Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [111]
The taxi lines were long; Pincus guessed that Roberto was hunting for the shortest one. The detective quick-stepped through the crowds, watching for a porcine profile with a brown suit bag over the shoulder.
After five minutes he decided it was hopeless and gave up. Roberto Nelson most likely was going home anyway. Pincus knew where to find him.
But what if somebody were meeting him? That, Pincus brooded, would be most significant. Especially if the somebody was his brother, Octavio. If that was the case, Roberto probably was already long gone.
Pincus headed toward his car, parked in the short-term lot across from the customs waiting area. He had deftly negotiated two treacherous lines of outbound airport traffic when he heard the screams of a young woman.
Pincus broke into a sprint. The cries bounced off the concrete. Probably a goddamn purse job, the detective thought. He fumbled in his jacket for his City of Miami badge and ID. He hoped it would be sufficient to prevent the airport security people from shooting at him while he ran.
A crescendo of automobile horns told Pincus the trouble was no more than fifty yards away. A logjam of baggage-toting travelers clogged one of the taxi stands, forming a disorderly circle. Pincus decided to leave his pistol in the shoulder holster; you never knew when some itchy-fingered nut would try to use it on you.
Panting, he threaded his way through the crowd. “Police officer, excuse me…police officer, please let me through…police officer…”
“Get an ambulance!” A woman shouted. “Somebody’s been hit by a cab.”
Pincus broke through. He flashed his badge at an airport security man, who eagerly deferred, pointing at a figure prone on the pavement near a black and orange taxi.
Pincus wordlessly knelt next to Roberto Nelson and felt the chubby neck for a pulse. He found one, but it was weak. Pincus rolled him over on his back.
Roberto saw the end of the world through half-open eyes; the lids fluttered erratically, almost comically. His mouth frothed, and his neatly clipped mustache was flecked with drool. His cheeks were hot.
“Mister, I did not do.” It was the cabdriver, a lanky Haitian with tears in his eyes. “I promise, I did not do. The man, he fell down in front of my taxi car.”
Pincus raised a hand and nodded. “Can we get a doctor here? Somebody!” No one in the crowd volunteered, and the airport security guard ran off for help.
Pincus leaned over and spoke crisply into Roberto Nelson’s right ear. “Roberto, can you hear me? I’m a policeman. Can you hear me?”
Roberto’s jaw moved up and down. Only a gurgle came out. His body became stiff, and he began to writhe sideways on the pavement, his flesh grating over the dirt and small rocks. Pincus stretched himself across and lowered the full measure of his weight, but Roberto continued to thrash beneath him.
“It’s epilepsy,” somebody in the crowd said.
Pincus pinioned Roberto’s arms to his side and held on with all his strength. Then the man became still. The raspy breathing stopped, and Roberto’s eyes rolled back in his head like stained eggs.
A woman in the crowd whispered, “My God.”
Wilbur Pincus had seen enough to know it was futile, but he pounded and pounded on Roberto Nelson’s chest until the ambulance came and the paramedics told him what a good try it had been.
Chapter 28
HIS NAME was Victor, and he was a man of opulent appetites and impeccable taste. Some said he was Basque. Others thought he was Greek. How he had come to Miami, no one could say, but it clearly was not his first port of call. Among his languages, Victor counted English, Greek, French, Cantonese and a Spanish of indeterminate origin. Argentine, perhaps.
Victor was a hideous figure, over three hundred pounds and bald as a balloon. He loved truffles, scallops and young boys, usually in that order, but that was largely a matter between Victor and the dark Cuban youths who came and went in his kitchen.