Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [65]
It was a gun, and it worked. At least that’s what Terry said. Meadows was sure she knew how to use it. She carried a sidearm on most of her flights to Latin America, an extra shotgun when she flew into Bogotá.
But Terry wasn’t here to make the introduction.
Meadows fumbled with a small lever until the cylinder flopped open and six bullets spilled onto the pink satin bedsheets. He gathered them in one hand and dropped them back in the drawer. Only because he remembered it from a television cop show, Meadows held the gun up to the light from the bedroom window and checked the chambers. All empty. He snapped the cylinder and walked to the living room.
The pistol was oily. Meadows set it on a table and wiped his hands on his cutoffs. He turned on the television set and flipped through the stations, settling on one of those raucous afternoon game shows. He turned up the volume, gauging how much would shut out noise without annoying the neighbors.
Then Meadows sat himself down in front of the television and fondled the gun until his hands knew every curve, every notch, every shaft, every possible angle. For two hours he practiced raising his right arm stiff and straight, bracing his left hand under the right and pulling the stubborn trigger. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. The hammer moved more slowly than Meadows imagined it would. Would it be the same when the gun was full of bullets?
“Can I have a minute of your time?” asked an unctuous face on the tube.
Christopher Meadows raised the pistol until the announcer’s nostrils were fixed squarely under the sight. Ssssnap. Ssssnap. Ssssnap.
Chapter 16
THE TWENTY-STORY OFFICE BUILDING near the Miami River was like all its big brothers around the country. Promptly at 5:00 each afternoon it emptied as though someone had pulled a plug. The drones rushed from the air-conditioned lobby, braved brief assault by the sweltering afternoon sun and plunged into the air-conditioned boxes that would take them home. Machines reinforced the routine. At exactly 5:15 computers shut down the escalators and turned off the air-conditioning.
Lane Redbirt prided himself on his appearance. As he rode down on the elevator, he caught a refreshing glimpse of himself in the mirror. His light double knit was well cut, with flared pants and a tight, de rigueur vest. His blond hair was carefully sprayed; his blue eyes were alert. Redbirt knew he was the perfect image of a young lawyer on the make. He enjoyed that.
When the elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor to load more passengers, the girl edged closer to the young lawyer.
“I’ll bet it’s a scorcher out there, Mr. Redbirt,” she said.
“Near ninety, I think, Virginia,” he replied. She was his secretary, and she typed well enough.
On the ground floor the modish crowd from Redbirt’s office clustered for a moment to exchange Friday afternoon banalities.
“Have a nice weekend.”
“See you Monday, if I make it.”
“Bring me some fish.”
“I’ll have the Mitchell brief ready first thing Monday morning, Virginia.”
“Fine, Mr. Redbirt, I’ll be waiting for it. Have a nice weekend.”
“You, too.”
The secretaries and the paralegals scattered for the parking lot, and the law partners strolled with more measured pace to their own cars, which waited in covered executive parking.
Lane Redbirt lingered behind the rest. He stopped at the lobby newsstand to buy cigarettes and breath freshener. By the time he reached his Porsche it was 5:09 and the parking lot was nearly deserted.
The brown Toyota pulled up sharply alongside him. “Hurry, Lane, I’m so horny I can’t wait,” she called from the driver’s window.
“Ginny. I…”
“Do you know what I’d like to do tonight for a change?” She told him what.
Redbirt’s groin tingled. “Give me one hour. I have to make a stop.”
“An hour is too long, the way I feel right now.”
“Fifty minutes,