Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [75]
Meadows permitted himself his old identity for a few moments. He longed for Terry’s comfort, seethed over losing the Ecuadorean oil ministry project, prayed that his parents and his friends were not calling out the National Guard to hunt for his body. He had left word at the office and with his service, inventing an architects’ convention and other obligations that would officially keep him out of town for weeks. He had also cabled friends of his parents in New York, asking them to assure his relatives that he was alive and well.
Meadows rubbed his sore eyes and stared up at the bedroom ceiling and wondered if he was out of his goddamn skull. This is Disneyland, he told himself. It will never work. If he could corner José Bermúdez today, tonight, this minute, and do what he planned— who would believe his story later? Or understand?
“Hi there,” Patti said.
“Morning,” Meadows said, propping himself on his elbows. “You been up long?”
“Just a little while. I thought I’d give you a nudge before the races start.”
Meadows fell back on the pillow. “What races?”
“The speedboats. Every kid in Fort Lauderdale gets a boat for his birthday, and I think they all take turns racing behind my house. The racket is awful.” Patti sat down on the bed and put her hands on his chest. “Did you have fun last night?”
“It was wonderful,” Meadows said. For the first time in weeks he was telling the truth.
“That’s good stuff, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, burrowing back into the sheets. “Where’d you get it?”
“From Manny,” Patti said. “Come on, let’s eat some breakfast.”
They had omelets on a small shaded patio. A breeze stirred off the Intracoastal. Two magnificent Hatteras fishing boats thundered past the house and sent deep curling wakes against the concrete sea wall. Copper-skinned young men with sun-bleached hair could be seen in the cockpits, working at the fishing rods, rigging baits for dolphin and sailfish. With the offshore winds, Meadows imagined the Gulf Stream was probably as calm as a lake.
“This is a wonderful house,” he said to Patti.
“Larry said it was practical. Seven bedrooms for two people! Practical.” Patti took a sip of hot Jamaican tea. “I do like the place though. See that?” She pointed to a dock that ran parallel to the sea wall. “You can put a thirty-four-footer there and still have room for the Donzis. We needed a pier like that.”
“You had boats?”
“Different ones. The walkway that comes up from the dock leads right into the garage. This house has a three-car garage, but we never once put our cars inside. You understand?”
Meadows nodded. “The pot.”
“You can’t very well stash five tons in a glove compartment.” Patti stretched one of her legs across Meadows’s lap. It was smooth and tan. She wore a man’s long-sleeved shirt and a pair of silk panties. Whenever she turned her head to the water, her blond hair caught the sun.
“So while Larry’s gone, you’ve got the whole place to yourself?”
“For a while,” Patti said. “Until the IRS finds a way to get it. They’re very curious about how an attorney making the kind of money Larry did could afford a setup like this. They make me go downtown every other week to answer questions.”
“What do you tell them?”
“I play dumb wifey. Larry never told me anything about the money. The house was an anniversary present. I just assumed he was making lots of money at work. I don’t even know how much the house cost. Blah, blah, blah.” Patti stood and stretched. “They don’t believe a word, of course.”
“Don’t you have a lawyer?”
“I’ll get one if I need to.”
“What about Larry’s?”
“Redbirt? Lot of good he did us. I’d never hire that asshole. This is an amazing business, Christopher.”
“I know.”
Patti laughed and sat on his lap. “Arthur says you’re interested in getting started down here.”
“Yeah. The problem is, I don’t know anybody.”
“Not yet anyway,” Patti said enigmatically. “Are you