Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [98]
There was still one vital arch missing, of course, but he would find that in time. One last arch should not be beyond the reach of T. Christopher Meadows, AIA, tempest maker.
It was only two days since he had fled the lawyer’s party for Terry’s apartment, stinking of sweat and excitement and gingerly carrying the satchel of stolen cocaine. Terry had been waiting, fresh and fetching in one of those long-sleeved dress shirts. And angry.
“Chris! It’s three o’clock in the morning. Where have you been? Why weren’t you here when I arrived?” Arms akimbo, hair tousled, legs planted like a boxer, she had surveyed him suspiciously from the doorway of the darkened bedroom, as though trying to decide whether to embrace him or slug him.
“What have you done to your hair? What happened to your face? What’s in the bag?”
“Is there anything else, or can I say, ‘Welcome home’? I wish you’d told me you were coming, but I’m glad you’re here.”
“I didn’t know myself until this afternoon. Tell me what is going on, carajo.”
“It’s a long story.”
The cocaine bag in hand, Meadows walked quickly to the tiny kitchen. Terry stalked after him. He poked through the refrigerator freezer compartment. Ice trays, a chicken, something in tin foil that looked like a fish, about a half dozen packages of frozen vegetables. He pulled one out from the bottom of the stack. Brussels sprouts. Perfect. He dumped the sprouts into the sink, fitted the cocaine into the box and restored it to its frozen home. Terry watched wide-eyed, momentarily stunned into silence.
“Now,” said Meadows in satisfaction, “give me a big kiss and make a pot of coffee.”
“I do not want any coffee, thank you, and I am through kissing you until you start making sense. What’s in the box?”
“Cocaine.”
That stopped her.
“Cocaine?” She echoed weakly.
“Like I said, it’s a long story. Please make a pot of coffee.” As Meadows went to shower away the taste of theft and stewardess, a clatter of pots and a monologue of rude Spanish bobbed in his wake.
As dispassionately as possible Meadows recounted what he jokingly called the “survival surrealism” that had climaxed with his theft of the cocaine. He left out only Patti and the stewardess. If Terry suspected, she said nothing, interrupting only once to suggest they climb into bed to be more comfortable. She listened quietly for a long time. “Querido,” she said finally as dawn tinged the Atlantic, “this is not like you. None of it.”
“It’s a bit like getting caught out in a bad storm, isn’t it? You run and run, looking for a place to stay dry, but there isn’t any. And after a while it suddenly occurs to you that being wet isn’t so bad, that you might even come to enjoy it.”
“Brrr!” Terry shivered dramatically and pulled the mauve sheet close around her. “Now what will you do?”
“Well,” Meadows replied pensively, “I have nearly all the materials I need, so I think I will build a house for Señor Bermúdez and all his friends—a special kind of house.”
“It would be easier if you were latino,” Terry said.
“Why?”
“Then you would kill them, one by one, until they were all dead and you felt very good.”
Meadows laughed. “I’d rather do it the American way.”
“Bueno, mi amor.” Terry snuggled closer. Her fingers traced lightly across his chest, then danced slow circles around his navel. “You do it your way, and I will help you,” she whispered. “But now you will help me, yes? Not too gently.”
MEADOWS RAISED HIS arms above his head and rolled over onto his back on the crisp white towel. Adrenaline coursed through him. Things were moving now, moving well. But he would have to be careful. Meadows was juggling too many balls. No, not balls, grenades. If one of them slipped, they might all explode. Still, there was no other way. He had to take risks.
Manny and Moe and emptied-headed Patti were all risks. Chris Carson had dropped from their lives without a good-bye. What would they make of that? Would they conclude that the thin and nervous novice from Atlanta had stolen Rennie McRae