Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [119]
Meadows made sure that the rest of the briefcase was as it should be and then wiped it carefully, inside and out, with toilet paper. The laundry bag he dropped into the tank behind the toilet. Meadows tousled his hair and checked his watch. Right on time.
Meadows had his hand on the stall door when he heard someone come into the bathroom. He cursed silently and decided to wait.
After thirty seconds Meadows chafed with impatience. After a minute he writhed. After a minute and a half he could wait no more. The unseen man’s capacity was astonishing. To wait longer would throw off the carefully arranged timing Meadows had worked out with Terry and Arthur.
Meadows opened the door to the stall and came face-to-face with Cauliflower Ear.
The gunman had just turned from the urinal; his hands were still groping at his fly. His zipper was down. Meadows could smell the beer on his breath from three feet away. Was there a dawning glimmer of recognition in the man’s bloodshot eyes? Meadows couldn’t be sure, but the risk was too great.
Meadows dropped the briefcase, snatched the pistol from his pants and jammed it, barrel first, into the gunman’s groin. Cauliflower Ear took an involuntary step back and doubled in pain.
“On the floor, macho,” Meadows hissed. “On the floor now, or you will never use it again.”
The gunman slumped to his knees, dazed. Savagely Meadows twisted the bloated ear. The man yelped in pain and flopped onto his belly.
Meadows reversed the pistol and hit the gunman once so hard across the temple that the jolt raced up Meadows’s arm and ignited a cord in his neck. Cauliflower Ear was silent.
Unconscious or dead. It didn’t matter. Meadows collected his ragged breathing and looked at his watch again.
“Not yet, Arthur, please. Just a few more seconds; that’s all.”
Meadows returned the gun to his pants, checked his appearance in the mirror and picked up the briefcase. After twisting the lock in the bathroom door so it would bolt behind him, Meadows strode purposefully into the dining room.
Arthur hadn’t failed him.
Every eye seemed riveted on the black giant who stood at the table by the window. Feet planted, plume waving, arms extended as though in benediction, Arthur was in fine fettle.
“Innkeeper!” he demanded in a rich baritone that filled the room and ricocheted off the walls. “More wine for the virgins and an aphrodisiac for my lover.”
At the rear of the restaurant Meadows turned left again and strode unobserved nine paces to the corner table. He skirted the protective screen of palms and sat down, briefcase at his feet.
“Ignacio, man, sorry I’m late. If there’s no food left, I’ll just help myself to a drink,” Meadows said.
José Bermúdez had a forkful of veal halfway to his mouth. It stopped there for a long heartbeat.
“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” Bermúdez said finally.
Meadows reached across to a silver salver on the table and tore off a chunk of French bread.
“Mistaken? Really?” he said, spewing crumbs. “Who’s the spic?”
“This man, who is he?” the old Colombian demanded in Spanish.
“I don’t know.”
Meadows laughed caustically. “You don’t know? Really, José. I mean, Ignacio forgive me, a slip of the tongue.” Meadows drained Bermúdez’s wine with a loud glug. Color ebbed from the banker’s face.
“Leave instantly or I will call the police,” Bermúdez demanded. His voice was shrill.
“The police. Now that’s funny. What is this, fellas, the amateur hour?” Meadows propped the sunglasses on the top of his head. “I’ve got your merchandise; I want my money. Simple, no?”
“I am leaving right now,” the Colombian said, wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin.
Bermúdez was trapped between two fires. “Wait, my friend, please wait. This is a mistake,” he begged the Colombian.
“My mistake was coming here,” the old man said, and started to lever himself up from the table. “You are as foolish as the greedy cowboys who work for you.”
Bermúdez glared at Meadows.