Motor Mouth - Janet Evanovich [80]
Hooker stayed back in the shadows, but I edged closer to the pier. One of the three men who’d flown in earlier stood off to the side on the cement walkway, watching the activity. I moved next to him and gestured to the boat.
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “Something came through the window and started a fire. It didn’t burn much. Everything on the boat is fire resistant.”
I was thrown for a moment. I’d expected a foreign accent. Russian maybe. His accent was New Jersey. “Wow,” I said. “Was it a firebomb?”
“I don’t know. They’re investigating. I was below in a stateroom when it happened. I didn’t actually see anything.”
I was scanning the crowd as I was talking, looking for Ray Huevo. “I can’t help noticing, you’re not wearing Miami clothes. Did you just arrive in Florida?”
He looked down at his wool suit slacks. “I flew in earlier. It’s been a long day.”
“Let me guess. Jersey?”
“Not for a lot of years.”
“But originally, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you never really get rid of the Jersey in you.”
I stuck my hand out. “Alex.”
“Simon.”
“Where are you living now?”
“The world.”
“That narrows it down,” I said.
“My employer travels, and I travel with him.”
“Is your employer originally from New Jersey, too?”
“Yeah. Originally.”
He was looking down at me, and there was a quality to his eyes and the set of his mouth that I’d seen before. It was the same look Hooker got…a lot. “And now?” I asked.
“The world.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot.”
I could see him weighing his desire to stay anonymous against his desire to get a playmate for Mr. Frisky. He shifted slightly, leaned a little closer to me, and I knew Mr. Frisky was at the wheel.
“For the last couple years, we’ve been based in Zurich,” he said.
“That would explain the suit.”
“We ran into some problems when we arrived, and I haven’t had a chance to change. What about you? Do you live here?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I live in the world.”
“Trying to make fun of me?” he asked.
“Trying to flirt with you,” I said. Might as well use the few weapons I had in my arsenal, right? I just hoped Hooker was armed and keeping close watch.
That got a smile from him. “Nice,” he said.
And just for the record, I was fully aware that he would have smiled and said nice if I had scabs over two-thirds of my body and had an ass like Francis the Talking Horse.
“So, what is it that you do in Zurich?” I asked him.
“I’m an expediter.”
In my neighborhood in Baltimore, an expediter is someone who makes sure things move along smoothly. For instance, if the owner of a bar isn’t making his protection-money payments on time, an expediter might go talk to him and break his kneecaps as a performance incentive.
“An expediter,” I said. “What kinds of things do you expedite?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Making conversation. I read somewhere that men like it when you seem interested in their work.”
More smiling. “The guy I work for is in the import-and-export business. I facilitate movement.”
“What does he export? Carburetors?”
“Maybe we should take this conversation somewhere else,” he said. “Like over to the bar.”
The night’s game plan. Get the dumb chick liquored up. “Sure,” I said.
We walked a short distance and went up the stairs that led to the outdoor bar attached to Monty’s. We wrangled a couple stools and ordered drinks. I looked over Simon’s shoulder and saw Hooker watching from an alley, making signs like he was going to hang himself.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I followed Hooker down the alley and around the corner.
“What was that all about?” I asked him.
“Did you order a drink?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh man, you’re gonna get drunk, and then I’ll have to rescue you from King Kong there. He’s got about thirty pounds on me. It’s going to be ugly.”
“I’m not going to get drunk.”
“Darlin’, you’re just about the worst drinker I’ve ever seen. You get drunk on fumes when you open a