweighed all the anorexics and bulimics in the room by at least twenty pounds, I guess they believed me.

  Okay, so now I knew Natasha Number Four didn’t off Junior. Having gotten the goods, I could book out of the place, just like I had in the counseling center. Except I knew that Courtney would be busted if I didn’t work her shift. That’s how these places operate. If you’re sick, if your grandmother’s just died, or if your kid’s just been hit by the school bus, you find your own replacement or you’re out on your ass. Employee rights? Yeah, right.

  I could handle the stripping performance. It wasn’t too far removed from my former Boca Babe act. Both were about flesh for cash.

  I opened up Courtney’s tote and pulled out a gold sequined thong and Miracle Bra. Great. Just great. It would be a miracle if I could stuff myself into that thing.

  Well, I’m here to tell you that miracles do happen. I not only got into the trashy lingerie, I also shoved my size eight feet into a pair of size six platform shoes. The weight I had on those other women was obviously all lean muscle. Or so I told myself, even as the bra straps sliced my flesh and the thong threatened to become a world-class wedgie. On top of that, my toes went numb from lack of circulation.

  I left the dressing room and teetered onstage. Immediately, I was blinded by floodlights.

  As my vision returned, I saw women gyrating to my left and right. I grabbed a pole to keep my balance. I looked down toward my feet and saw a sea of outstretched male hands proffering cash.

  And then I looked right into a pair of very dark, very familiar eyes. Lior’s.

  Chapter 13

  “THAT HYPOCRITE!”

  It was about three o’clock in the morning, and I was sitting on the wooden planks of my porch, soaking my feet in the swamp. Lana eyed me warily.

  Bad day? she asked.

  I snarled at her.

  Patronage of exotic dancing venues promotes the objectification and oppression of all women, she said.

  “Damn straight.”

  However, our friend may have had a legitimate reason for his presence there.

  “Oh, get real.”

  I had bumped and ground my way through the last eight hours—the first several of which had included Lior and an apparent buddy of his leering at me. There was no way that Lior couldn’t have recognized me. My face wasn’t disguised. Besides, he knew my body shape intimately from the years he’d spent as my Krav Maga trainer. Yet despite knowing damn well that it was me he was ogling (and to my own annoyment, I’d found this kind of exciting), he’d departed Raquel’s shortly before midnight without a word.

  So this was how the man spent his spare time. And after he’d fed me that bullshit about wanting my body, my mind, my heart, my soul . . . after I’d been about to give him one out of four of those . . . well, he’d never get anything from me again. Not one word, not one look. Hell, I’d never give him another thought. There had to be another Krav Maga studio in town . . . if not, I’d take up another martial art—like extreme fighting. Bring it on, baby.

  I kicked my foot, sending a spurt of swamp water onto Lana.

  Hey, watch it, she said.

  “Why did you let me get involved with him in the first place?” I yelled. “You and I were doing just fine on our own. Did we need this?”

  Don’t blame me, sister. You know I gave you plenty of warnings not to let your hormones run off with your head. And your heart.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, you were right. So what are you doing defending him now?”

  I’m not defending him. I’m just saying . . .

  “Oh, forget it. I’m not wasting one more breath on any man. We’ve got work to do.”

  So let’s get to it.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve pretty much ruled out anyone in Junior’s personal life who may have had a motive to do in his sorry ass. So we’ve got to turn to his professional life. But the guy had projects and enemies all over South Florida. Where the hell do we start?”

  Lana floated, apparently thinking it over.

  How about Marla? she finally asked.

  “Marla? The bartender at the Hog Heaven?”

  Yeah, remember how she said Junior was about to buy out the Valley View trailer park and a lot of folks were unhappy about it?

  “Yeah, that’s right . . . now wait a minute . . . she also said some rich people had filed an injunction to stop the development. I didn’t think anything of it before . . . but something doesn’t jibe here. Why would the rich give a rat’s ass about what happens to a trailer park on the other side of town? There has to be more to it.”

  Now you’re cookin’, Lana said.

  I sat up straight. “Marla said she didn’t know anything about it. But she said Trey Harrison was the judge who was going to hear the case. So he’d know more. Okay, I’m calling Trey.”

  I pulled my feet out of the water and started to rise.

  Yo, girlfriend, Lana said.

  “What? What? We’re hot on the trail here! What’s the matter?”

  It’s like, three o’clock in the morning. The judge might not appreciate a call just now?

  “Oh. Right. Okay. I guess I’ll go get a couple hours sleep.”

  I WAS SUFFOCATING. My heart was pounding, crying out for oxygen. I had to get back, to tear myself away from this place.

  I heard myself gasp, and my eyes opene
d. I was back. Back in my body in my wooden bed in my log cabin in the Everglades. Back from Bruce, where my nightmare had taken me.

  Another scene from a marriage.

  We’re on vacation out west at the Grand Canyon. We’ve rented a four-wheeler to drive the back roads. Bruce is high. He’s been snorting coke all day. He’s driving fast, bouncing the SUV along the edge of a cliff.

  “Why don’t you slow down, honey,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” he replies.

  A rock slides out from under the front tire and goes flying off the cliff.

  “But the scenery is so beautiful. Let’s take our time and enjoy it.”

  I have to be careful of just how I say things. Can’t contradict him. Can’t make him angry.

  “I am enjoying it. You’re the one who can’t enjoy anything. Why can’t you ever just let go and have some fun?”

  He steps on the gas as he rounds a curve. The SUV skids on the gravel.

  I grip the sides of my seat and keep my mouth shut. Take deep breaths. In and out. In and out. But the fear washes over me in a wave, settling in a burning ball of fire in my core. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

  “Why don’t you let me drive for a while, hon?” I ask, choking the words out.

  I see it coming out of the corner of my eye. He moves his right arm across his body then swings it up, backhanding me in the jaw. My head flies back into the headrest. My sunglasses snap. He slams on the brakes. We skid to a stop a few inches from the edge of the cliff.

  “Get out, you controlling bitch,” he screams.

  “But we’re in the middle of nowhere,” I say. “How will I get back?”

  “I don’t give a shit. I can’t stand the sight of you. Get out!” He reaches across me and pushes open the passenger door. He clicks my seatbelt free then shoves me out. He slams the door then takes off, covering me in red dust.

  A few seconds later, I hear the SUV stop then reverse.

  Okay, he’s remorseful. He’s come back for me. He won’t leave me alone out here in the middle of nowhere. The SUV stops by me. The window rolls down, and my purse comes flying out, landing at my feet. Then the SUV takes off again.