Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [101]
Meadows calmed down. “So far so good. I swim fast.”
“You damn well better. Now what it is you have to tell me?”
“First,” Meadows said, “tell me the status of the Mono case.”
Nelson laughed, his cigar tilting. “Coño. Mono’s ancient history. Nobody cares who killed that asshole. Didn’t your friend Prim pass along the message?”
“What about Pincus? Pincus cares.”
“Forget Pincus.”
“You guys have been busy, I bet. Lots of killings, rip-offs. The cocaine is dried up,” Meadows said casually. “Hardly a snort left in town.”
Nelson said, “So you’ve done your homework.”
Terry pawed distractingly at a book about orchids. She must have been biting her tongue to avoid asking about the floor covering remark and the unexplained “she.” Meadows vowed to brain her if she interrupted now.
“Are Mono’s two pals still hunting for me?”
“No way. I mean, if they bumped into you on the street and recognized you, they’d kill you on general principles. But they aren’t looking for you.” Nelson snorted. “They’re busy as hell, raking in the overtime. And do you know something else? They’re better than Mono ever was. Gun, knife, garrote, you name it. Slick as sandía.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Not yet.”
“And the big man. What was it you called him? El Jefe?”
Nelson shook his head.
“Jesus, it’s not your year, is it?” Meadows scoffed.
“Chris,” Terry blurted, “that’s not fair.”
It was Nelson who responded. “No se preocupe, señorita. He’s right; there have been better times.” Nelson turned to Meadows. “You finished gloating yet?”
“Tell me about Ignacio,” the architect said.
Nelson whistled. “Now I am impressed. That’s the street name for el Jefe. Where it comes from, I don’t know.”
“Does anybody know who he is?”
“Nobody I’ve busted. Believe me, I’ve tried everything to get the name. I’ve had some very serious discussions about it with some of these little pukes.”
“I almost believe it,” Meadows said grimly.
He almost gave it away then. He wanted to shout the name. He wanted to throw it like a saucer of spoiled milk into the face of the bitter cop who had so frightened and humiliated him.
Meadows fought back the urge. “I do have some things to tell you. That’s why I had Terry call. I think the less you have to do with me officially, the better.”
Nelson’s eyebrows rose quizzically.
“I know who the new torpedoes are, Nelson,” Meadows continued. “And I think I know who your mysterious Ignacio is.”
Nelson jammed his hands in his pockets and said nothing. He would save the sarcasm for after the architect’s little presentation.
“They were there at the funeral parlor, just like you said,” Meadows went on. “I saw them all.”
Suddenly Nelson was taut. “Why didn’t you tell me? Por Dios!”
Meadows smiled. “You don’t wait for me, I don’t wait for you.”
Nelson’s dark face grew even darker, and fists balling, he stepped forward as Meadows faded back. Terry gasped. Simultaneously a voice spoke up: “Is this where I can find River of Grass by Marjorie Stoneman Douglas?”
She was the color of damp tobacco, elf-sized, with frizzy gray hair and a believer’s mouth. Closer to seventy than anything else. Meadows didn’t look, but he would have bet she was wearing sneakers.
“No,” Nelson snapped.
“Do you work here, young man?” She turned to Meadows.
“No.”
“Oh, dear! Well, I must have that book for Tuesday’s ladies discussion group, and this is where Esther said she bought hers.”
“Not here,” said Nelson.
“Try outside,” said Meadows.
“Well, this is the Floridiana section, isn’t it?”
Terry was magnificent.
“You are in the right section, madam, but I am afraid the book is out of stock. We should have it next week. I’ll be glad to save you a copy.”
“Oh, that’s too late,” she said with a perplexed glance at Meadows and Nelson. She left as silently as she had come, and some of the sudden tension whooshed out behind her.
“What is this all about, amigo?”
“Part of it is about that long, boozy talk we had one night on my porch. It seems