“Genital herpes,” I whispered. “I’m having a little flare-up.”
46
At eight o’clock, the four of us reconnoitered in the hotel’s front entryway.
“I found the yacht!” Weezie announced, fairly dancing with excitement.
“So did I,” I said. “It’s called Reefer Madness.”
“It’s an eighty-six-footer,” Harry said, handing the valet-parking attendant the claim check for the Buick.
“Fella that owns her used to be in some sort of rock-and-roll band,” Granddad said, straightening his cravat. He patted the blazer’s breast pocket. “I got the band name wrote down right here. Outlandish name.” He produced a bar napkin and squinted at what he’d scribbled on it. “Oh yeah. Here it is. Meatball?”
“Meatball?” Weezie said. “Spencer, are you sure?”
“That’s what the man said. What the hell kind of name is Meatball?”
“I never heard of a famous band called Meatball,” I said.
“‘Bat Out of Hell,’” Granddad said, reading the napkin. “That was their big hit. But I been watching MTV and I never heard of a song called ‘Bat Out of Hell.’”
“You must mean Meat Loaf!” Weezie said. “That was the name of their first huge hit album. ‘Bat Out of Hell.’”
“‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light,’” Harry added. “It was a landmark piece of songwriting, not that I was ever a big Meat Loaf fan. Give me Jimmy Buffett any day.”
I pondered that. “So you’d rather have a Cheeseburger in Paradise than Meat Loaf? What does that say about your age?”
“It says nothing about my age,” Harry retorted. “It’s all about taste in music.”
“What the hell?” Granddad exclaimed. “Meat loaf, cheeseburger? You kids don’t know anything about music. Now my generation, we had some great tunes. Songs like ‘Begin the Beguine.’ Or ‘Flat-Foot Floozie with the Floy-Floy.’”
The valet-parking kid pulled up with the Electra, Harry tipped him, and we piled inside, everybody chattering all at once.
“I saw the yacht,” Harry said. “And, man, that is one sweetheart of a floating palace. I bet that thing would sell for four million, easy. I wouldn’t mind stealing it myself.”
“Anybody see any sign of Reddy?” I asked, turning around.
“Hard to say,” Harry said. “I made a couple circuits around the marina before I spoke to the dockmaster, who pointed me in the direction of the Reefer Madness, although he wouldn’t tell me exactly who owns it. He hasn’t had anybody else asking about Sea Urchins, and he hasn’t seen anybody who fits our description of Roy Eugene, but it’s a pretty busy operation. The dockmaster did tell me that the Reefer’s owner lives in Nashville, and there’s a live-aboard crew of two or three.”
“Reddy’s definitely hanging around here,” I said. “I just know it. I can sense it.”
“What else did you sense, Jennifer?” Harry asked.
I stuck my tongue out at him. “I sensed I was being hit on the whole time I was in that bar. I got invited to dinner and a moonlight cruise, and two guys just cut to the chase right away and outright propositioned me for sex. I told you this getup makes me look like a hooker. What about you, Weezie?”
“Not all the guys who talked to you were losers,” Weezie said, giggling. “I saw that cute young blond guy whispering sweet nothings in your ear.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry said, glancing over at me with a raised eyebrow.
“He was an infant,” I said. “Barely out of diapers.”
“I’d be willing to baby-sit him,” Weezie said.
“Could we get back to business? Anyway, I saw you getting up close and personal with at least one hot guy at your end of the bar,” I pointed out.
“That was research,” Weezie said. “And it just so happens that the guy you saw me talking to told me that he used to date a girl who works as a chef on Reefer Madness. Her name is Emma Murphey. They broke up because the boat he crews on just got back from a three-month cruise to St. Croix. He wanted her to sign on to his boat, but she didn’t want to give up her job on the Reefer Madness. Apparently it’s a really cushy job because the owner only comes down maybe once or twice a year. So the crew just lives aboard and goofs off most of the time. My guy, his name is Jason, told me Emma usually hangs out at that bar you went to, BeBe.”
“The Binnacle?”
“Yeah,” Weezie said. “That’s the place. Another guy who crews on the boat is named Liam. I didn’t get a last name.”
“That’s terrific.” I said. “Great work.”
“I know,” she said, fluffing her hair. “But hey, BeBe, what is up with these guys down here? I mean, I had more adolescent-acting middle-aged married men making passes at me. I don’t know how single women stand hanging out in bars like that.”
“Now you know why I got married three times,” I said. “Anything’s better than this.”
“Even Richard?” Weezie said.
“Nothing is worse than Richard,” I said.
“Forget Richard,” Harry said.
“Believe me, I’m trying to,” I told him. “Weezie, did your new friend tell you what this Emma looks like?”
“Short, dark hair, big green eyes, long legs, big boobs,” Weezie said.
“Sounds like somebody I need to meet,” Harry said. He looked in the rear view mirror at Granddad.
“Hey, Spencer, I think it’s our turn to go hang out in a bar and pick up chicks, don’t you?”
I gave him another punch. This one wasn’t nearly as playful.
“What’s that?” Granddad asked, sitting up with a start.
“Harry thinks the two of you should go cruising for ladies,” Weezie explained. “In that bar BeBe was at yesterday.”
“Cruising?” Granddad said, blinking.
“Strictly for research purposes,” Harry added.
Granddad checked his watch. “Maybe another night. It’s been a pretty busy day for me. I need to check on a developing cold front over the Great Lakes. Maybe you could just drop me off at the motel?”
“Me too,” Weezie added quickly. “I want to sort through all the stuff I bought at that estate sale today. Some of it I’ll keep, but the rest of it I’ll sell on eBay. I brought my little digital camera, so I might even go ahead and photograph some of it.”
“You’re doing it again,” I said, a warning note in my voice.
“Doing what?”
“You know what,” I said. “The same thing you did last night.”
“Forcing us to spend quality time together,” Harry said. “Alone.”
“It worked out, didn’t it?” Weezie said. “I didn’t hear any complaints.”
“Not from me,” Harry said.
“Attaboy,” Granddad said.
I turned around to face the backseat co-conspirators. “Okay, you two. No more spying. This happens to be my private life. While I appreciate your interest, I don’t need cheerleaders. And,” I said, directing my sternest look at my grandfather, “Harry doesn’t need any coaching. Or any, uh, family-planning supplies. If you get my drift.”
“Better to be safe than sorry,” Granddad said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “can I ask where you got that thing?”
“Bought it from a vending machine in the men’s room at Henry’s Diner,” he said promptly. “I always kept it in my billfold. Just in case.”
“Henry’s Diner?” Harry said. “That place closed down when I was just a kid. What, twenty, twenty-five years ago?”
“Has it been that long?” Granddad asked.
“Good Lord,” I said, shaking my head. “Antique condoms. Just what I need.”
“Hey, Harry,” Weezie piped up. “If you’re not going to use it, give it to me. I’ll sell it on eBay.”
47
BOOM thumpa-thumpa-thump. BOOM thumpa-thumpa-thump. The heavy bass beat rattled the front door of the Binnacle.
“Place is jumping,” Harry s
aid, standing aside to let me enter.
“Holy crap,” I said, squeezing inside the entryway and pulling him in behind me.
The Binnacle was an entirely different scene tonight. What had been a high-ceilinged, light-flooded restaurant on Friday afternoon was now a pitch-black, cavelike nightclub pulsating with loud music and an even louder audience.
We could see a spotlit deejay on a raised platform in front of the wall of windows, and directly in front of him, a sea of bobbing heads, which must have been the dance floor. But other than that, the room was so mobbed, little else was distinguishable.
As we inched forward we came to the maître d’s stand, which was now manned by a muscle-bound Cuban guy in a tight-fitting red silk T-shirt.
“Ten-dollar cover charge,” he announced in a bored voice.
“Ten dollars? To listen to canned music from a deejay?” It was my voice but my grandfather’s influence.
He held up a roll of red cardboard movie tickets. “You get a free drink ticket with the cover. You staying or going?”
“Staying,” Harry said, handing over a twenty-dollar bill.
The doorman ripped two tickets from his roll and gave them to Harry, who guided me forward with a firm hand placed in the small of my back.
“How are we gonna do this?” I asked, shouting in Harry’s ear in order to make myself heard. “There must be three hundred people in here. It’s a zoo.”
His eyes were already searching the room, no doubt for the missing Emma.
“We split up,” he said. “I’ll take the right side, you take the left. Meet me back at the door in, what, an hour?”
I looked at the cheap plastic watch I’d bought at a drugstore earlier in the day.
“Ten-thirty,” I agreed. “And don’t let me catch you flirting with any chicks unless they have big boobs and green eyes.”
“It’s a deal,” he said, laughing and melting into the crowd.
It took me fifteen minutes to snake my way over toward the bar, during which time I had my already aching toes stomped on half a dozen times, and my butt groped at least twice. By the time I reached the bar, I was ready to concede that my mission was impossible. Every woman in the room seemed to have short dark hair and big boobs.
Ten minutes after I’d claimed a hard-fought spot at the bar, a bartender finally materialized in front of me. He was pencil thin, with shoulder-length pale blond hair, an even paler mustache, and a ruffled pink tuxedo shirt.
I handed over my red ticket with a sigh of relief. “Maker’s Mark and water.”
“Sorry. You only get well drinks with this,” he said. “Jim Beam?”
“Okay,” I said wearily.
He brought the drink and set it down in front of me.
“Is it always this crazy here at night?” I asked.
“Saturday nights are pretty wild,” he agreed. “We get a ton of tourists, plus the regulars. Is this your first time?”
“My first Saturday night,” I told him. “I’m looking for a girl who supposedly hangs out here a lot. She’s the chef on a yacht? Her name’s Emma?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve only been working here a couple of weeks. I don’t really know any of the regulars’ names yet.”
I sighed again. “Short dark hair. Green eyes. Big boobs, long legs?”
“Don’t know her, but I’d like to.”
“Yeah, you and every other guy in town.” With deep reluctance, I put a five-dollar bill on the bar. “How about any of the other bartenders?”
The bill disappeared in a flash. “What was the name again?”
“Emma Murphey. She crews on the Reefer Madness, tied up over at Bahia Mar.”
Five minutes later, my drink was gone, and so, apparently, was my new friend. I knew I needed to keep looking, but the Elton John shoes had my feet screaming, and by now my shortened bra straps had dug deep tunnels into my protesting flesh.
With my back to the bar, I gazed out at the crowd. Every head in the room was bobbing to the same tune, “Brick House,” by The Commodores.
Shake it down, shake it down, shake it down, now, the music urged. Good godamighty, my head was bobbing too.
“You’re looking for Emma?”
I whirled around. Blond-boy bartender was back, accompanied by a really tall also blond person of questionable gender, also wearing a ruffled pink tux shirt.
“This is Joy,” my new friend said.
“Really?” I said.
“Save the jokes,” Joy said. “I’ve heard ’em all.” Her voice was surprisingly high, given her boyish good looks. “What do you want with Emma?”
Think fast, I told myself. Think really fast. I decided to go with the partial truth.
“I own a restaurant, and I heard she’s a pretty decent chef,” I said.
“Who told you that?” Joy asked.
“Somebody in the Grille, over at Bahia Mar,” I said. “I didn’t get their name, but they said if I was looking for kitchen help, I should maybe talk to Emma Murphey.”
“Emma hasn’t come in tonight,” Joy said. “But I heard she might be in the market for a new job. That asshole she works for has been jerking her around pretty bad.”
“You mean Meat Loaf?” I asked.
Joy frowned. “Who’s Meat Loaf? Emma said the guy’s name is Doobie.”
Ah, the young, I thought. So innocent. So clueless. Joy, I sadly thought, probably didn’t even know all the lyrics to “Brick House,” let alone “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).”
“Do you know how I can get in touch with Emma?” I asked.
“I’m not her agent or anything,” Joy said, looking annoyed. “She might be at Dirty Dan’s, over on A1A. It’s in a strip shopping center with a Publix and a Blockbuster.”
“Thanks.” I shook Joy’s hand. She held it out, palm up. Expectant.
“Right,” I said, extracting another precious five-dollar bill from the pocket of the capris, and shaking her hand again. The bill disappeared. Another hospitality professional.
“Only five? Are you kidding?” Joy said, insulted.
“Five,” I said firmly. “It’s not like you’re her agent or anything.”
In the car on the way to Dirty Dan’s, I filled Harry in on what I’d learned, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.
“Emma’s boss’s name is Doobie,” I said. “And she’s been telling people he’s been jerking her around lately.”
“I found a girl who knows this guy Liam,” Harry said. “She thinks Liam moonlights at a Radio Shack somewhere here in town.”
“Did she know which one?” I asked. “In a town this big, there could be half a dozen or more Radio Shacks.”
“Nope,” Harry said. “Just that he’s a big gadget freak. He doesn’t hang out at the bars. She says she met him at the Starbucks closest to Bahia Mar.”
“A Starbucks addict,” I said. “That’s excellent. Once you get hooked on that stuff, nothing else will do. We can check that out in the morning. And hope he hasn’t decided to buy a bag of the stuff and brew it himself back on the boat.”
Five-bucks’ worth of information from Joy hadn’t included exact directions to Dirty Dan’s. We drove up and down A1A for nearly an hour, until we found a shopping center with both a Publix supermarket and a Blockbuster and Dirty Dan’s.
The bar was just a narrow little neighborhood place that smelled like stale beer and burnt popcorn. You had to pass a double row of video games at the front of the room to get to the bar. We spotted Emma right off. A young girl with short dark hair, she wore a minuscule pair of gym shorts rolled down to her pelvic bones, and a skintight white spaghetti-strap top that did indeed reveal all of Emma’s publicized blessings. She was scowling down at a Golden Tee golf game.
“Shit!” she said, pounding the top of the game.
“Emma?”
“Oops. Sorry,” she said. “Were you waiting to play?”
“No. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you,” I said.
“Yeah, sure. Are you the lady who’s looking for a chef for a restaurant?”
“How’d you know?”
She laughed. “Joy called me on my cell phone. What kind of restaurant are we talking about here? ’Cause if you’re thinking about bar food, I won’t waste your time.”
“No—” I started to say.
“Look,” Emma said, resting her elbows on the top of the game. “I may not have a diploma from Johnson and Wales or anyplace like that, but I can freakin’ cook. You want French? Pacific Rim? Afro-Caribbean? I can do it. But I am not taking a job as another line cook or a prep girl, or any other crap like that.”
She took a deep breath. “Well?”
“Let’s talk,” I said. I gestured to Harry. “This is my friend Harry. Can we chat?”
“Absolutely,” Emma said. We followed her to the far end of the bar. Harry sat on one side of her and I sat at the other.
“Hey, Alton,” she called to the bartender, a wizened man with a graying military-style crew cut. “Let me have a Speckled Brown Hen.”
“Is that another kind of martini?” I asked.
Emma laughed. “It’s a microbrew. I’m not really into hard liquor.”
“I’ll have the same,” Harry called.
“Me too,” I said.
Alton brought the beers and a bowl of bar nuts, gave us a nod, and faded away.
“So,” Emma said. “What’s the deal?”
“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your current cooking job?” I asked.
She ran her fingers through her hair, leaving it standing up straight. On her it was cute.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love Doobie, I really do. When he’s straight, man, he is just the best. Wicked funny and sweet. And he loves good food. Or, he used to, anyway. He was willing to try anything. We’d get into port on some little island you never heard of, and I’d go ashore and buy fresh fish, fruit, whatever was local. And he was game to try all of it. ‘Surprise me,’ he’d say, and just hand me a wad of money to go shopping. It was a dream job, you know?”
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