1 Margarita Nights (15 page)

Peter describes himself as an entrepreneur and he likes to pretend his business is more upscale than we all know it is. He owns the Pelican Motel out on Tamiami Trail where one of Ruth Ann’s friends worked as a maid. She said Peter wasn’t opposed to making the odd bed when someone didn’t show up for a shift. The Pelican isn’t the kind of place where anyone gets too particular about how the bed is made, so even an entrepreneur can do it.

The Pelican, where most of the rooms are rented for short stays, is right next door to the Kit Kat Klub, with its three Betty Boop dolls doing high kicks on a red neon sign that says “Girls, Girls, Girls.” There was a whisper around that Peter owned a piece of the KKK . . . not a thing you’d admit to at the Sunset Bar and Grill, mind you. No, no, we’re much too upscale for that.

Skating on the edge of the sordid, Peter would never get invited to join the Royal Palms Golf and Country Club. As Bernice would say, he’s NOKD, the secret code of Indian Mound Beach for “not our kind, dear.”

Peter smoothed back the curls of his mullet. One night I’d played the Beastie Boys’ song “Mullet Head” in his honor. Brian, who up until then only knew he hated Peter’s long hair and not that it had a name, started calling Peter “skullet head,” as if Peter needed to be reminded his hair was growing mighty thin on top. But no matter how we insult him, Peter stubbornly clings to his hairstyle and the ringlets that gather at the nape of his neck. “Just how closely are the cops keeping in touch?” Peter inquired.

“Detective Styles kindly took me on a tour of the police station today. Showed me a nice little room and the latest in tape recorders and even gave me something to sign to say that I’d been there and how much I’d enjoyed my tour.”

“Be careful what you say to the police,” warned Brian. “In my experience, more people talk themselves into trouble than talk themselves out of it.” “Your advice may already be too late.”

“Don’t make any more statements unless you have a lawyer with you.”

“Stop!” I sat a fresh Scotch in front of Peter. “You’re scaring me, Brian.”

“You should be worried. The police want to solve this. It doesn’t mean they’re going to find the right solution, just a solution.”

“You misunderstood. It isn’t the police that worry me.” I shoved a fresh rack of wineglasses under the bar. “It’s the thought of paying your legal fees that makes me weak at the knees.”

Brian ignored this. “Lots of innocent people end up in jail,” he said as Clay slipped onto a stool between them and ordered a margarita.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brian asked at this strange departure in drink choice.

“I have it on good authority that everything goes better with margaritas.” He gave me a big grin and added, “So what’s happening, Sherri? Any news on Jimmy’s accident?”

“The police have been in touch,” I answered.

“Now there’s something to worry about,” Peter said.

“There’s more to this mess than what was between Jimmy and me.” I told them about Jimmy’s new source of income. “How much would it cost to buy into Windimere?” I asked Clay.

He shrugged. “They’ve got money troubles. A million might get you in.”

“Jimmy and a million dollars: an interesting concept.” Then I told them about Jimmy’s tape.

“You should have brought it along,” Peter said. “Between the three of us, we know everybody between Sarasota and Naples.”

Practical as always, Clay asked, “Just what do you plan on playing it with, Peter?” “Oh yeah, right.”

One of the delightfully odd things about the Sunset is there are no TVs and heaven help you if you don’t turn off your cell phone when you come through the door.

Peter had one of his not-so-good ideas. “How be I come over to your place when you get off work and take a look at it?” he asked, all hopeful and eager.

“Yeah, as if that’s going to happen. Even Huff the insurance man has more hope of getting past my door.”

Things were busy so I didn’t see Dr. Zampa come in. He was just suddenly there, looking mean and angry and scowling so hard his dark bushy eyebrows nearly joined over the bridge of his long nose.

“I want to talk to you,” he growled.

I must have really upset wifey but I’m a bartender, used to handling drunks and crazies. He didn’t scare me. Besides I would be charming, oh so charming. I smiled. Who could resist? “Of course.”

But no one had told Dr. Zampa how charming I was. This guy was truly pissed off.

I came out from behind the bar. Dr. Zampa loomed over me. He was only two or three inches taller than me, but it was his intensity, rather than his size, that made me feel overpowered and threatened.

Still, I thought I could control the situation. He was a dentist for god’s sake, how dangerous could he be? “Let’s go down the hall. It will be private there.”

He followed me closely as I went into the hall leading to the restrooms. I turned to face him and he bumped into me, his chin jutting into my face as he demanded, “What the fuck do you mean comin’ to my house?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You got her started all over again.” He was jabbing a finger into my shoulder with every word. “Now she’s asking if I paid your shithead husband to stay away from her.” I backed away, but he followed. “As if I would.”

My back was up against the wall. “Easier just to blow up his boat, was it?”

“You sayin’ I did it? What gave you that crazy idea?”

“Maybe your temper? And you hated Jimmy, didn’t you?”

“You stay away from my wife, you hear me?”

I raised my hands between us. “I just talked to her.”

“And now she’s got it in her head the jerk’s still alive.”

“Are you so sure he isn’t?”

“He’s fuckin’ dead!” It wasn’t a poke now. It was the flat of his hand that rammed me backwards, slamming my head against the wall.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Clay came towards us. Dr. Zampa stepped back but he wasn’t through. “Stay away from my wife or you’ll regret it.” He shoved past Clay.

“Are you all right?” Clay asked “Yes.” My knees felt like sponge. “No.” I was melting down the wall and then I was in Clay’s arms. And his face was buried in my hair.

“Well, it’s about time,” I thought. For months we’d been swirling around in a heated dance of advance and retreat, a salsa of desire and denial, and I was more than ready for a new beat. My body relaxed into him, feeling the length of him against me as I turned my face up to his. He smelt of sandalwood. Warm words formed in my brain while laughter bubbled in my throat. There was so much I wanted to tell him. I wanted to ask why it had taken him so long to hold me.

Just as suddenly as he’d embraced me, Clay pulled away, leaving cool air where his warm body had been. His hands on my shoulders held me against the wall and away from him as he searched my face. And then he let me go, reached out a finger and pressed it to my lips. “Let Jimmy go.” “What are you talking about?” I was talking to his back. The girl who was always quick on the uptake was left well behind, confused and trembling.

When I pulled myself together and got back behind the bar, Clay was pretending we’d never met. Beside him a middle-aged guy in a gray suit lifted his hand to get my attention.

I kept my eyes fixed on Clay’s drinking companion and went to take his order. Over six foot, the guy was built like a giant fireplug, with buzzed steel-gray hair and broad shoulders topping a powerful body. The total package gave the distinct impression he wasn’t a man to mess with.

“Have we met before?” I asked when I brought him a gin and tonic.

“No,” he said smiling. “I’d remember meeting you.”

“It’s just that you seem vaguely familiar but I can’t place you.”

“This is Hayward Lynch,” Clay said, cool as if he’d never touched me. Maybe I’d just imagined the sparks between us. “Hayward is the biggest land developer between Naples and Sarasota,” Clay added.

“My face is in the paper a lot,” Lynch said, which would explain it if I ever read a paper, but for me the news is always the same old thing with new people doing it. “I live up in St. Pete,” Lynch added.

“I won’t hold that against you,” I told him. “I’m very broad-minded.”

The cash registered pinged, telling me that the restaurant had a drink order. I started filling it, sure that I could feel Clay’s eyes on me. Maybe I just wanted his eyes to be on me. How pathetic was that, acting like a sixteen year old with the hots for the quarterback?

It was a busy night and the bar was noisy but in one of those weird moments where everyone went silent at once I heard Clay’s voice, telling Lynch that I was the widow of the guy who’d been blown up on his boat. I turned on the blender for margaritas and drowned out the rest.

When I returned with another martini for Lynch he said, “I met your husband last Christmas at a party at the Travises’. I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you.”

“I took some lessons from him. He was a great teacher.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Everyone says he was the best.” I was working hard at not looking at Clay. “Did he ever mention me?” Lynch asked.

He was staring intently at me. I’ve seen lots of vanity but this guy had cornered the market.

“Should he have?”

Lynch relaxed. “No, of course not.”

It was a busy night. Fridays always are. Tips were good, so I wasn’t feeling too down on life when I got home just after midnight. Not even the fact that all the spots under the trees were taken and I had to park near the building where the morning sun would bake the truck, making it about a hundred degrees when I opened the door—not even that could take away my good mood. That was tomorrow’s annoyance.

I felt good all the way up the stairs and all the way to my front door. That’s when the good feelings all went away.

The door was unlocked.

Okay, maybe I forgot to lock it . . . that could happen, but the fine hairs on the back of my arms stood out like antennae, telling me something else was going on here. I knew bad news was coming even before I turned on the light.

Perhaps there’s some primeval sense that tells us when our space has been invaded. In my case it was the smell of garbage. I listened, trying to decide if I was alone. Silence filled the space except for the sound of the dripping of the kitchen tap. I leaned in and flicked the wall switch that turned on the brass table lamp at the end of the couch.

“Holy shit.”

Heaven knows, given my housekeeping, it might be hard to tell a normal break-in from my everyday untidiness, but not this time. The living room had been trashed with an angry frenzy, cushions torn from chairs and books pulled off the shelves, and the contents of the kitchen cupboards had been pulled out onto the counter. How desperate do you have to be to break into my hovel? And why the destruction? Not a drawer or shelf remained untouched.

I wavered at the threshold with the faint dim voice of reason, which resides deep in the back of my head, yelling “Call a cop.” Another voice replied, “It’s already too late.”

I crept forward, exploring the disaster.

In the bedroom I pushed the mattress back onto the bed and picked up the bundle of sheets. Mr. McGoo lay on the floor under them.

“Did they hurt you?” I asked. I looked him over good before cuddling him to my chest. “Bastards.”

I went in search of the phone and dialed the emergency number; while it rang I picked up the trashcan. You had to give the thief credit for hygiene. He’d used a pair of wooden kitchen tongs, the ones I use to get my toast out of the toaster when it got stuck, to pick through the garbage. Why would anyone look through the trash? Maybe now that everyone knew about hiding drugs in the freezer the trash was the hot new hiding place. But this wasn’t an ordinary robbery, wasn’t guys looking for anything they could sell. The television and stereo were right where I’d left them.