Two Jakes (25 page)

CHAPTER
30 – A HELLUVA PARTY

Scarne
peeled off from Alana at the bottom of the stairs and went to change. Once
outside again, he threw his towel over a vacant chair near the deep end of the
pool. He waited while a bare-breasted woman doing a backstroke glided past,
then dove in and swam the length of the pool underwater. Then he did a normal
lap on the way back and climbed out, refreshed. As he toweled off he headed toward
the bar, where Alana was in animated conversation with the two men from the
boat.

“Those
guys are bad news.” It was Goetz, who had fallen in step with Scarne, martini
firmly in hand. “Ballantrae’s Mutt and Jeff.”

“What
do they do?” Scarne asked. He shortened his stride. Goetz walked like a
penguin; only his legs below his knees appeared to move

“Damned
if I know. They’re listed as brokers, same as me. But I hardly ever see them in
the office. Thick as thieves, those two. Pair of faggadoons. Don’t give me a
look. Everybody knows and nobody cares in this town. But they give me the
creeps. I’d like to know how they make their dough. In fact, I’m still trying
to figure out how Ballantrae makes all its money.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Can’t
be from the brokerage business. Retail, investment banking, institutional and
research are all burning money. But the well never seems to run dry. And it
should, with the rates we pay out on our C.D.’s. They’re way over market. I ask
them how they do it and I get a lot of malarkey about overseas investments,
hedges and proprietary computer trading. Like we can corner the market on that
stuff. But what the hell, I’ll leave it up to the lawyers. I’m just an asset
gatherer. They call us ‘financial consultants,’ but all we do is get people to
deposit their money. Most of it goes into those C.D.’s. If they buy stocks from
us, it’s accidental.”

It
came out “
ashidental
.” There wasn’t much olive room left in his glass.
Scarne wanted to draw him out further but they had reached the bar. Alana said
something sharply in German to the blond man, then flashed a smile.

“Jake,
I’d like you to meet Jesús Garza and Christian Keitel. I told them you thought
they were crashers.”

“You
gringos always worry about Cubans jumping off a boat,” Garza said.

They
all laughed and shook hands. Garza’s accent was barely noticeable.

“Be
nice, Jesús,” Alana said. “Jake was just looking out for me. Besides, I think
he won half the company from Victor in a golf match.”

“You
are a marked man, Mr. Scarne,” Keitel said “Victor doesn’t like to lose, at
anything.”

He
looked at Alana as he said it. Then he looked at Goetz.

“Tony,
you beat us out again for the quarter. How do you do it?”

“The
question is, ‘How do you guys even get close to my production?’ I bust my balls,
while you guys jet around the world and work on your tans.”

Garza
slapped the little broker on the shoulder.

“We’d
love to tell you, Tony, but then we’d have to kill you.”

He
turned to Scarne.

“Tony
is getting nervous. We’re nipping at his heels. He’s afraid we’ll get a bigger
bonus or win one of the incentive trips.”

“What
the hell do you need a trip for,” Goetz snapped. “You’ve been everywhere.
Except maybe the office.”

“Enough
shop talk,” Alana interjected. “I’m famished. Will you get me a Chardonnay,
Jake? I’ll fix us plates and we’ll eat by the fountain.”

She
walked away, greeting people as she went. There was a low growl from a powerful
marine engine. Scarne looked out at the water. A sleek cigarette boat with a
large black tarp stretched amidships pulled up just offshore. He ordered two
Chardonnays. Goetz looked at his two rivals.

“Well,
if I have to stand next to a couple of boobs, I can do better than you guys. I
think I’ll go to the pool and do some research on silicone. One thing’s for
sure, Alana can throw a helluva fuckin’ party.”

After
he walked off, Garza said, “Tony is a malestar – a pain – but he can produce.
Lands a lot of Jewish money. There is still plenty of it in Miami.”

“Who
do you guys go after?”

“Oh,
we have a big European and South American clientele. Some Middle Eastern. We
travel more than Tony. Our pickings aren’t as easy as his.”

“I
guess you do pretty well, to judge by your rowboat out there.”

“Oh
that. Sorry to disappoint you, but we don’t own it. We belong to a boat club.
Allows us to use a variety of boats for an annual fee that covers a certain
number of hours. Anything from skiffs to yachts. When we bring them back, we’re
done with them. Don’t have the time or the patience to own a boat. We have
better things to do than scrape barnacles.”

“Well,
it’s a nice boat. What is it, a 50-foot Hatteras?”

“You’ve
got a good eye, Jake. It’s a 50-footer, but not a Hatteras. It’s a Sealine.
Hatteras would have cost more hours, and the Sealine is a nice craft.”

“That’s
not a bad way to do it,” Scarne admitted. “They say the two best days of your
life are when you buy a boat and when you sell it. What’s the name of the
club?”

“Yacht
Net,” Keitel said. “Although some of their boats, like that one out there,
don’t qualify as yachts. They have branches and berths in marinas on both
coasts. You interested? The local office is in Key Biscayne.”

“Maybe
sometime in the future. Well, I’d better find Alana.”

“Nice
to meet you, Jake,” Keitel said. “Good luck with your investigation.”

Scarne
nodded and walked away. He could feel their eyes on his back. Despite the
friendly boating banter, he knew something wasn’t right about them. He’d lay
good money that they barely knew the difference between a stock and a bond. And
then there was the mention of the investigation. That was a slip. There would
be no reason that a couple of ordinary brokers would know why he was in Miami.
Certainly Ballantrae and Alana wouldn’t spread it around to just anybody. That
meant that Garza and Keitel were in the inner circle privy to very sensitive
material.

Alana
was sitting at the table with several people. Scarne was relieved to see that
the women all had their tops on. The food Alana had selected for him was
delicious. For the next 20 minutes he ate and chatted. The men talked real
estate and football; the women, fashion and diets. All were loud and animated
and had uniformly atrocious table manners. The combination of braggadocio,
spittle and suntan lotion eventually got to Scarne. He turned to Alana, who was
disinterestedly listening to a woman extolling her bikini wax.

“Excuse
me, but I think I’ll go jump in the bay.”

The
woman who was talking to Alana said, very seriously, “You’re not supposed to go
in the water right after eating. You could drown.”

“One
can only hope,” Scarne replied.

The
woman looked confused. Alana suppressed a laugh. As he walked to the pool, she
caught up to him.

“It’s
a pretty shallow crowd. Believe it or not, I have to do some more mingling. Do
you mind if I ignore you for a while?”

“You
don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”

The
party picked up. Some people were dancing. A woman screamed as she was pushed
into the pool. Two men jumped in and all three began tussling amid much
laughter. One of the men twirled a bikini top above his head. The woman kept
jumping up for it, her ample breasts jouncing in the man’s face. Many of the
older people seemed to have left. He couldn’t see Thomas Harris. Probably
departed with plenty of ideas for table fare for Hannibal Lechter.

Scarne
found a chaise in the sun and dropped his towel. He dove into the pool, came
out on the bar side and ordered another glass of wine. Then he went to stretch
out on his chair. It didn’t take him long to spot all the hookers. Their bodies
were firmer, they laughed too loudly at their companions’ jokes and smoked
incessantly. Scarne noted cynically that girlfriends were less effusive and
wives tended to ignore their husbands. They had landed their fish. He wondered
what, if anything, Alana saw in these people. Business, probably. Or maybe they
appealed to her wild, table-dancing, side.

Garza,
Keitel and Goetz were standing by the pool, engaged in a lively conversation.
The stocky broker was wagging a finger at Garza. Scarne was amused to note that
though the animated Goetz was swaying, the hand holding the martini glass –
which even from a distance looked green with accumulated olives – was on a
relatively even keel. He thought about going over, especially when he saw Alana
join the group, but decided that he wanted to get Goetz all to himself for a
while. Besides, the food, sun and wine began to do their work. He put his head
back and started to doze off.

He
was in that twilight zone that just preceded sleep when he heard the shot. He
was instantly alert. There was no mistaking it. From the sound of it, a
high-power rifle. Then he heard real screams, followed by the sound of crashing
platters and broken glass. All the time the band played on, but finally one
instrument stopped, then another until the music died out discordantly. People
scrambled out of the pool and cautiously moved backwards, some pointing
uncertainly into the water.

Scarne
immediately looked for Alana. She, too, was staring into the pool. Goetz had
disappeared and Garza and Keitel were prone on the pool deck, low to the
ground, like cats. They were looking out at the bay. Scarne turned to see a
glint of reflected light under the tarp of the cigarette boat he’d noticed
earlier. He came out of his chair and reached Alana in three strides,
propelling her violently into the pool. Just before they hit the water he felt
more than heard the zinging passage of a bullet, followed by the sound of the
shot and a loud splintering crash. Then they were plunging together to the
bottom and came face to face with Tony Goetz.

He
was lying on his back, arms outstretched, eyes wide open. He looked surprised.
Scarne was momentarily disoriented by what appeared several other “eyes”
bobbing near the man’s head. They were green and had red centers. Scarne
thought he was hallucinating. Then he realized they were olives. Goetz had
taken his martini glass with him, still clasped in his hand. Alana pushed
toward the surface. He grabbed her and signaled her to stay behind him. She put
her arms around his neck and he surfaced at the side of the pool. Peering
cautiously toward the bay, he saw the cigarette boat roaring away at full
throttle. Garza and Keitel were sprinting to the bulkhead. They dove in, swam
to their own boat and were soon in hot pursuit.

“I’ll
have to take your broker-training course, Alana.”

She
didn’t answer. Her arms were shaking. He loosened her grip and climbed out of
the pool, then pulled her up.

“Go
inside,” Scarne said.

“What
about Tony?”

“I’ll
take care of it. Call the police.” It would be redundant, he knew. Cell phones were
popping out all over. “Go on,” he said, shaking her. “Now!”

After
she left he dove in the pool. There was still surprisingly little blood in the
water. Scarne put his arms under Goetz and kicked to the surface, thinking,
well,
I’ve got him alone now
. The cocktail glass came out of the hand and twirled
toward the bottom. By the time he got to the side of the pool, a few guests had
pulled themselves together. Several men and a woman – one of the ones he knew
to be a call girl – jumped in to help. Hookers had some sand, he thought. The
intrepid little band, with the help of the bartender, managed to haul Goetz
onto the deck. The girl began mouth-to-mouth as the bartender compressed
Goetz’s chest.

“C’mon
buddy, you can make it,” the man said. Blood immediately seeped between his
fingers. No water came out of his mouth with the compressions.

“No,
he can’t,” Scarne said. “Don’t bother.”

He
put a finger on the carotid. Nothing. He ripped open Goetz’s shirt. There was a
small hole below the breastbone. He rolled the body partially over. There was
no exit wound. Not a military or steel-jacketed round, which would have gone
straight through. More likely a hunting slug that mushroomed. From the size of
the entry wound and sound of the shot, probably a high-velocity .243 or 6 mm.
Small but devastating. The shock of 80 grains of lead and soft polymer tip
traveling at 3,300 feet per second blossoming to a sudden stop internally would
be enough to kill. The pressure wave alone could break the spine and stop the
heart. Goetz was dead before he hit the pool. No chance to breathe in water.
The seeping blood came from the pulverized heart.

“He’s
been shot. The police will want to talk to everyone. No one should leave. The
cops wouldn’t like that. They won’t be interested in recreational drugs or your
occupation.” He winked at the call girl; she winked back. “Only what you saw or
heard. But some of you may want to put more clothes on.”

“Somebody
hand me a towel,” he said.

When
one was offered he placed it over the dead man’s face. Not strictly procedure,
but the hell with that. He had liked the little guy. Some others apparently did
as well. He heard a women sobbing and commiserating male sounds. Probably
co-workers.