1 Margarita Nights (8 page)

“Because Jimmy’s supposed to be dead?” Dr. John was John Zampa, the dentist Marley worked for.

“Yeah,” she said, helping herself to more fries.

“Why would he be interested in Jimmy?”

She chewed carefully while she thought about this. “My guess is Mrs. John, cute, tiny, flirty eyes, bored and on the make. She’s got a nanny for the baby and little John is in school now. The Junior League and the Garden Club probably don’t do it for her.” She stopped talking and tore into her burger. Tucking lettuce into the corner of her mouth with a finger, she continued, “Lara Zampa was taking golf lessons at Windimere from Jimmy and we both know what Jimmy’s like.” “Did Jimmy ever hit on you?” I asked.

She turned to face me and gave me a look that made me regret my rash question. I changed the subject. “Still it’s a long walk from being a jealous husband to blowing up a boat.”

“Dr. John owns a piece of Windimere. I heard him on the phone saying, ‘I want that bastard Travis out of there.’ This was just before Christmas. He definitely had it in for Jimmy.”

“Do you think Dr. Zampa is capable of blowing up the
Suncoaster
?”

She gave it some thought. “A boat yes, a person no.” She finished her burger and said, “Dr. John came up the hard way. It took hard work and grit to get where he is. He was the first one in his family to finish high school. Went to college on a scholarship.” She took a sip of her soda. “Then he married his dream girl. He’s told me more than once how lucky he was to snag her and I know her papa set him up in business. I don’t think he’d let all of that go too easily.”

“Well, there you are. Dr. Zampa blew up the
Suncoaster
and Jimmy just walked away . . . used it as an excuse to take a powder. Thank god there are other possibilities besides me. Styles has me half convinced I did it.”

“Well, my money is still on you.” She plunged the straw in and out of her cup as she thought it through. “What if it was someone else on the boat? Someone had to hit the switch to start the engine.” She turned her head to look at me, the green eyes, big and round, stared at me over her soda. “If not Jimmy, who was it?” She hesitated, put down the soda and whispered, “Andy?”

“Andy,” I agreed. “Thinking about the
Suncoaster
and Andy, it seems not exhausting fumes from the bilge is exactly the kind of mistake Andy would make. Even on a good day he’s forgetful and accident-prone and it’s been quite a while since he’s had a good day.” “Shit,” she said.

I stubbed out the cigarette.

She drew herself up in indignation. “There’s no way Jimmy would hurt Andy.”

“I know that. But what if it just happened? Maybe someone rigged it or Andy got careless.” There was one other possibility I hardly dared think of, one I had to take a deep breath before I could say aloud. “Or Andy used the boat to commit suicide. I’ve been doing a lot of reading. A huge percentage of schizophrenics commit suicide. Styles said the blades were off the exhaust fan.” “But where’s Jimmy?”

“If the boat blew up with Andy on board, Jimmy might use it as a way to get out, to disappear and start over.”

“Would he let you and his folks think he was dead?”

“Depends on how much shit he was into. I know he owes a ton of money. He tried to borrow some from me before Christmas and there were a couple of guys who came into the bar looking for him last week that I wouldn’t take home to mother and you know how welcoming she is.”

“Wouldn’t he just ask his dad? Daddy always got him out of trouble before.”

“I got the impression from Jimmy that Dr. Travis has set new rules.”

I pulled the elastic out of my hair and ran my hands through it. “There’s something else.”

“What?” Her voice was wary as if she was unsure she really wanted to hear this.

“The cops think I fixed the
Suncoaster
to blow up.”

“What?” They must have heard her inside the restaurant.

“Why?”

“They have a witness that saw someone on the
Suncoaster
that afternoon. A woman.”

She waited a heartbeat and then asked, “And they think it was you?” “Yeah.”

She tossed the last of my fries back into the bag, put both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead as she asked, “And was it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh shit.” Her fists pounded the steering wheel. “Why?” she growled. “I thought you couldn’t get far enough away from that asshole.” She turned to face me. “Why? For god’s sake, why?”

“There were some pictures.”

“Of what, as if I couldn’t guess?”

“Me. Polaroid nudes Jimmy took years ago. He’s been calling me up and describing them in detail, telling me how much he’s enjoying them now that the real thing isn’t there.”

“No wonder you never answer your phone! Did you find them?”

“Yeah. I burned them in the kitchen sink . . . well, all except one.” I could feel the broad smile splitting my face. “Something to remember when I collect my pension.”

“If you live that long.”

I sat up straight. “That’s what’s scaring the hell out of me. Styles likes me for the fit of an electric chair. Last night, the Travises told Styles Jimmy still had an insurance policy and when Evan came in . . . well, that pretty much clinched it. I bet Styles thinks we’re having an affair.”

“So does everybody else in town. Will Evan come out of the closet and tell Styles you’re not his type?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I just don’t think Styles will look beyond me. He’s a tidy man. This is tidy. Maybe that witness can’t identify me but this shitty puke green car is unforgettable.”

She didn’t argue or try to make me feel better, just worried the skin along the edge of her thumb as she thought about it.

“If Jimmy is alive and I think he is, where would he be?” I asked.

“Easy,” Marley said. “Up in the redneck Riviera, hunting and fishing and screwing the native women.”

I shook my head in disagreement. “That was my first thought but I’ve had more time to think about it. The Panhandle wouldn’t be a very good place to hide. Somebody who knows somebody would tell somebody and sooner or later we’d all hear it down here. No. If Jimmy is gone he’ll want to stay gone. He won’t want anyone to find him.”

“Well where then?”

“I’ve been thinking about this. He used to tell me how easy it is to hitch rides on boats. Down in the Caribbean, there are always boats cruising from one island to another that need crew. He figured you could work your way from Florida down to South America and never need a passport, just hopping from one port to the next. You know how he loves boats and the Caribbean. That’s where he’d head.”

She stared at me, emerald eyes wide and a little surprised, working it out. At last she gave a small nod of agreement.

“Honey, you are so screwed.”

“I have to find him.”

“Do you think he got someone to drive him across to Miami?”

“Why bother? There’s a guy that Jimmy knows down in Boca Grande who captains a boat for a bunch of doctors up in New York. When they aren’t using it, they charter it out. Jimmy crewed on it one May during tarpon season, one big booze-out.”

“And you think . . . ?” she asked, making little circles with her forefinger.

“And I think Jimmy may have paid him or sweet-talked him into taking him across to Texas, Louisiana or even the Bahamas or Mexico.”

“How do we figure out which?”

“It’s a good day for a drive down to Boca.”

She started the car and was backing up before I’d finished sweeping the debris from her snack off the dash.

We went south down Tamiami Trail, now designated a scenic highway, which is fine if you happen to think strip malls and motels are scenic. Outside a Citgo station a rusting magnetic sign left over from Christmas said “Happy B-day Jesus.”

At State road 776, we turned west, going past white-walled and gated communities, citrus groves, cattle ranches and a million billboards selling everything from real estate to sex and religion.

“Do you suppose anyone has ever done a book on the billboards of Florida?” I asked Marley. “You know, one of those big, glossy, coffee-table books. Look at that one,” I pointed to a weathered billboard up ahead. “‘Have you talked it over with Jesus?’” I read out loud. “There’s the answer to all our problems, girl. Let’s give him a call.”

“The long-distances charges would be a killer,” said Marley.

“There’s one.” A huge sign stood above a field of grazing cattle, with small white birds riding their backs and picking bugs. Overhead, buzzards soared.

“Gator Bill’s Pawn and Gun Shop,” I read. Gator Bill also offered the added service of bail bonds.

“One-stop shopping,” Marley put in. “Do the crime and we get you out before you have to do the time. You might want to write down his number just in case.”

At the Mercury motor test station we crossed out onto the causeway to Gasparilla Island. This is the place the Bushes, governor and past president, come for their Christmas holiday. Sometimes they even bring the current president.

About now I’d normally be in heaven, but the huge blue dome of the sky and sparkling azure gulf, with a little bitty strip of causeway in between, didn’t give me the customary kick. I stared at osprey nesting on tall poles, at diving pelicans and even at a lone dolphin surfacing twenty feet offshore and felt dead to it all.

We drove through the quaint town of Boca Grande, past the hotel that looks like an old plantation house with twentyfoot white pillars holding up the second storey and wooden rockers sitting in a line along the porch. The theme from
Gone with the Wind
always plays in my head when I see this old hotel. We turned east, past the dense green hedge blooming with scarlet flowers and enclosing a jewel-green croquet lawn along the back of the hotel.

Beyond the golf course, the road twists and turns leading out to the Sandbar Marina, a weathered gray building with three docks stuck out into a sheltered bay embraced by mangroves.

“The
Hollidaze
is berthed out at the end of the center dock,” I told Marley. We walked along the gray planking between the rows of boats, out to the spot where the forty-two-foot Bertram with twin 435-horsepower engines normally would be tied. The giant cruiser with the stupid name wasn’t there. There was a new boat, a power launch called the
Jersey Queen
, in her place.

“Do you suppose it’s owned by a transvestite from New Jersey?” I asked Marley.

Marley replied, “What now, oh fearless leader?” “Beats the hell out of me.” Not finding the
Hollidaze
made it seem all the more likely I wouldn’t find Jimmy either.

“Let’s ask around. Maybe someone knows where she is or when she left,” Marley said.

I slumped along behind Marley, letting her do the asking while I worried about clothing options for my trial.

Most people we talked to seemed to be transients, only there for a few days. They’d never heard of the
Hollidaze
and couldn’t care less.