Motor Mouth: A Barnaby Novel

  Hooker sipped his coffee. “Does it say anything about the driver? Has he been identified?”

  I read through the article. “He hasn’t been identified, but they give a reasonably good description of him. It says he was limping and thought to be injured. The car he stole hasn’t been found. At the end, there’s a quote from Spanky where he accuses you of masterminding the entire disaster.”

  “Nice. I wish I could mastermind us out of the disaster.”

  “I was counting on you to have a clever plan.”

  “I’m out of plans. I’m at a dead end.”

  “What about beating the crap out of people?”

  “Turns out, it doesn’t entirely work. And it’s embarrassing because you’re better at it than I am.”

  “Here’s part of the problem. It would be better if Ray had done the actual killing. Eventually, Rodriguez would have ratted Ray out. Unfortunately, there’s no reason for Ray to feel sufficiently threatened to talk to the police about Rodriguez.”

  Hooker’s phone rang, and I looked at my watch. It was early in the morning to be getting a phone call.

  “’Lo,” Hooker said. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Thanks, but I’ll take care of that myself.” He disconnected and grinned at me. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, darlin’.”

  “Now what?”

  “That was Ray Huevo. And he sounded…nervous. He wants the chip from the gearshift knob. Said maybe we could work something out. He wanted to fly us down to Miami so we could negotiate in person, but I declined. I didn’t think it was healthy to get on Ray’s private plane.” Hooker tapped a number into his phone. “I need a favor,” he said. “I need a ride to Miami.”

  I mentally cracked my knuckles until he disconnected. “Nutsy?”

  “Yeah. He said the police are watching the airport in Concord. He suggested we drive to Florence and catch his plane there. No one will think to watch Florence. It’s a three-hour drive, so we should get moving.”

  I called Felicia from the road. “We’re coming back to Miami,” I said. “I was wondering if we could stay with you again? And it’s a secret. We don’t want anyone to know we’re there. We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

  “Of course you can stay,” Felicia said. “My neighbor’s boy will be so excited to see Hooker again. And my cousin Edward was out of town last time. I have to go buy hats to get signed. I have a list.”

  Hooker glanced over at me when I disconnected. “She’s not going to tell anyone, right?”

  “Right.”

  Two hours out of Concord, Hooker’s phone rang and he did a small grimace when he looked at the readout. It was Skippy. Hooker still had speakerphone mode up.

  “Where are you?” Skippy yelled. “Do you know what day this is?”

  “Monday?” Hooker answered.

  “That’s right. And you need to be driving your car around Manhattan on Wednesday. And by the way, I’m not saying you were responsible, but the body in the motor coach was a nice touch. I understand Dickie messed his pants when he saw it. When they arrest you and you get your one phone call, make sure it’s to me.” And Skippy hung up.

  Florence is a nice little town with a nice little airport that has a few commercial hops in the morning. The National Guard uses the airport, and it serves as home base for a few private planes. And once a year, when the races are at Darlington, the airport bustles.

  It was close to eleven when Hooker swung into the lot and parked. We unloaded Beans, grabbed our bags of clothes, and walked from the car directly to Nutsy’s Citation. It was the only plane on the runway. It was the same model Hooker owned. I’d called ahead, and they were ready to roll the second we were onboard.

  A private plane seems like an outrageous luxury, but the schedule for the top Cup drivers is so insane it’s virtually impossible to manage any other way. There are corporate meet-and-greet sessions, commercial tapings, charity functions, and, of course, the races. Forty races a year at twenty-two different tracks spread across the country. Plus all of those drivers have wives and girlfriends and kids and dogs and proud, insane parents who need visitation time.

  Just like Hooker’s plane, Nutsy’s plane carried seven passengers and two pilots. Hooker and I took seats opposite each other. Beans tried to fit in a seat, but couldn’t get comfortable and finally settled himself in the aisle.

  A Citation goes up fast. One minute you’re on the runway, and then ZOOOM you’re above the clouds and leveling off. The Citation seat was infinitely more comfortable than Ralph’s pool table. I instantly fell asleep and didn’t wake until we were descending for the approach into Miami. I heard the wheels go down, and I looked out at the red tile roofs and shimmering waterways of south Florida. Odd how the mind works. I was wanted by the police and two hit men and all I could think about was the New York banquet looming in front of me. I needed a manicure. I needed a haircut. I needed a gown. If I couldn’t get back to my apartment, I didn’t even have the right makeup.

  We disembarked, and we were a ragtag little family standing in the Signature Aviation lobby, our dog on a leash, and all our worldly possessions in grocery bags plus my one travel bag. Hooker had a decent beard going, and I felt like a street urchin beside him.

  I looked across the room to the car-rental counter. “What are the chances they’ll rent us a car?” I asked Hooker.

  “Chances are good,” Hooker said. “Nutsy left his credit card in the plane. I just have to bullshit my way around giving them my license.”

  Ten minutes later we were on the road in an SUV.

  “Are we going to see Ray now?” I asked Hooker.

  “No. We’re going to Little Havana so we can hide the chip from the gearshift knob in Felicia’s house. It seems to be the only chip Ray cares about. Then we’re going to see Ray.”

  No one was home when we got to Felicia’s house, but the key was in the flowerpot next to the back door, just like always. We let ourselves in and Beans rushed ahead, jumping around, all excited, skidding on the kitchen linoleum. Probably remembering Felicia’s pancakes and pork barbecue. We trooped upstairs to the little bedroom, and Hooker taped the chip to the back of the picture of Jesus.

  “Doesn’t get any safer than that,” Hooker said.

  After sleeping in the car and on top of a pool table, I was thinking the little bedroom looked like paradise. The comfy bed with the clean sheets, the immaculate bathroom just down the hall…

  “Maybe we should test the bed out,” Hooker said. “See if it’s still too small.”

  “Good grief.”

  “Well, you had that look.”

  “I was thinking about the bathroom.”

  “Works for me,” Hooker said. “Warm water, slippery soap…”

  “Good grief.”

  “You keep saying that. That sounds so hopeless. I’m dying here. I need something to hang on to. Throw me a crumb, for pity’s sake.”

  I did a big fake sigh. “Maybe we can get together sometime later.”

  Hooker looked like the joy fairy had just unlocked the door to the bakery. “Really? How much later?”

  “After we get cleared of murder and grand-theft auto.”

  “Do you think we could shorten that to…in fifteen minutes?”

  “I thought it would give you an incentive.”

  “You think I need more incentive than not going to jail for the rest of my life?”

  “Okay. Fine. Great. Just forget it then. I didn’t mean it anyway.” And I turned and flounced out of the room and down the stairs. I wasn’t all that annoyed, but it seemed like a good exit line.

  Hooker was close behind me. “Too late to take it back. You promised.”

  “I didn’t promise. I said maybe.”

  We were in the dining room and Hooker pushed me against the wall and leaned into me and kissed me. There was a lot of tongue involved in the kiss, and Hooker pressed against me until there wasn’t any space left between us, and it was obvious there was more of Hooker than there had been five
minutes ago.

  “Tell me about the maybe,” Hooker said. “Was it a probably or was it a probably not.”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

  “You’re killing me,” Hooker said. “You’re more of a threat than Ray Huevo. And by the way, I like that you’ve got your hand on my ass.”

  Crap! He was right. I had my hand on his ass.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  Hooker was grinning. “It was no accident, darlin’. You’re hot for me.”

  I smiled back at him and shoved him away. “You’re right, but it’s still a maybe.”

  When we got to the kitchen, Hooker filled a bowl with water for Beans. Beans put his face into it and did a lot of loud slurping. The water slopped over the sides when he drank, and when he picked his head up, the water leaked out of his mouth and dripped off his lips.

  I mopped up the water with paper towels while Hooker called Ray Huevo.

  “I’m in town,” Hooker said. “Do you want to talk?”

  There was some negotiation and Hooker hung up.

  “I’m meeting him on the beach in a half hour,” Hooker said. “At Lincoln Road. I declined on a boat meeting. I didn’t want to get thrown off his boat again. And this meeting is between Ray and me. I want you and Beans to stay here.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t trust Ray. I don’t want to put you in jeopardy.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but there’s no way you’re going without me. We’re in this together. And suppose someone gets the crap beat out of them? You think I want to miss that?”

  “My fear is that it might be me,” Hooker said.

  The compromise was that we left Beans in Felicia’s house and I went with Hooker. Hooker had stripped down to a T-shirt and jeans when we arrived in Miami. I’d been left with jeans and a long-sleeved turtleneck, making me a tad conspicuous on South Beach. You could be naked on South Beach and not cause a ripple of excitement. A turtleneck shouted tourist, fresh off the plane. Hooker parked the rental on the street, and I popped into a shop and swapped my turtleneck for a tank top.

  The Ritz-Carlton sits at the end of Lincoln Road, and a pretty bricked footpath gently undulates alongside the hotel, giving beach access to all. We took the footpath and walked out onto the hard-packed sand. It was a breathtaking blue-sky day in Miami. Eighty degrees with a gentle breeze. The beach is white sand and wide here. The Ritz had its royal blue beach chairs out in orderly rows. Plus a row of cabanas. There were some bronzed and oiled-up bodies on the lounges. Attendants moved from body to body, serving drinks, handing out towels. The ocean rolled in on foamy waves. No one was swimming.

  I looked over Hooker’s shoulder and saw three men step off the footpath onto the sand. Ray Huevo, Rodriguez, and Lucca. Rodriguez was on crutches. He had a Band-Aid across his nose and two black eyes. Lucca’s six-pack bruise was turning green. Ray Huevo looked like a billion dollars.

  Huevo moved toward us. Rodriguez and Lucca stayed behind.

  “How’s his knee?” I asked Huevo.

  “He’ll live.” He glanced back at Rodriguez. “For a while.”

  Hooker and I exchanged a look that said yikes.

  “For security purposes, I would prefer this conversation was one-on-one,” Huevo said.

  I nodded agreement, and Hooker and Huevo walked away from me. They stood at the water’s edge, their conversation lost in the surf. After a couple minutes, they turned and walked back.

  Huevo inclined his head when he passed me. “I’ll have positions open in security if you’re interested in career advancement.”

  I looked at Hooker. “What did he mean by that?”

  “He’s not happy with Rodriguez and Lucca. They keep killing people. And even worse, they keep getting beat up by a girl.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Yeah. So he wants to sacrifice them for the chip we found in the gearshift knob. He says Lucca and Rodriguez are a liability. If we give Ray the chip, he’ll turn Lucca and Rodriguez over to the police, and he’ll pretend the hauler was never stolen.”

  “Hard to believe the chip is that valuable. Especially now that Oscar is out of the picture. Ray can pretty much do whatever he wants.”

  Hooker shrugged. “That’s what he said. And as an act of trust, he’s going to turn Rodriguez and Lucca in before we give him the chip.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Not entirely. He has Gobbles.” Hooker handed me a photo of Gobbles standing with his hands tied behind his back, not looking happy, Rodriguez on one side, Lucca on the other. “We get Gobbles back when Ray gets the chip and verifies its authenticity.”

  “We should never have let Gobbles go off on his own.”

  “Hindsight,” Hooker said. “Anyway, we get him back when we give Ray the chip.” Hooker nuzzled my neck and kissed me behind the ear. “I think we should celebrate.”

  “I think a celebration is premature.”

  “Darlin’, I really need to celebrate. I haven’t celebrated in a long time. In fact, it’s been so long, it’s probably appropriate if it’s a premature celebration because it’s going to be a premature—”

  “Stop!” I had my hand up. “Let’s celebrate with onion rings at the bar.”

  Hooker just stared at me.

  “Earth to Hooker.”

  “Onion rings at the bar,” he repeated. “Sure, that would be good. That was my second choice.”

  The Ritz has a fabulous bar set right on the beach. It’s just behind the footpath, nestled into a cement cave and garnished with palm trees. It’s shaded and South Beach glitzy. Not exactly rocking at three in the afternoon, so we had no problem claiming bar stools. We were halfway through our onion rings and Buds when a familiar figure strolled by on the footpath. It was Suzanne walking Itsy Poo.

  “It walks,” Hooker said. “Who would have thought?”

  Suzanne looked over the top of her sunglasses at me. “Barney? Hey, girlfriend, I thought you’d moved on.”

  “I came back. Missed the heat.”

  Suzanne put Itsy Poo in her bag and joined us at the bar. “You’ve been making headlines.”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding.”

  “Our mutual friend Dickie Bonnano seems to feel Hooker is responsible for everything evil in the world.”

  “I do the best I can,” Hooker said, “but I can’t claim responsibility for everything.”

  “I figured you didn’t do Oscar,” Suzanne said, “but I was kind of hoping you set Dickie up with the stiff and the coach crash.”

  Suzanne was total Dolce & Gabbana in a gauzy leopard-print shirt, wide jeweled belt, tight white slacks, and strappy gold sandals. I was Wal-Mart and Gap. Hooker still hadn’t shaved. Hooker was Detroit wino raised by wolves.

  “I thought you would have left South Beach by now,” I said to Suzanne.

  “I like it here. Thought I’d stay for a while.” She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl out of her nose, dragon-style.

  “Are you still at Loews?” I asked her.

  “I moved into a condo building. Majestic Arms.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Corporate rental, so it’s sterile, but the location is prime, and it’s full ser vice. And most important, Itsy Poo adores it.” Suzanne put her face into the dog bag. “Don’t you wuv it, Itsy Poo? You do! I know you do. You wuv the new condo.”

  Hooker ate the last onion ring and sent me a look that said he’d throw up if I ever asked Beans if he wuvved something.

  I returned my attention to Suzanne. “How’s the boat battle going?”

  “It’s been ugly, but it’s about to improve. Men like Oscar and Ray always underestimate women.” Suzanne’s mouth curved into a joyless smile. “Not a smart thing to do with a bitch like me.”

  Hooker instinctively crossed his legs.

  “Sounds like you have a plan,” I said to Suzanne.

  She took a drag, tipped her head back, and blew out a
perfect smoke ring. “I have a plan and a half.” She slid her ass off the bar stool. “Gotta go. Got a cake in the oven. Remember, I’m at the Majestic if you want a giggle.”

  “Do you think she really has a cake in the oven?” I asked Hooker when Suzanne was back on the footpath.

  “If she does, you’re not going to catch me eating it.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Ray had an appointment that he didn’t expect to last long, and then he was going to take care of Rodriguez and Lucca. Apparently there’s a buyer for the chip coming in on a flight tonight, and Ray doesn’t want to disappoint him. So we should have this nightmare wrapped up before the day is over.”

  I rested my forehead on the bar and took a deep breath. I was so relieved, I was close to tears. “Do we need to go back and get the chip?”

  “No. I don’t want it on either of us until I’m sure we’re off the hook. Ray said he’d call me when he had everything in place. He expected he’d be back in touch by eight at the latest.”

  Hooker’s phone rang. “Sure,” Hooker said. “Barbecued chicken would be good. Just us, though, right? We don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”

  “Felicia?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Hooker said, returning his phone to his pocket. “She wanted to know if we’d be back for dinner.”

  We sat at the bar for a while longer, and then we took off for Little Havana. Every light was lit in Felicia’s house when we arrived. Cars were double-parked on the street and people were milling around on the sidewalk in front of her small front porch. Hooker slowed the SUV in front of the house and a cheer went up.

  “Good thing we told Felicia to keep this a secret,” Hooker said. “Otherwise she’d have to rent out the Orange Bowl for dinner.”

  We drove around back and parked in a spot that had been held empty for us with a sign on a garbage can. The sign read RESERVED FOR SAM HOOKER.