Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [29]
“Not an accident? No chance it was an accident?” Meadows asked finally.
“No accident. A professional job. Somebody wants you dead.”
Meadows stood quickly, violently, whiskey and a lone ice cube sloshing from the glass. His words came with a rush.
“And so I’m lucky. That’s what you call it when somebody is nearly murdered for the second time in a few weeks by a killer he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know. That’s lucky.”
Nelson walked into the house and poured himself four ounces of Mount Gay rum. He had been right to send Pincus home, to have come alone. Drinking on the job! Imagine! Wilbur would go right to the chief with that. Nelson lit a cigar and leaned against the redwood beam supporting the porch roof.
“I’m afraid you’re a loose end. Those scumbags don’t like loose ends.”
“But, Jesus Christ,” Meadows said, “I haven’t done anything to them.”
“That’s not required. You must know something you shouldn’t. You are an impediment.” He drew the word out slowly, a syllable at a time. “A loose end. Simple as that. What is it you know?”
Meadows shook his head, as though to clear it from a blow. The nonchalance of it all was appalling. Somebody had tried to kill him, and here on the porch was some Don Juan Caballero cop drinking his rum and matter-of-factly ascribing rational behavior to irrational action.
“Look, who are these people?” Meadows demanded. “You must have some idea. And if you do, why don’t you go out and arrest them, for Christ’s sakes! How many chances do they get? All that stands between me and a pine box is one small lizard who was not, to use your term, lucky.”
The outburst, curiously, made Meadows feel better. When he continued, his voice was more normal.
“How did they find out who I am and where I live?”
“I have been wondering about that myself,” Nelson said. “Your name wasn’t in the papers after the shooting. But it was on the police report, and it was certainly in the hospital records. I’d say the police report; anybody can look at them. Tell me again what happened last night. Slowly. You weren’t making much sense on the phone.”
Haltingly, with false starts, pauses and an almost lack of inflection, Meadows recounted the incident at the dog track. But Meadows thought as he spoke, and by the time he finished the obvious was there before him.
“So I recognized him, but he also recognized me. Right?”
“That’s how it went down,” Nelson agreed. “And then they went and found out who you were.”
Meadows was incredulous.
“Recognizing the killer de facto made me such a threat to him that he decides he has to drop by and electrocute me in my swimming pool.”
“De fucking facto.”
“How could he know it would be me who went into the water? Sometimes friends swim here. Sometimes neighborhood kids come by after school. He couldn’t have been sure it would be me.”
“That’s right, he couldn’t. It was a gamble, but a safe one. He’d be far away by the time it happened. Like I said, you were lucky.”
“But there was a girl here with me only last night. I mean, it could have been her.” Meadows was agitated now. Delayed reaction.
Nelson shrugged.
“Amigo, I don’t make the rules. I’m just telling you how the game is played.”
Meadows turned suddenly and hurled his glass into the woods behind the house. It slammed against a tree trunk and shattered. Meadows turned on Nelson.
“Listen, this kind of shit does not happen in a society of law. We are civilized. This is not a jungle.”
Nelson moaned inwardly. He should have sent Pincus after all. Pincus had illusions, too. Pincus and Meadows, a lovely couple. He could see them now, standing at attention to salute the flag; swapping patches around the campfire at a Scout jamboree, pledging truth, loyalty, obedience, promising never to jerk off or drive drunk or run dope on a hot summer’s night. Spare them, Lord, for they are innocent. Octavio Nelson downed his rum with a single swallow and turned to look for more.
“Let me make you another drink,” Nelson said. “It will soothe the nerves. You’ve been through