Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [90]
Meadows’s jaw tightened. McRae lit a joint. He didn’t offer it across the desk. “Manny’s in some deep shit,” he said evenly. “It’s not your fault.”
“With Alonzo?” Meadows’s nerve jangled.
“Oh, yes, and worse than that.” McRae’s eyes moistened as the coke propelled him. He sucked deeply on the joint.
“Who else?”
“The names would mean nothing to you. They would mean nothing even in Atlanta. Alonzo, a shit, a lackey…the Diego brothers, even Ignacio.”
Meadows’s eyes flickered. “Why?”
“This is Manny’s third fuck-up in as many months. Three strikes and you’re out. Half a million in coke down the commode. You’ve got to understand what’s been going down in Miami the last few weeks…everybody relies on such careful planning. Everything must be very precise.”
“We know where it is,” Meadows blurted. “I’m sure we can find it again.”
“Settle down.” McRae raised his hands amiably. “It’s not your fault. I tell you this because you are new in town, and I’d hate to see you get in trouble so soon.” The lawyer rolled his head back and forth. “Jesus H. Christ, this is wonderful.”
“I don’t know enough to get in trouble.”
“Of course you don’t. Didn’t your friends give you any tips before they let you come down here?”
“They told me that a banker ran the show,” Meadows said boldly. “A Cuban banker. That’s all.”
“You got smart friends. What else?”
“They said to thank God I wasn’t a Colombian.”
McRae roared. “That is priceless! Really.”
“Rennie?”
Meadows turned lethargically in his chair. A beautiful blond woman with drowsy eyes stood at the door. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, baby, come here,” McRae said gently. He pulled her to his lap. “Mr. Carson, this is Donna. One of my secretaries.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Donna said. She began to tickle Rennie McRae. He giggled like a four-year-old.
A pajama party, Meadows thought, just what I need.
“You been naughty, haven’t you?” Donna teased. “You been cooking up the white powder in here.”
“Please, please,” McRae spluttered.
“Gimme some.”
“It’s all gone.”
“Naughty boy. Stop pinching my tits.”
They acted as if Meadows were invisible.
“Give me some powder,” Donna said, leaning across McRae’s vast lap. With authority she yanked one of the desk drawers, and it slid open.
Meadows froze. His eyes fixed on a sack of cocaine, a lump so big that it glistened in the dim light of the den. It was at least a pound.
McRae slammed the drawer. “Not now, baby, we have company. Don’t worry, he says he is definitely not Colombian.”
“That’s good,” Donna said, finally looking up at the architect. “You don’t look Colombian.”
“Damn right. He’s breathing, isn’t he?” McRae laughed until he wheezed. “Most of my clients are not fond of Colombians. Get off me, luv. I can’t breathe.”
The lawyer had surrendered all prudence to the cocaine. Meadows felt it was a good time to push even harder.
“Explain this Colombian thing.”
“Greedy fucking peasants. Farmers! Moving in on the business. Surely you had trouble like that in Atlanta.”
Meadows nodded. “Blacks and whites. Friendly southern competition.”
“It isn’t friendly down here. It’s the Cubes and the Colombians,” McRae said. “He tried to warn them. A little rip-off on one of their freighters a few months back. But it went bad, and they wound up killing one of the local boys. That led to an ugly thing in Coconut Grove—”
“I read about it.”
“Damn shame,” McRae said remorsefully. “Brought all kinds of heat.”
Donna flung her brown arms around McRae’s neck and gave him a long kiss. It was not long before they forgot about Christopher Meadows once more.
The architect stood quietly and edged toward the door. “Rennie, thanks for the warning,” he said.
The chubby lawyer pried Donna loose momentarily. “Anytime, buddy. I hope you know what to do: Cut yourself loose, fast.”
“I intend to,” Meadows replied.
“No more camping trips.”
He found a bathroom, then a fresh drink, and wandered out on the patio. A twenty-four-story shoe box over Brickell Avenue, Meadows thought