Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [44]
Maybe Mono’s thirst for revenge would dominate. Meadows could see Mono lying bandaged in some dark barrio apartment, a fellow shark bending close to hear his words. “It was the gringo. Get him for me, chico. Get him!”
If Mono was alive, Chris Meadows was either a dead man or a fugitive. There were no other possibilities.
Why hadn’t he died? Meadows tossed on the lumpy mattress.
If nothing else, he was safe at the Buckingham. That afternoon, trailing a two-wheel shopping cart and lascivious winks from Izzy, Sadie had brought him food after a pilgrimage to the kosher supermarket.
On the second morning she brought him a copy of the Miami Journal. When Meadows could find no mention of a stabbed body at the airport, he threw down the paper in disgust. Then he called Nelson and lied to him.
“Do you think if I had gone to college, I too could be a globetrotting architect?” Nelson teased when Meadows said he was in New York and had been to see a play the night before.
“I am here by necessity, not design,” Meadows replied testily. “What do you hear about el mono?”
“Nothing. How about you?”
Meadows was instantly defensive. “Why should I hear anything?”
“Oh, I dunno. I thought maybe you bumped into him again. Maybe he went to haunt you along the Great White Way.”
A weak joke, but too close to home for Meadows. “Listen,” he said sharply, “when you left my house the other night, I went right to the airport and got on a plane and came up here—just like you said I should. You find that murdering bastard and throw him in jail—don’t hassle me.”
“No offense, amigo,” said Nelson. “Just hang on for a little while and things will blow over.”
Fool, thought Meadows. Blow over! There was no way anything would blow over. Not while Mono lived. Meadows came close to blurting out the truth. He needed help. The Cuban cop was a slender reed, perhaps, but who else was there?
“Listen, Nelson, there’s something…”
“Just sit tight. Give me your number there, and I’ll call you if anything good happens.”
“No,” Meadows said quickly, “I’m going out into the country with a friend. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Bueno, save the taxpayers money if that’s what you want. I’ll be around.”
Meadows had never felt so lonely. He was restless. Did he dare go for a walk? No, it was better to hide in the ruins at the Buckingham.
Meadows called Stella, who cooed and cawed and read him about twenty messages. Eight of them were from Dana, each angrier than the last.
“I’ll take care of these, Stella. If anybody else calls, tell them I’ve gone out of town for a few days.”
“Very well, sir. But you really ought to call the ministers from Salvador, Mr. Meadows. They are very anxious to hear about their oil building.”
“Ecuador, Stella. The building is for Ecuador.”
“Why would they tell me Salvador?” she asked petulantly.
Stella, Meadows reflected, was the only constant in his jumbled universe. He called his mother in Massachusetts and told her he was going to the Caribbean. He called a colleague in California who wanted help with a new government complex and put him off. Then he spent two hours trying to get through to CAN’s one-room headquarters in Asunción.
“La Comandante no está. She flying,” a secretary told him.
It was the same story with Arthur. No, Arthur was gone for a few days, a groggy voice explained when he called the jazz club downtown. Down to Jamaica. Wanna leave a message? Meadows hung up.
He ventured into the overgrown garden to sit for a while in the sun. He was promptly ambushed by Sadie and two crone-friends. They chattered around him, and he nodded every now and then, like a bored husband who simultaneously reads the paper and talks with his wife.
ON THE AFTERNOON of Meadows’s third day at the Buckingham, Sadie appeared with a request. He was glad of the interruption. For the first time in his life he had succumbed in ennui to television soap operas.
“Mr. Meadows, it would be so nice if you could join us tonight for dinner. Once a week, you know, we sit down together and share what we have.