Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [107]
“He’s almost done,” said the first man in the back of the room. “Let’s take off.” He wished they had not come.
The second man did not move; each of Bermúdez’s platitudes seemed worth a thought. The irony was splendid.
“And nobody knows better than those of us who came here to escape tyranny, to embrace freedom, to make our own way,” Bermúdez concluded, “what opportunity is all about, what compassion is all about…”
“Let’s go,” the first man said impatiently. “Come on, Chris, before he recognizes me.”
“Arthur,” said the second man morosely, “he wouldn’t know me any more than he knew Sandy. I could walk up to him now—”
“Don’t even think of it.”
“I could walk up to him right now and blow his head off, and even when I pulled the trigger, he wouldn’t know what on earth was happening,” Meadows said. “He wouldn’t have a clue. That’s the beauty of this whole thing.”
Outside, Arthur Prim shuffled toward the car, distracted. Meadows pointed to a brown Seville parked in front of the hotel.
“Look at that. That’s his car, Arthur, and look where it’s parked. Blocking a whole cab lane!”
“Take it easy, man.”
The heat rose in discernible waves off the sidewalks of Miami Beach. They crossed the street with a gaggle of old women, some toting open umbrellas to escape the sun. When they got to the rented Thunderbird, Meadows rolled down the electric windows to vent off the hot air. The two men stood by the car, waiting until it was bearable inside.
“I finally appreciate your problem,” Arthur said to Meadows. “That guy in there—no cop would ever believe it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Even after what you just saw in the ballroom?”
“Because of what I just saw,” Arthur said, clapping his huge hands together. “That’s the good thing about growing up in Liberty City. I knew junkies that could make you believe they were preachers. To this day I think some of them were.”
“This man is a murderer.”
Arthur stopped laughing and ducked into the passenger side. “I know, man,” he said.
Meadows drove them west toward the city. There was an FM station that played classical music, but his one-handed effort to find it on the car radio was futile.
Arthur idly opened the glove compartment and saw Terry’s gun. “Why you keeping this here?”
“I thought it would look worse if it was under the seat,” he stammered, “if I got stopped by a cop or something.”
Arthur slouched back against the headrest and raised his eyes upward. “Lord help us.”
“Jesus, what good would it do me in the trunk?”
“Are you still practicing?”
“Yes.” After three afternoons of firing the pistol Meadows’s arm ached below the elbow. He was developing a callus on the fleshy part of the palm of his hand. Progress, however, was evident: His aim was now more than adequate—if perforated beer cans were any testament. The .38 caliber Smith & Wesson was not yet a friend, but it was no longer a stranger.
“None of the goons were at the speech today.”
“No,” Meadows said. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected them. Bermúdez isn’t that stupid.”
“That’s OK,” Arthur said. “From your descriptions, I think I’ll know the motherfuckers as soon as I lay eyes on them.”
Meadows glanced over at Arthur and smiled for the first time in a while. “They’re hard to miss,” he said, “but then so are you.”
After crossing the Venetian Causeway to the mainland, Meadows headed south on the interstate toward Coconut Grove. “I meant to thank you for looking after the house.”
Arthur shrugged. “I cleaned up what I could, drained the pool…shit, it was a mess. Never seen anything like that.”
Meadows’s jaw tightened. Arthur gazed out the windows as they whipped by Miami’s abbreviated skyline. A few stubborn out-of-season buzzards circled the spire of the old downtown courthouse, lighting occasionally on a ledge over the jail.
“Chris, there are other ways to do it.” Arthur gave his friend a hard look. This would be the last time to mention it.
“I want to do it this way,” Meadows said.
“People die every day, man. Car accidents, suicides. People get drunk and