Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [73]
“Where’ve you been, man?” Meadows asked. “Hey, miss, this gentleman would like a Tanqueray. Right?”
Arthur nodded. “It’s a long drive up here, Chris. Whatsamatter, you gettin’ bored with the scene in Miami?” Arthur wore jeans, sandals and a tight yellow T-shirt that cried for relief across his huge chest.
“You’re getting a little shaggy,” Arthur said.
Meadows shrugged. They had talked at length over the phone. Arthur knew the situation, and he had agreed to help.
“You still up for it?”
“It’s the only way I can see,” Meadows said. “I know it’s risky.”
“Hey, man, don’t forget, you’re talkin’ strategy to a man who regularly whupped your ass in chess.”
“I’m never going to live that down,” Meadows said, laughing.
Arthur’s smile dissolved, and he took a long, thoughtful sip of gin. “There are,” he said softly, “other ways.”
“Sure, like what? The cops?”
“Sheeeeit, no.” Arthur winced as the sax player in the band assaulted a high note. “Chris, I got some friends…”
“That’s what I’m counting on, buddy.”
Arthur shook his braided head. “I’m not talking friendly friends. What I’m telling you,” he went on, lowering his voice, “is that if you tell me who did all this shit to you and the lady, I’ll put the word in the right ears. You dig?”
“I couldn’t live with that,” Meadows said.
“Oh, so it’s living you’re interested in?” Arthur chuckled darkly. “You white boys sure got a crazy way of doin’ it.”
“Arthur, come on.”
“This music sucks,” he said, gulping down the last of the Tanqueray. “There’s a blonde at the end of the bar. She came in with a tough little Cuban guy, but she’s probably looking at us right now. Her name is Patti. Buy her a drink. If she wants you to meet the Cuban, you will.”
Arthur stood up and fished in his jeans.
“No, it’s on me. I’ll let you buy me one when this is all over,” Meadows said. “One more favor: Could you hire a couple kids to clean up my house? It’s a mess.”
They shook, Arthur’s slab of a hand enveloping Meadows’s. The big man did not let go for several seconds.
“I want you to call me and let me know,” he said, moving toward the exit. “I don’t want to read about it in the fuckin’ papers.”
After he was gone, Meadows glanced down at the bar at Arthur’s couple. The man was darkly handsome and built like a fireplug. The woman was tall with a fickle weekend tan and dark blond hair to the shoulders. Meadows smiled in appreciation and was dazzled when the woman smiled back. He turned to his drink, wondering what to do now.
“Need a refill?” the barmaid asked. Her name was Barb; a name tag said so.
“Yes,” Meadows said, “and I’d like to buy a drink for the lady down there.” He watched Barb walk down and talk to the blonde, who shook her head. Meadows held his breath. Barb turned and shrugged at him. Feeling like a foolish teenager, he swung around on the barstool and pretended to watch the band. The blond woman came and sat next to him.
“It wasn’t meant as an insult,” she said. “I’m just not thirsty right now.”
“It’s OK,” Meadows said. He guessed her age at thirty-four or thirty-five. Her hair was silky; her eyes were a stormy green, approaching blue.
“My name is Patti.”
“Mine’s Christopher.” Meadows found himself looking back over her shoulder. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Patti laughed. “No boyfriend. That’s Manny. My girlfriend’s husband. He’s dancing with somebody. Would you like to dance with me?”
“I’m afraid I’d just embarrass you. Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
“Perrier is fine,” Patti said. “Where you from?”
Meadows gave her the real estate story and said he was from Atlanta. She told him she was from Pompano Beach and asked if he was married. Meadows said no, definitely not.
“I’m separated,” Patti volunteered. “My husband is a lawyer. He’s in jail right now, but that’s not why we’re separated. What I mean is that even if Larry didn’t get caught, I would have left him. We weren’t getting along.”