Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [76]
“All right. The usual two slices?”
“Right,” Barnett said. “How come you never go out with me?”
“Not so loud.”
“Is it Albury? Is it because of him?”
“Nope.”
“Why, then?”
“Shhh.” Laurie took her time cutting the pie.
“Why, then?” Barnett repeated when she returned.
’“Cause you don’t ask like a gentleman. You want a slice of lime on this?”
Barnett buffed his lips with a napkin. “Miss Ravenel, ma’am, could I have the pleasure of your company for a cocktail tonight over at the Casa Marina?”
“Ohh … all right,” she said. Then, bending over the table: “But not at the Casa, OK? I don’t want any of Breeze’s friends to see us. Can we go up the Keys? Marathon, maybe?”
“Abtholootely,” Barnett said enthusiastically through a mouthful of meringue.
“And not tonight,” Laurie added. “Tomorrow, ‘kay? I get off around five.”
Barnett’s crotch tingled as he wolfed down the Key Lime pie. She would want to get on top, of course. Most women did, except that fat hooker who worked the topless joint on Roosevelt. Yes, this would be the high spot of the weekend. Laurie was a lush-looking woman … experienced, he was sure … patient, artful even. Not like the stringy, hair-triggered hitchhikers he was always picking up. Sluts. Clumsy, too.
Barnett pushed the table away from his belly and rose, as if in slow motion. Laurie was crossing the restaurant with the check in one hand.
“Just put it on my tab, darlin’,” he called. “And this old gentleman would be grateful if you wore those jeans tomorrow night. Whaddya say?”
Chapter 21
TOMAS CRUZ wheeled the big Winnebago into a handicapped-only zone and exchanged a cheery wave with the flaccid foot patrolman whose job it was to see that the tourists behaved themselves in the heart of Key West’s Old Town. Winnebago Tom often came to Mallory Docks to watch the tourists watch the sun slip into the sea. With the Winnebago as his traveling office, the docks at sunset were a good place to transact business, pick up snippets of information, and troll for fresh meat to be savored later on the pull-out double bed beneath the ceiling mirror. Tom gnawed at a boiled shrimp. He had two hours to kill before sunset; plenty of time to mellow out. From the cutlery drawer he extracted three pills from a shipment that had come from Colombia the month before. He washed them down with a long swig of champagne from the bottle. Then he slipped off his loafers and sprawled on the sofa in front of his Sony….
“… two weeks in Aspen or the prize behind the green door. The choice is yours. Which will it be?”
Tom knew that scam. The green door was horseshit, nine times out of ten.
“Take the vacation,” he screamed.
The contestant chose the green panel and won a year’s supply of dog food.
“Air-headed bitch,” Tom scoffed.
When the door of the Winnebago sprang open, Tomas Cruz sat up sharply, upsetting the champagne onto the pile carpet.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Tom recovered the bottle, rubbed the lip on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and proffered it to Drake Boone.
The lawyer ignored it. He dropped a green attaché case onto the floor and stripped off his matching tie.
“Where’s Manolo? I need to talk to him right away.”
“Booney, baby, relax. Relax. Have a drink. Have a pill.”
“Christ, what are you on? Your pupils look like Frisbees.”
“What do you want Manolo for?”
“It’s important. I’ll tell him myself.”
“You’re talkin’ to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Manolo had to go out of town on business for a few days. He left me in charge. You got a problem, tell me.”
“Where did he go? When will he be back?”
Winnebago Tom didn’t notice the strain in Boone’s voice or the sweat that spotted his forehead despite the camper’s air conditioning.
“Where he went is Manolo’s business, and when he’ll be back is my business. You got somethin’ to say, say it or go away. I’m tryin’ to watch television.”
Exasperated, Boone flicked off the Sony.
“We got bad problems.”
“Keep it short and to the point,” Tom said, mimicking Manolo. “That prick Breeze Albury is comin’ by anytime now. He’s finally going to give us back the