Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [88]
“Be my guest.” Meadows sighed. “There’s probably only about twenty-five DEA agents staking it out right now, waiting to see if we’re stupid enough to come back.”
“No,” Manny said. “I don’t think so. I’m telling Alonzo that we’re going back. Maybe tonight, after the party?”
“Shit,” Meadows groaned standing. “I’m getting a refill.”
Meadows got up and started toward the bar. The people crammed into McRae’s condominium were mostly young, tan and very loaded. The women were stunning and abundant. One look around the place told Meadows it cost at least $300,000. The carpeting was to thick it seemed to cover the tops of his shoes. On his way to the bar he passed a knot of chattering people; they hovered around a small table in the living room, chopping away at a small rock of coke presented elaborately on a silver tray. Moe was in line for his share.
“Fuckin’ Manny has to show up two hours late,” he was grumbling. “I coulda been into this stuff all night long if only we got here on time.”
But Manny had been insistent. The party had started at ten, but he had not wanted to go until midnight. “I want to give Alonzo enough time to mellow out,” he had explained. “He’s much more agreeable after a couple of hides.”
It was a wonderful logic, Meadows reflected. He admired Manny in many ways, not the least of which was his finely tuned instinct for survival.
Meadows returned to the couch and waited for the summit with Alonzo. A slender woman with long dark legs and frizzy auburn hair sat next to him.
“Hi. My name is Jill.”
“Hello, Chris Carson.” Meadows shifted the drink to his left hand and held out his right, awkwardly.
“I fly for Southeastern.”
Meadows smiled politely. Sweet Jesus, a stewardess. For a moment he wished he was back in the Everglades.
“I’m in real estate. I just moved down here.…”
“That’s funny,” Jill said. “I swear we’ve met before, here in Miami. Has your hair always been that long?”
“For a couple of years now.” He turned away abruptly; his mind scrambled for an excuse to get up and leave.
“It was at a party out on Key Biscayne—”
“I don’t think so,” Meadows said curtly.
“You know the Clarks?”
“No,” he lied. “Excuse me, please. I’m going to get another drink.”
Meadows fled the room. His neck was damp with sweat. He racked his brain for any recollection of Jill Somebody but came up empty. He would have remembered her. She was mistaken, certainly, but it made Meadows edgy. It was just more bad luck.
Carrying a fresh Jack Daniel’s he launched a search for a bathroom. He found a door, knocked twice and went in.
“Buenas noches.”
Meadows started to back out. “Sorry.”
“Don’t go.” The man was dark with a thick Pancho Villa mustache, porky, gregarious. He sat on the toilet with his pants up, a girl on each side.
“My name is Bobby,” he offered. “This is Candy, and this is Maria. We were just having a quick hit. Want some?”
Meadows lifted his drink. “Better not,” he said politely. “Thanks anyway.”
“Come on, baby,” said the girl name Maria. Meadows guessed her age at fifteen, tops. She wore designer jeans and a diaphanous halter top. Her nipples, Meadows mused through a fog of bourbon, looked like walnuts. She lifted a small mirror toward his face.
“Careful, careful,” said Roberto Nelson.
Meadows set his glass down near the sink.
“One little toot,” teased Maria.
Meadows nodded. “OK,” he said, and instinctively turned to lock the door behind him. Instantly Roberto and the two girls whooped with laughter.
Meadows caught himself laughing along with them. “Well, you never know where you might find DEA,” he joked.
A dumb move, he scolded himself. Thank God these clowns are too high to care.
Meadows took a rolled twenty-dollar bill from Roberto and snorted two short lines, tossing his head back. Roberto smiled a broad, perfect grin. “Bueno, eh?”
“Sí,” Meadows replied.
Then the coke kicked in, and the jolt was stunning. Suddenly Meadows could hear his