Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [120]
“¡Violeta.!” the old man shouted.
Both were well-rehearsed signals, but neither worked, for they drowned in a hellacious commotion from the front of the dining room.
The striking salt-and-pepper couple at the table by the window had exploded.
“Honky hussy!” the black man snarled.
“¡Ayuda! ¡Socorro!” the Latina screamed.
“Two-timing bitch!”
“¡Polica!”
He was choking her. Everyone could see that. A waiter saw it and dropped a skillet of crêpes flambé. A fat woman diner saw it and screamed. A middle-aged Cuban businessman saw it and started over to help. The three killers saw it, and they erupted as one, toppling their table in their haste to help. They never heard their masters’ summonses.
In the darkness outside, Octavio Nelson intently watched the front of the restaurant from the shelter of a large cabbage palm. One of his detectives materialized suddenly.
“Captain, there’s an urgent radio call for you.”
Nelson’s gaze never left the restaurant.
“Not now, I’m busy.”
“It’s something about your brother, Captain. And Detective Pincus. They said it was very important.”
Nelson stifled a groan. Wilbur Pincus and Bobby Nelson were the last two people on earth he wanted to hear from just then.
“Mike,” Nelson muttered angrily, “you will go back to the car. You will tell the dispatcher you cannot find me. And then you will turn off the fucking radio. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Captain.”
In La Cumparsita, Terry wriggled in apparent helplessness as the giant’s weight bore down on her. Then Arthur abandoned the theatric chorus of grunts that had accompanied his assault.
“They will be here in a second,” he whispered. “Do it now, Terry; there’s no more time.”
He released his grasp, and Terry fell back against the front window. Carefully she pressed her open palm against the glass, clenched her fist and again showed the palm.
Octavio Nelson saw it, and his English deserted him.
“Vamos,” he screamed. “Vamos.”
With a gentle shove Arthur directed Terry toward the front door.
He caught the first of her would-be saviors with a stiff arm under the chin. The second went down under a pink-toed kick. Arthur was grinning like a maniac as he himself started backing toward the door. Child’s play. Not a linebacker among them.
Victor was apoplectic. Help. He had to get help. They were ruining him. Dazed, his eyes swollen with tears, Victor directed his great bulk toward the telephone by the door. He collided instead with the fish tank and carried it down to the soft beige carpet under him. For Meadows, the pratfall was a bonus.
He affected not to hear the madness that consumed La Cumparsita. He spoke with a tough edge.
“Look, Ignacio. I don’t know what’s going on here, but you wanted a delivery, and here it is. Now I expect you to transfer my fee into the appropriate account on Monday morning, first thing, as usual. Then we’ll talk about a next time, if there is one. I’m beginning not to like this restaurant.”
Meadows slung the briefcase on the table and rose to leave.
It was the best-quality leather case money could buy, identical to the one Bermúdez carried so smartly to work each morning—even the tasteful JLB monogrammed under the handle was the same. Arthur had found it at an imported leather shop in the Southland Mall.
The banker and the old Colombian stared dumbly at the briefcase. Meadows pushed it closer, knocking over a carafe of wine, closer still, until it stopped solidly against the chest of José Bermúdz, who grabbed it furiously with both hands just as Octavio Nelson walked up to the table.
“Buenos noches, señores,” Nelson said softly.
Chapter 30
TERRY DROVE. Arthur sat next to her, chortling. In the back seat, Meadows exchanged the loud T-shirt for a blue cotton pullover.
“Don’t forget to stop at the phone booth,” Meadows said.
“Don’t you think you’ve caused enough damage already?” Terry asked with a grin. She would prize the image of the fat man going ass over teakettle with his fish tank for as long as she lived.
“It’s a good cake, but it needs a little