Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [52]
A strikingly handsome man, elegant in a three-piece black suit, yellow rose at his lapel, an establishment mustache curried till it squealed, preened in macho counterpart to the beautiful dolphin girl. He bussed four cheeks, shared six abrazos and shook three hands with stiff formality in the minute Meadows spared him.
The smell of death assailed Meadows. Calla lilies, gladiolas, carnations, chrysanthemums peeked from the four rooms that opened off the hallway. Their aromas mingled with the scents of perfume, sweat, cigars and formaldehyde.
Meadows felt light-headed. Before him, through the haze, the smell and the noise, lay the centerpiece of the room: a white-robed plaster Virgin Mary with two lambs at her feet, praying above an electric candle. Two flags, one Cuban, one American, flanked the Virgin in drooping salute.
Meadows stood irresolute. Where to go? How to begin? He had to go in, but every fiber screamed at him to get out. Finally he turned left and headed for the first of the four body rooms.
It was a mistake. About twenty people sat in metal folding chairs with red plastic seats facing the coffin in a niche at the far wall. The mourners sat in quiet dignity, silent reproof to the cocktail chatter that followed Meadows through the door. No head turned when he entered. The flower stench was overwhelming.
Meadows took four paces into the room and stopped. Wrong one, dammit. The coffin sat in lonely eminence, two spotlights illuminating its closed lid. It was tiny, toylike. It could have belonged only to a child. Meadows fled.
Heart pounding, head resting lightly against the thin white plasterboard wall, Meadows weighed his next move. He studied the people entering and leaving the other three rooms, his vision constantly intercepted by the swirling mob of mourners in the hall. He had to hurry; Nelson would be worried. He must have been here nearly twenty minutes already. He looked at his black-faced Rolex—a perfect mourner’s watch. Four minutes had passed.
“You don’t look Cuban,” she said.
Meadows turned quickly, startled by the intrusion. “I’m not,” he blurted.
“I know. I can always tell; something about the eyes and the set of the head.”
Frank black eyes stared appraisingly at Meadows. She was even more beautiful than the dolphin lady. She wore a dark blue suit of superb cut and a white silk shirt, knotted in a loose bow at the neck. Her taste identified her to Meadows as an outcast.
“Pretty awful, isn’t it.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” said Meadows. “Oh, yes.”
“They’re ‘doing’ my aunt’s friend in there.” The shiny black hair tossed at the room Meadows had assigned number four.
“A rosary. I couldn’t stand it—the hypocrisy. My aunt hadn’t spoken to the woman in ten years, except to say nasty things. Now she’s in there weeping over her Ave Marias.”
Meadows nodded. The child in number one, the aunt’s friend in number four. Two down, two to go.
“My name is Sofia,” the girl said.
Meadows mumbled something sibilant.
“Steven?” the girl asked.
“No, no,” Meadows said quickly, casting frantically for a name. “Sean,” he said in desperation.
“Where do you come from?”
Oh, Christ.
“Akron,” said Meadows. “Akron, Ohio, heart of the Midwest.” Why doesn’t she go away and leave me alone? he thought.
“That’s nice,” the girl said uncertainly.
Meadows could see she didn’t think it was nice at all. He was delighted—he had never been to Akron.
“What do you do for a living, Sean?”
Why doesn’t she let up? Another time, another place, señorita.
“I’m in floor covering.”
“Is that interesting?”
“Oh, yes,” Meadows said in desperation. “Fascinating. People don’t realize just how important the choice of a floor covering can be. Color, texture, resiliency. Things like that make the environment and can influence one’s view of oneself and society.”
It was a speech he had heard once from a gay decorator, but it worked. Meadows had her now. He watched the smile fade, the eyes glaze.
“Yes, well, I have to go,” she said. “Hasta luego.” And she was lost in the crowd,