Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [42]
“I think we should meet once more to make sure all the details are understood,” his visitor said quickly.
“Yes, I was going to suggest that. When you are ready, let me know and I will come to Miami—my wife gets shopping fever every few months. She will be pleased if I accompany her once.” The old man permitted himself a thin smile. “You have a good brain, Ignacio. In a way I am sorry that all of my daughters married long ago.”
“I am honored,” the visitor said.
“Before you go, permit me a gesture of good will.”
The old man clapped his hands, and the flower girl named Dorita appeared. She had changed her blue smock, and now she wore the same plaid skirt and white blouse as the serving girls. It was a difference of degree. The blouse was sheer, rouged nipples straining against the soft fabric. The skirt was slit high up the naked brown thigh.
“Go with my friend, Dorita,” the old man from Bogotá called softly. “I am tired today, and it is he who will reward you for your beautiful flowers.”
“Sí, patrón,” the girl said.
Chapter 11
“BORSCHT. Hot borscht in the summer, cold borscht in the winter—with plenty of sour cream. The best thing when you are feeling low.” She said it with an assertive shake of her blue-rinsed head. There could be no doubting.
“Chicken soup?” she sneered. “Chicken soup is overrated.”
“Thanks,” said Christopher Meadows. “I love borscht.”
Her name was Sadie. She was the queen of the Buckingham, and she had arrived with morning.
“Mr. Meadows, Mr. Meadows, wake up! It’s your neighbor, Sadie. Time for breakfast.”
He had bolted upright like a startled deer. For a few seconds he hadn’t been able to remember where he was, or why. Then the memory had come flooding back.
THE TRANS AM WAS GONE.
For a second time Meadows dropped his overnight bag in a heartbeat of dismay. It was impossible. Mono had come alone, and now Mono lay in a pool of blood in the stairwell. The car had to be there, next to Meadows’s own Ghia. But it was not.
Then Meadows saw the trail of blood. He traced it from the stairway door, drop by blackening drop, to where Mono’s car had stood. There drops had formed a small puddle.
Mono was alive!
Meadows whirled in fright, prepared to see again the Trans Am bearing down on him. The emptiness of the top level mocked his panic. Nothing moved. The garage was deathly still.
All of Meadows’s cunning evaporated. Logic deserted him. He ran as fast as his wounded leg would carry him to the Karmann Ghia. The keys! Which pocket? Shit! Here! Which key? Here! Thank God, the same key for the door and the ignition.
Meadows threw himself into the seat and jammed the key into the switch. The car lunged forward and died. He had forgotten to depress the clutch. With his right foot he pumped madly at the gas and tried again. The car would not start. Finally the engine caught, and he jammed the transmission into reverse to back away from the wall. He guided it backward in a wide arc, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, awaiting retribution. The garage seemed endless, an eternal tunnel, twisting in a dark blind maze as Meadows descended to the exit.
When he finally got there, Meadows had to brake sharply to avoid rear-ending a fat black Cadillac stopped to pay the toll. He looked desperately for a way around the car. There was none.
Only one toll lane open, the others all sealed with black and yellow wooden barriers. Could he crash one? He could try. He slipped the Ghia in reverse. Then the Cadillac moved.
Meadows lurched up to the toll booth. Where was the fucking parking ticket? There, between the bucket seats, where he had left it an eternity ago. He thrust the ticket through the window.
A sign lit up: $1.00.
“One dollar,” recited the attendant. She was as fat as the Cadillac.
Meadows fumbled for the money. He always carried his bills in a side pocket. He had nothing smaller than a twenty.
“Keep the change,” he ordered, and drove off into the night.
WITH THE MEMORY came the pain. His leg hurt like hell. The drying