“Bahia Mar Marina,” he said dreamily. “Man, I forgot it was down here. That’s where Travis McGee kept the Busted Flush. Slip F-eighteen. Bahia Mar Marina. Son of a bitch!”
44
I looked over Harry’s shoulder at the map. “How far away is Bahia Mar? And how soon can you be ready to go?”
“I’d guess about fifteen minutes. And I’m ready now.”
He was wearing baggy khaki shorts, a T-shirt advertising the Savannah Sport Fisherman’s Billfish Tournament, and a battered pair of Top-Siders. He had a day’s growth of beard. To my own chagrin, I had to admit the grizzled-sea-captain look was starting to work for me.
“What do you think?” I asked Weezie. “Can he go to a fancy marina dressed like that?”
“He can,” Weezie said pointedly. “You can’t. What if you run into Reddy? You’ll blow our cover.”
“I’m not staying here,” I protested. “Anyway, I’m the only one who knows what he looks like.”
“We’ve seen the video,” Weezie reminded me. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. All I’m saying is that it may be necessary for you to go incognito.”
I looked at her. She looked at me. We gave each other the mutual high five.
She opened one of the black plastic trash bags she’d hauled into the room from her morning’s estate-sale outing.
“You wouldn’t believe the clothes in that woman’s closet,” she said, sorting things on the bed. “She was the ultimate clotheshorse. I saw flapper dresses from the roaring twenties, all the way up to a St. John suit that still had the store’s price tags hanging from the sleeve. I didn’t buy any of the really expensive couture stuff. But I did pick up a few things. Just in case.
“Okay,” she said. “Keep an open mind. Remember, we want you to look like somebody else.”
She laid a yellow-and-orange-plaid polyester pantsuit beside me. To which she added a yellow silk head scarf and a pair of thick crepe-soled orthopedic oxfords.
“No,” I said, grimacing. “Not even for two million dollars am I going anywhere wearing this outfit. Especially these shoes.” I held them at arm’s length.
“What’s wrong with those shoes?” Granddad said, wandering into the room eating a grape Popsicle. “I like those shoes. Lorena has a pair just like that to wear to bingo.”
I stuck the shoes back in the garbage bag. “If I wear those things, I’ll get hit on by every old geezer in town. No offense, Granddad.”
“Hmm,” Weezie said.
“What else have you got?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Lots of sixties cocktail dresses. But you can’t go traipsing around a marina in one of those. It’ll look too costumey.”
She rummaged around in the first sack, and then hauled over a second one that she dumped on the bed.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ve got it. You’ll be brilliant.”
She held up a pair of white cotton Capri pants. “Bobbie Brooks!” Weezie announced. “Very resort wear. And they’ve cycled back into style again.” She tossed a ruffled turquoise crop top in my direction. I held it up to myself.
“Not bad,” I admitted.
“Early Ann-Margret,” Weezie said. “But that’s not all of it.”
She picked up the previously rejected silk scarf, and tied it under my chin, and then, alternatively, with the tie at the nape of my neck.
She shook her head. “You still look like a sixties version of BeBe Loudermilk. Wait. I left some more stuff in the car.” She dashed outside and was back moments later with a Burdine’s shopping bag. Which she emptied. “Accessories!” she said brightly.
She tossed me a shoulder-length black wig. “Try that on.”
The wig had eyebrow-tickling bangs and flipped-up ends. I’d never had bangs in my entire life. Ever.
Weezie rolled the scarf into a headband and knotted it. “Hmm. Kinda reminds me of Marlo Thomas in her That Girl mode.”
She dug through the assorted wigs, scarves, and pieces of jewelry until she came up with a pair of white plastic-rimmed sunglasses with frames so enormous they hid most of the upper half of my face. She added a pair of large white plastic hoop earrings.
“Yes!” she said. “We’re getting closer.”
I got up and peered in the mirror over the dresser.
Harry tilted his head, as if trying to make up his mind about something.
“Who does she remind me of?” he asked.
“Jackie Kennedy,” Granddad announced.
Weezie circled around me, clicking her tongue. “You still look sorta like yourself.” She glanced over at Harry. “If you saw her walking toward you, would you say, ‘Hey, that’s BeBe dressed up for Halloween’?”
“Maybe,” Harry said. “Part of it’s her figure.” He grinned.
“I’ve got an idea,” Weezie said, heading for the bathroom. She grabbed the pants and top, turned, and beckoned me with the crook of her finger. “Follow me.”
She closed the bathroom door. “Strip,” she ordered. “Down to panties and bra.”
I knew better than to argue.
She handed me a handful of folded-up toilet tissue. “Stick that in your bra.”
“What? Why?”
“God gave you a B cup, now me and Charmin are giving you a C.”
She went behind me and with a couple of no-nonsense yanks, shortened the straps of my bra by half an inch.
“Ow!” I cried. “Now what?”
“We need these bad girls riding up nice and high,” she decreed. “We need you stylin’ and profilin’.”
“They’re hitting me in the chin,” I whined.
“Perfect,” she said. She slapped my butt.
“Ow. Cut it out.”
“Like a pancake,” she said, tsk-tsking. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What? You didn’t buy any butt implants at that sale?”
She was humming and rifling through the contents of her cosmetics bag. “Sit there,” she said, pointing to the commode.
I sat.
She ripped off the wig and headband and wrapped a towel around my own hair. “Close your eyes.”
A moment later she was smearing a vile-smelling lotion on my face and neck. “I brought this stuff to put on my legs, they’re so fish-belly white this time of year.”
“What?” I asked, getting a little concerned.
“Just a little bronzer,” she said.
I opened my eyes. “Tan in a can?”
“It takes about thirty minutes of exposure before it starts to work,” Weezie said, handing me the tube. “Put that on your arms and legs now. And don’t worry. I use it all summer instead of wearing panty hose.”
She went to work with the makeup then, tweezing and dabbing and curling, humming the whole time. I think the tune was “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”
“Get dressed,” she said. “And be careful putting on those white capris. I don’t want that bronzer rubbing off on ’em.”
“Now the wig and headband,” she said, still humming. “And a little lipstick. Coral Gables coral! Perfect.”
She turned me around by the shoulders to face the mirror.
“Voilà!”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Just one minute.” She ducked into the bedroom and came back with a pair of four-inch-high screaming yellow vinyl platform heels straight out of the seventies.
“Now walk,” she ordered, flinging the bathroom door open with a flourish.
I minced. Carefully. What with the reengineered breasts and the Elton John shoes, I was afraid I’d tip forward any second.
Granddad and Harry were sitting in the kitchenette area, sharing a bag of Cheez Doodles. Granddad was having what I hoped was his first Scotch of the day.
“Well?” I did a self-conscious little twirl in front of Harry. “Is it still me?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not even close.”
“Great,” Weezie said, beaming. “Just give me ten minutes to get myself together and we’ll
be ready to roll.”
“I’ll change too,” Granddad offered. “Can’t let you ladies steal our thunder, can we, Harry?”
“Guess not,” Harry said. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
Ten minutes later, Granddad reemerged from his room. His white hair was slicked straight back from his forehead with some kind of shiny pomade. He wore a pair of yellowing cotton-duck slacks, a hot pink dress shirt, and a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons and wide lapels. Also a silk cravat.
“A cravat?” I said. “Granddad, I’m not sure—”
“Awesome!” Weezie said, coming out of the bathroom and clapping her hands in approval. “Spencer, you look so handsome and distinguished!” She gave me a broad wink. “BeBe, we’re gonna have to watch this one to make sure some rich widow lady doesn’t try to cut in on your grandmother’s territory.”
“Aww,” Granddad said, blushing.
“Hey,” I said, taking in Weezie’s own outfit. “No fair!”
She’d clearly saved the best of the day’s pickings for herself. She wore a short, lime-green flowered rayon halter dress, lime-green sling-back flats, and a floppy pink-and-green polka-dotted straw hat.
“How come you get to be all adorable and I get to look like—”
“Whoa!” Granddad said, bending down to examine my face. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” I said, taking off the sunglasses. “Why?”
“It’s your skin,” he said. “Is it supposed to look like that?”
“Like what?” I looked down at my hands, which had suddenly turned a deep burnt orange.
I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face was the same shade of dark copper. “Weezie!” I screamed. “What have you done to me?”
“It was just a little bronzer,” Weezie said, fluttering nervously around behind me. “I use this stuff all the time. It’s never done that to…me…”
She was holding up the tube of tan in a can, squinting at the label. “Oh. Here’s the problem. Wow. The package is the exact same as the kind I usually buy at home. But this is X-Treme Caribe. I usually get Sun-Kist Mist.”
Granddad leaned into the bathroom. “You know what you look like?”
“A crack ho!” I moaned. “I look like a crack ho who got left out in the sun for a couple years too long.”
“No, that’s not it.” Granddad frowned. “I’ve seen her on that MTV sometimes. When nothing’s happening on the weather channel. You know who I mean?”
“You look fine,” Harry called from the other room. “Now can we get going?”
“I can’t go out looking like this,” I protested.
“You’re just not used to being a brunette,” Weezie said, dragging me out of the bathroom and toward the door. “With the black wig and the eye makeup and all, you look fantastic. Exotic, even. Doesn’t she, fellas?”
“You look hot,” Harry said, giving me an up-and-down leer.
“I know who it is,” Granddad said, snapping his fingers. “You look like that Jennifer Lopez. Only not quite as bootielicious.”
45
The Bahia Mar Hotel and Marina was some kind of wonderful. Manicured green lawns and palm trees…and valet parking.
“Deal with it,” I told Granddad when he started to object.
We’d gone over the plan, such as it was, on the way over.
“I’ll look around the marina, see if there’s any kind of yacht in particular that old Roy Eugene is scoping out,” Harry said. “Spencer, maybe you could hang out in one of the bars and kind of get the lay of the land.”
“Sure,” Granddad said. “I’ll be very discreet.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. You think they’ll have early-bird specials?”
“It’s Florida,” I told him. “They invented the early bird. I guess Weezie and I will hang out in whatever bar Granddad doesn’t go to. And remember,” I warned him. “No more than two Scotches and water. Or I’ll tell Grandmama.”
The Sand Bar overlooked the marina and what looked like a modern-day armada of boats, yachts, sailboats, and everything in between. Weezie and I split up. She took one end of the bar and I staked out the other. It was early Saturday evening and the place was already starting to get busy, with people standing three deep in some spots, waiting to place a drink order.
It took only about thirty seconds before I had company.
He was short and bulky, with a sunburned nose and neck. He wore a dark green polo shirt with “Grande Oaks Golf & Country Club” embroidered over the breast pocket, and had a sun visor perched low over his forehead. He edged his way into the bar and leaned forward, flashing an easy smile.
“Did you already order?”
I looked around to make sure he was talking to me.
“Not yet.”
“I’m Pete,” he said.
“And I’m Jennifer. But they call me Jen.”
“Hey, Davey,” he called. A bartender who was making a big racket with a blender turned and looked over his shoulder.
“Hiya, Pete,” he said. “Whatya drinking?”
Pete gave me a questioning look. Why not? I thought.
“Lemon martini,” I said.
“Two,” Pete said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.
Davey brought our drinks and Pete settled in to tell me his life story. He was in software sales, originally from Columbus, Ohio, but living in Lauderdale for the past four years. “It’s paradise,” he said. “But maybe not in August. How about you?”
“Just visiting for a few days,” I said. “I’m from Atlanta.”
“Thought I recognized that Southern accent,” Pete said.
He asked me the questions men always ask women in bars, and I answered with the same mix of truth and lies women always tell strange men.
“So,” I said brightly. “You’re a golfer. Do you play a lot at the course here?”
“As often as I can,” he said. “I’m a member. Do you play?”
“Not really,” I said. “But I think a friend of a friend of mine plays here. Maybe you know him? Rodolfo Martinez?”
He frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s sort of new in the area, I think,” I said.
I gestured toward the marina with an exaggerated sigh. “I just love to look at all those gorgeous boats out there.”
“Big toys for big boys,” Pete said dismissively. “I’ve got a twenty-two-foot Ski-Nautique, but I keep it at the dock at my place. In Lighthouse Point.”
“Great,” I said. “Do you know a lot about boats?”
“I know my way around on the water,” Pete said. “Hey, would you want to go for a little moonlight cruise? I could bring the boat up here one night, pick you up, take you to dinner. There are lots of waterfront restaurants where we can tie up.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m here with my girlfriend.”
“We’ll bring her along,” Pete offered. “Plenty of room.”
I took a long sip of the martini. Pete had nothing in the way of information to offer me. He was pleasant and harmless, but he needed to move along.
“Here’s the thing,” I said hesitantly. “She really is my girlfriend.”
“Huh?” Harmless and clueless.
I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I like girls.”
He straightened up. His face had lost its ruddy hue. “No kidding?”
“Sorry,” I said.
Next up was Cliff, a cute blond preppie type from Long Island who was in town for his college roommate’s wedding.
“Don’t I know you?” he asked, wedging himself in beside me at the bar.
I tilted my sunglasses down to get a better look. He had deep blue eyes and a yummy little cleft in his chin. The phrase “contributing to the delinquency of a minor” crossed my mind.
“Probably not,” I said, with genuine regret. “I’ve never been to Long Island.”
Against my better judgment, I let him buy me a drink. B
ut when he nibbled on my ear and asked about the possibility of “hooking up” for the night, I had to get tough.
“Run along now, Cliffie,” I sighed. “Find somebody your own age to play with.”
A reggae band had started setting up on the postage-stamp-size dance floor opposite the bar. The crowd had gotten so tight, it was hard to move and harder to carry on a conversation.
I had to boost myself up on the bar rail to catch sight of Weezie. But she was still there, at the other end of the bar, deep in conversation with a guy in a straw cowboy hat.
“Buy you a drink?”
He said his name was Howard, and he was a graying stockbroker from Boynton Beach who made no move to hide his wedding band.
“Play any tennis?” he asked, checking out my X-treme tan.
“Not much,” I said. “I really like boating.”
“I’ve got a thirty-two-foot Hatteras docked right down there,” he said, pointing out the window.
“Wow!” I said, as if I knew or cared what a Hatteras was. “I knew this guy, back in Jacksonville, he had a really neat boat. A Sea Urchin. Have you ever seen one?”
“Your friend must have done very well for himself,” Howard said. “Sea Urchins are the top of the line.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I’ve never seen one since that one time.”
“Take a walk with me,” Howard said, smoothly putting his hand on my thigh. “And you can see another one. It’s docked down on the far end of the same row as mine.”
“Really?” I casually slid his hand away. “A Sea Urchin? What’s it called?”
“Reefer Madness,” Howard said with a frown. “It supposedly belongs to some washed-up rock-and-roll guy. You believe that? A guy names an $8 million yacht something like Reefer Madness?”
“Where’d you say it’s tied up?” I asked, hopping down from the bar stool.
“Right down the dock from mine,” Howard said, resting his hand on the small of my back. “Wait till you see the sweet little cabin on my Hatteras.”
“Oh,” I said, making a frownie face. “I don’t think so. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?” he asked, sliding his hand just slightly south, till it was resting on my not quite bootielicious butt.
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