Sucker bet - James Swain [37]
“What do you mean, he’s a fake?”
“You want the gory details?”
Candy’s cute mouth twisted into something harsh and unfriendly. “No.”
“Well, for starters—”
“I said no. Shut up.”
“I’ll pay you five grand to stay in.”
“Is that what I’m worth to you, Rico? Five grand?”
“That’s on top of what I’ve already paid you,” Rico said.
Candy picked up the money and threw it into Rico’s face. In a loud voice she said, “Stick it up your ass, you crummy piece of shit,” and stormed down the path toward the hotel’s bungalows. Rico sipped his beer, trying to act nonchalant. People were staring at him, and his money was scattered all over the floor.
He glanced at the glass door that led from the patio into the hotel. His driver was standing behind it, his face pressed to the glass. Rico motioned to him with one finger. Splinters came out and picked up his money.
Five minutes later, driving north on Collins Avenue, Splinters lowered the window that separated him from his boss. “I can’t believe she did that to you.”
Rico opened a real beer from his private stash and chugged it. “Me neither.”
“She cursed you in front of all those people.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“And threw your money on the floor.”
“Shut up, will you?” It was strange, but the worst part had been the taste the Amstel Light had left in his mouth. It tasted exactly like beer wasn’t supposed to taste. The Eden Roc came into view. Splinters put his indicator on and parked by the front entrance.
A uniformed doorman opened Rico’s door, and he got out. He was halfway to the elevators when he had an idea. He retraced his steps.
Splinters was still in the limo, playing with the radio. He’d told Rico that in Cuba there was nothing good on the radio. Rico went around to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. It lowered automatically.
“I need you to do a job for me,” Rico told him.
“Sure,” Splinters said, his fingers clicking to the music blaring out of the speakers.
“Kill her,” Rico said.
Gerry didn’t know what to make of the way his father was acting.
First his old man had wired him money to pay for his hotel and for Yolanda to stay a few more days and for Gerry to fly to Miami that afternoon. Then his old man had met him at the airport, all smiles and hugs, and helped him rent a car, which he’d put on his credit card. And not just any car, but a BMW 540 from Hertz, a hundred bucks a day.
Driving over the Causeway to Miami Beach, Gerry had found himself whistling to a song on the radio. It all seemed too good to be true. Then he’d spotted the flashing lights of the police cruiser in his rearview mirror.
“I’ll take care of it,” his father said when Gerry showed him the speeding ticket at the Fontainebleau. They were drinking sodas by the pool with scores of pretty girls all around them. Gerry felt his father’s eyes burning his face.
“Cut it out,” his father said.
“What?”
“You’re a married man.”
“Just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t read the menu.”
His old man leaned across the table, grabbed Gerry’s ear, and gave it a twist. “Listen to me. First your eyes wander, then your dick wanders. And because your dick has only one eye, it sees only half the picture. So cut it out, okay?”
Gerry grunted in the affirmative, and his father let him go. This felt a lot more like his old man. A bikini-clad girl strolled by their table and gave him a wink.
“How you doing,” he said without thinking.
She stopped to chat, leaning over the table so they got the full picture.
“Did you see those lungs?” Gerry said when she was gone.
“She nearly poked my eye out,” Valentine said. “Besides, they’re not real.”
“They were beautiful,” his son said.
“You like fake titties?” his father asked.
Gerry grinned. There was a word you didn’t hear very often: titties. Used exclusively by old geezers of his father’s generation.
“Come on,” his father said, “answer me.”
“Yolanda’s thinking of getting them