Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [108]
Meadows shook his head. “No.”
Arthur slapped Meadows on the knee. “OK. Your way.”
Meadows guided the car down an exit ramp and decided to take the scenic route, shady Bayshore Drive. He thought fleetingly of driving by the house, just for a look, but discarded the idea. There was no time.
Soon the joggers and trendy cyclists outnumbered the automobiles. Purposely he slowed his speed and lowered the window. The breeze off the bay was a marvelous tonic; a bright fleet of bare-masted Sunfish rocked at anchor off Dinner Key.
“Why don’t you let me off here?” Arthur said.
“I can give you a lift up to Grand Avenue.”
“Naw, I’d just as soon walk. Do a little socializing.”
Arthur squeezed out of the car at the next intersection. He lumbered around to the driver’s side, heedless of traffic, and leaned over at Meadows’s window. For a moment Meadows thought the big man was going to say one thing, but he said another.
“Well, it’s going to be interesting.”
“Yes.”
A sports car behind the Thunderbird honked. Arthur bent over and slapped his ass in defiance. “Every fucking body is in a hurry,” he said. “Me too. I gotta go shopping. Chris, be seeing you.”
“Tomorrow night,” Meadows said, touching the accelerator.
DONNA BERMÚDEZ HAD lots of shopping to do after the luncheon. The pool demanded new patio furniture, something that would not crack in the summer sun.
“Fine,” José Bermúdez said. “You drop me off at the bank and go over to Mayfair for a few hours.”
“Can’t you take the afternoon off?” She flipped down the sun visor on the passenger side of the Seville and primped in the small mirror.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve got calls to make.” He turned the temperature control as low as it would go. The collar of his shirt was wet enough to wring by hand.
“It was a grand speech,” Donna said proudly. “The mayor thinks you’re really something.”
“Our mayor is an idiota.”
“José!”
Bermúdez reached across the car and let his hand wander up his wife’s dress.
“How much can I spend today?”
“Not too much,” he said, “but buy something nice.”
She smiled and said nothing when his hand reached her panties.
“Don’t forget the cocktail party tomorrow night. At Rubén’s.”
“I won’t be able to make it,” Bermúdez said, withdrawing. A county bus was stalled on the causeway in front of them; he could only guess how much the good people in the back row had seen.
“Why not? I was looking forward to it.”
Bermúdez took a deep breath and feigned disappointment. “A customer is arriving from South America, and I must meet with him. He has a huge account with the bank, millions.”
“How about afterward?”
“Donna, I’m afraid it will be another late evening. I’m sorry.”
“So you’ll miss dinner again,” she said disapprovingly.
“Yes. The old fool insists on a restaurant in Little Havana. The food is wretched—they make the fish taste like tacos—but there is a waitress of his liking.”
“Jesus,” Donna Bermúdez hissed. “For that you miss a big party.”
“Darling, have a little sympathy,” José Bermúdez said through his teeth. “For me, the entire evening will be a terrible bore.”
Chapter 27
AVIANCA FLIGHT 6 from Bogotá and Medellín, scheduled to touch down at Miami International at four-thirty in the afternoon, was delayed an hour by bad weather. This was a matter of small consequence to Roberto Nelson; no one was meeting him at the airport. An hour one way or another was unimportant.
The airliner was dodging a small thunder cell over western Jamaica when Roberto finally persuaded the striking dark stewardess to scribble her name and phone number on a cocktail napkin.
“You are based out of Bogotá, no?”
“That’s right.”
“I travel there often,” Roberto said.
“Oh? You are a businessman then?”
Roberto’s teeth gleamed. “That’s correct.” He congratulated himself for splurging; it always paid to fly first class. The flight attendants in the coach section always seemed brusque, too busy to socialize.
“Will you be in Miami tonight?” he asked, wondering silently if Suzanne was home yet.
“No. It’s a turnaround, I’m afraid. We go back to Colombia in two hours,