Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [75]
“I already know,” Christine said. “It was Winnebago Tom.”
“Yeah, but wait, sugar. Wait a minute,” Boone slurred. “You don’t know who ordered it. I know who ordered it. I know who runs the goddamn Machine. I really do, lady lawyer. I know who.”
That’s my boy, Christine thought triumphantly. “Meet me later at the Pier House,” she said. “About ten.”
IT WAS THREE-FIFTEEN and Huge Barnett’s stomach, a considerable force in his life, growled. Barnett fired the big Chrysler through a red light at Duval and Petronia, made a right on Whitehead Street, and coasted to a stop in front of the Cowrie Restaurant.
“Whose fucking El Dorado is this?”
A microwave salesman from Michigan, sitting with his plump wife at a corner table, dropped half his egg-salad sandwich at the sight of a lantern-jawed blimp with a badge on his chest, filling the doorway.
“It’s my car, officer,” the salesman replied. “I thought I put plenty of money in the meter.”
“That’s a police emergency zone you’re parked in, pal. Better move it.”
“Can I at least finish my lunch?”
Barnett’s fist came down on the counter and the salesman’s ass came out of his chair. The police chief got his parking space.
Barnett took a table for four, by the window. He would have preferred a place at the counter, where it was easier to flirt with the waitresses, but a single stool could not contain his tonnage.
“Darling!” Barnett called to Laurie Ravenel. “Could you bring me a pitcher of Budweiser, please?”
Barnett studied Laurie salaciously as she crossed the floor of the restaurant: tight jeans, a feathery tank top, her dark red hair tied back with a ribbon.
She set the beer next to a chilled glass mug on Barnett’s table. “What would you like to eat, chief?”
Barnett winked.
“That’s not on the menu.”
The chief chuckled. “Well, then,” he said in a wheezy voice, “how ‘bout some black beans and rice, and chicken? Bring me a couple breasts. White meat only.”
“Comin’ up,” Laurie said gaily.
“You sure look fine today, Miss Ravenel.”
“Thank you, chief,” said Laurie, offering a shy smile that lasted two seconds longer than Barnett had counted on.
Laurie placed the order with the kitchen, then popped her head into Bobby Freed’s private office. “Our fat friend is here,” she said. “Better keep your voices down.”
Freed nodded soberly and turned back to the men gathered at his desk: a truck driver from Sugarloaf Key, a bridge tender from Marathon, a gas station man from an Exxon up on Big Pine. They had been part of the crowd at Freed’s civic rally the night before; this afternoon there would be no cheers or applause, only grave talk.
“What about Mark Haller?” continued the trucker.
“Taken care of,” Freed answered.
“I can’t miss the car, can I?” said the gas station man.
“There’s only one like it in the whole world,” Freed said. “There’ll be an elephant driving.”
The men laughed together.
“DON’T YOU EVER WONDER how come I eat lunch here every day?” Huge Barnett was draining a second pitcher of beer.
“Because the food’s so good,” Laurie said.
“No, darlin’, because you’ve got the most delicious-looking pair of tits in Key West, that’s why.” Barnett chomped into a piece of hot chicken with such porcine vigor that the breastbone cracked in his mouth.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that around the customers.”
“Then let’s go somewhere by ourselves so I can talk the way I want.” Barnett lowered his voice. “Ever been for a ride in a police car?”
“Oh, please.” Laurie drifted to another table and started clearing plates. “You know, chief,” she scolded in a whisper, “you wouldn’t be half-bad if you weren’t always so … so crude.”
“Darlin’, I can be a gentleman.” He put down the remains of his chicken and looked up at her, panda-eyed. “You think I can’t be a gentleman if I want?”
Laurie carted the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and puttered around for a minute or two. Through the window in the swinging door she watched Barnett shifting at his table, craning with great effort to look for her. Slowly, she made her way back to the table.
“How about some Key Lime