Motor Mouth: A Barnaby Novel

  I took a position on one of the couches and watched the elevator. Widow Huevo looked to me like a woman who needed a drink, and I was guessing she’d settle into her room then waste no time hitting the bar. My plan was to wait around for an hour. If nothing happened, I’d go back to Hooker. Turned out an hour was overkill because the widow emerged from the elevator after ten minutes and went straight to the bar. Since South Beach doesn’t actually cook until midnight, the bar was empty. Mrs. Huevo took one of the little tables and looked around for a waitress. Impatient. Really needed the drink. She still had the doggie bag with her, but the dog was deep inside. Probably freezing. As soon as the dog head popped out, I was going to make my move.

  Not a bartender or waitress in sight. No one in the area but me and Mrs. Huevo. I cracked my knuckles and zipped the sweatshirt. Mrs. Huevo removed her suit jacket. Obviously having a hot flash. Or maybe she just liked hard nipples. Probably the latter. I saw the dog stick his head out and look around and instantly disappear back into the bag. Good enough for me.

  I approached Mrs. Huevo and bent down a little by the bag. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I had to come see your dog. He just popped his head out, and he looked so adorable.”

  Here’s the thing about people who carry their dogs everywhere with them. They love their dogs. And they love talking about their dogs. So it’s possible to approach a total stranger, coo over the dog, and become instant best friends.

  The widow Huevo looked at me hopefully. “You wouldn’t happen to work here, would you? Christ, who do I have to fuck to get a drink in this place?”

  “This bar doesn’t look like it’s operating right now,” I said. “I was going to try one of the tables on the porch. People seem to be sitting there.”

  Widow Huevo craned her neck to take it in. “You’re right!”

  She was on her feet and moving, her long legs gobbling up the Loews art nouveau patterned carpet. I was taking two steps to her one, trying to keep pace.

  “Jeez,” I said, “how can you walk so fast?”

  “Anger.”

  I tried not to smile too much. Oh yeah, I thought, this was going to work out just great.

  We pushed through the doors and found a table on the patio that overlooked the pool and the ocean. Probably the dog wasn’t allowed here, but no one was going to tell that to the bitch Huevo. She put the dog bag on her lap and swiveled in my direction, opening the bag a little. “This is Itsy Poo,” she said. “She’s three years old, and she’s the best little girl.”

  Itsy Poo popped up and looked at her mistress, and Huevo made an instant transformation from bitch woman to gaga googoo dog mommy.

  “Isn’t she the best?” Huevo asked Itsy Poo. “Isn’t she the cutest? The sweetest? Isn’t she mommy’s darling?”

  Itsy Poo’s eyes bugged out of her tiny head and she vibrated with excitement. She was a miniature something, small enough to sit in a woman’s hand. Sort of rat size but not that much muscle. Her mousy brown hair was long but not especially full. If Itsy Poo were a woman, she’d be on Rogaine. The hair on her head was pulled into a topknot and tied with a tiny pink satin ribbon.

  I tentatively stuck my hand into the bag, and Itsy Poo cuddled into it. She was in a nest made from a cashmere shawl. She was warm, and her scraggly hair was as soft as a baby’s breath.

  “Wow,” I whispered, genuinely taken with the dog. “She’s so silky. So pretty.”

  “She’s mommy’s baby. Isn’t she? Isn’t she?” Huevo gurgled at the dog.

  A waiter approached the table, Mommy Huevo partially closed the bag, and Itsy Poo settled herself into her cashmere.

  “Martini, dry,” Huevo told the waiter. “Three of them.”

  “Iced tea,” I said.

  The widow Huevo’s unblinking eyes fixed on me. “Get serious.”

  “I have to drive.”

  “I can’t sit here drinking martinis with someone nursing an iced tea. How about a margarita? It’s got fruit juice in it. It hardly counts. You can pretend it’s breakfast.” Huevo flicked a glance at the waiter. “Give her a margarita. Cabo Wabo, on the rocks, float the Cointreau.”

  A handful of very tan people lounged by the pool. No kids. No one actually in the pool. There was a slight breeze, but the sun was still hot and the temperature was about forty degrees higher than the hotel lobby. I felt the blood pulsing back into my fingertips, felt my nipples relaxing. I removed the sweatshirt and slouched back in my chair. The widow Huevo didn’t slouch. She was at rigid attention, hands clenched on the tabletop.

  “So,” I said, “what brings you to South Beach?”

  “Business.”

  Our drinks arrived, and Huevo belted the first martini back, exhaling when the alcohol hit her stomach.

  I extended my hand. “Alexandra Barnaby.”

  “Suzanne Huevo.”

  Her handshake was firm. Her hands were like ice. Definitely needed another martini.

  I raised my margarita glass. “To Itsy Poo.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Suzanne said. And she downed the second martini.

  I gave the new blast of alcohol a minute to register, and then I got right to the meat of the matter, because at the rate Suzanne Huevo was slurping martinis, I worried she wasn’t far from incoherent. “Did you happen to know the man who was murdered? I think his name was Huevo.”

  “Oscar Huevo. My asshole husband.”

  “Omigod, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. Someone killed the bastard before I could get to him. I had it all planned out, too. I was going to poison him. It was going to be nice and painful.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? I was married to that jerk for twenty-two miserable years. I gave him two sons. And I sacrificed and suffered for him. I logged enough hours on the StairMaster to go to the moon twice. I’ve had my thighs sucked out and my lips plumped up. I’ve got enough Botox injected in my face to kill a horse. I’ve got double-D implants and full-mouth veneers. And how does he thank me for my effort? He trades me in for a newer model.”

  “No!”

  She ate a couple olives. “He was going to. Served me with divorce papers. And then he died before I signed them. How’s that for justice?”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No. Unfortunately. I’d send him a fruit basket. And then I’d beat the crap out of him for robbing me of the pleasure of seeing Oscar die in front of me.” She looked around for a menu. “I’m starved. We should order something to eat. French fries. I haven’t had a French fry since 1986.”

  “Wasn’t Oscar Huevo Mexican? You don’t look Mexican.”

  “I’m from Detroit. I met Oscar in Vegas back when Vegas was Vegas. I was a showgirl.”

  I reached for my margarita and was shocked to find it was empty.

  “Hey!” Suzanne yelled to a passing waiter. “Another margarita and bring me more martinis, and we want French fries and onion rings and macaroni and cheese.”

  “I’m not really a two-drink person,” I said to Suzanne.

  Suzanne made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just fruit juice.”

  I licked a few grains of leftover salt from the rim of my glass. “Are you here for the funeral?”

  “No. The funeral will be held in Mexico next week. They haven’t released the body yet. I came to harass Ray. He’s sitting out there in that yacht like he owns it.”

  “He doesn’t own it?”

  “Huevo Enterprises owns it. Oscar was Huevo Enterprises, and when the estate is settled, that boat will belong to my two sons.”

  “How old are your sons? They must be in shock over this.”

  “They’re both in college, and they’re dealing with it.”

  “Let me guess. You’re here to guarantee no one screws your kids out of their inheritance.”

  “Ray is slime. I wanted to make sure the yacht didn’t mysteriously disappear. I want to make sure nothing disappears.”

  Th
e food was delivered, along with the drinks. Suzanne polished off the third martini and dug into the onion rings. Her right eye was drooped half closed. I was trying not to stare, but it was a complete car crash.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Uh, nothing.”

  “It’s my eye, isn’t it? It’s drooping, right? Goddamn freaking Botox. Can’t even get hammered without something going all to hell.”

  “Maybe you need a patch. Like a pirate.”

  Suzanne stopped eating and drinking and gaped at me. She burst out laughing, and the laughter rocketed around the patio. It was deep and straight from her belly and gave an insight into a happier, less angry, less Botoxed Suzanne.

  “Oh jeez,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “Is my mascara running?”

  It was hard for me to tell if her mascara was running, because somehow I’d managed to slurp up the second margarita, and Suzanne had gotten extremely fuzzy.

  “This is sort of embarrassing,” I said, “but I seem to be drunk, and you’re a big blurry blob. Nothing personal.”

  “S’all right,” she said. “You’re blobby, too. Doncha love when that happens?” She ate some fries. She ate some more onion rings. And then she slumped in her seat and fell asleep.

  I dialed Hooker.

  “I’ve got a problem,” I told him. “I’m at the patio restaurant at Loews, and I’m too drunk to move. And even worse, I’m with Suzanne Huevo, and she’s passed out. I was hoping you could ride your white horse over here and rescue me.”

  I ate the macaroni and cheese, finished off the French fries, and drank a pot of coffee. People came and went in the restaurant and pool area, and Suzanne and Itsy Poo peacefully snoozed.

  I was about to order more coffee when Hooker showed up. He sauntered across the room and slouched into the seat next to me. “What’s her problem?” he asked.

  “Four martinis. Maybe five. I lost count. How’d you get here? I have the car in valet parking.”

  “Took a cab.” Hooker turned his attention to me, grinning. “Darlin’, you’re snockered.”

  “What gave me away?”

  “For starters, you’ve got your hand on my leg.”

  I looked down. Sure enough, my hand was on his leg. “I don’t know how that happened. Don’t get any ideas,” I told him.

  “Too late. I have lots of ideas.”

  “I hope one of those ideas is about getting Suzanne back to her room.”

  Hooker ate a cold onion ring. “Why can’t we just leave her here?”

  “We can’t do that. She’d be a spectacle.”

  “And?”

  “I like her. We’ve sort of bonded.”

  “Have you tried waking her?” he asked.

  “Yeah. She’s out for the count.”

  “Okay, sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  A couple minutes later Hooker returned with a wheelchair.

  “That’s genius,” I told him.

  “Sometimes this is the only way I can get my team back to their rooms at night. The luggage cart works good, too.”

  We got Suzanne into the wheelchair, placed her jacket and the doggie bag on her lap, and Hooker started rolling her toward the door. I followed behind Hooker, took a misstep, and crashed into an empty table. I grabbed at the white linen cloth in an effort to find my balance and took the entire table setting down to the floor with me. Cups, saucers, plates, silverware, napkins, and the little flower vase all slid off the table with the cloth. I was on my back, spread-eagled with the cloth and the crockery around me, and Hooker’s face swam into view.

  “Are you okay?” Hooker asked.

  “I’m having a hard time focusing. I have the whirlies. You aren’t laughing at me, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “I look silly.”

  “Yeah,” Hooker said, a smile in his voice. “But I don’t mind. I like when you’re on your back.”

  He reached down and scooped me up, setting me on my feet, holding me close to him, picking smashed crockery out of my hair. I could hear waiters scrambling around, setting things right. “Is she all right?” the waiters were asking. “Is there anything we can do? Does she need a doctor?”

  “Just lost her balance,” Hooker said, positioning me behind the wheelchair, my hands on the handles. “Inner-ear problem. Ménière’s disease. Can’t let her drive. Very sad case.” He had his hand on my back. “Just push the wheelchair, darlin’. We need to take the nice sleepy lady back to her room.”

  Hooker scrounged in Suzanne’s bag when we got to the elevator and found her room key still in the envelope marked with her room number. He maneuvered us into the elevator, pushed the button, herded us out at the appropriate floor, and walked us down the hall to Suzanne’s suite.

  The suite looked out at the ocean. The décor was South Beach modern, Loews style. Pale pastel fabrics and light woods. Gauzy curtains at the balcony window. Her luggage was in the middle of the living room, still unpacked.

  I hung the doggie bag on my shoulder, and Hooker pulled the widow Huevo out of the wheelchair and flopped her onto the bed.

  “Mission accomplished,” Hooker said. “Hop into the wheelchair, and I’ll push you out of here.”

  “What about Itsy Poo?”

  “What’s an Itsy Poo?”

  I opened the bag and the tiny dog head popped out.

  “What is it?” Hooker wanted to know.

  “It’s a dog.”

  Hooker looked at the tufted head with the little pink bow. “Darlin’, that’s not a dog. Beans is a dog. This is…what the heck is this? Beans would think this was a snack.”

  “It’s a miniature something.” I put the bag on the floor and Itsy Poo jumped out and started investigating.

  Loews had set out a doggy welcome center complete with place mat, dog bowls, treats, a chew bone, and a map to the dog park. Hooker filled one of the bowls with water and put a couple treats in the other. “That should hold whatever it is until its owner wakes up,” he said.

  “Stick a fork in me,” I told Hooker. “I’m not too far behind Suzanne Huevo.”

  “I don’t want to drive all the way back to Little Havana,” Hooker said. “The action seems to be here in South Beach. I’m going to check you into the hotel and take the car back to the marina so I can watch the boat.”

  Even before I opened my eyes, I felt disoriented. Too many room changes. The motel at Homestead, Felicia’s guest room, and now I sensed something different again. Big bed; very comfy, warm body next to me; heavy arm across my chest. I looked down at the arm. Tan. Blond hair on the arm. Damn. I was in bed with Hooker. I peeked under the covers. I was wearing my T-shirt and panties. Hooker was in boxers. The boxers were blue with pink flamingoes. Cute.

  “Morning,” Hooker said.

  “What are you doing in my bed?”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Why don’t you have your own bed?”

  Hooker eased his hand up under my breast. “You don’t remember?”

  I pushed the hand down. “No.”

  “You begged me to sleep with you.”

  I rolled out of bed and collected my clothes. “I don’t think so. I was drunk. I wasn’t insane.”

  “I watched the boat until midnight and didn’t see Beans. I don’t think he’s on the boat. Did you learn anything good from the grieving widow?”

  “The only thing she’s mourning is the fact that she didn’t get to kill Oscar herself. And she doesn’t think a lot of Ray. Turns out he’s squatting in a boat her sons are due to inherit. She said Huevo Enterprises owns the boat, and Oscar was Huevo Enterprises.”

  “I talked to some people last night while I was hanging out at the marina. Word on the street is that the lion’s share of everything goes to the two boys, but Ray is executor until they reach thirty. And that’s ten years down the pike.”

  “Anybody know what Suzanne’s going to get?”

  “Speculation is…not much. Couple million maybe. The bulk o
f the assets are in Mexico. No joint property.”

  “I’m taking a shower and then I’m going downstairs for breakfast.”

  “I’ll go to breakfast with you,” Hooker said. “Just in case you need coffee.”

  An hour and lots of pancakes later, Hooker and I were in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, wishing we knew what to do next. The elevator doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were Hispanic. They were wearing dark suits. One was maybe five nine, slim build, bald, pockmarked face, sharp features, bright bird eyes. The other was huge and frighteningly familiar. Horse and Baldy. They didn’t look our way. They were in a hurry, moving toward the hotel’s main entrance.

  “It’s them,” I said to Hooker. “It’s Horse and Baldy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  My stomach was clenched into a painful knot. “I’m sure.”

  We trailed behind Horse and Baldy and watched them get into a black BMW. Hooker grabbed a cab and told the driver to follow the Beemer. It wasn’t a long drive. Horse and Baldy parked in the lot at the marina.

  “Wow, big surprise,” Hooker said.

  It was too early for the tiki bar at Monty’s, so we sat on one of the benches that lined the marina walkway. Horse and Baldy approached the Huevo gangplank and were waved onboard. They went straight to the first-deck salon and disappeared.

  We hadn’t been prepared to leave the hotel. No hats. No sunglasses. No binoculars. After a half hour, Hooker was fidgeting.

  “I hate sitting around like this,” Hooker said. “It’s boring.”

  “I agree. Let’s take turns. I’ll take the first watch, and you can go back to the hotel and get our stuff. We need a car, anyway, in case we want to follow somebody. Maybe one of these guys is the Beans snatcher.”

  The sun was just beginning to warm Miami. The water in the marina was as smooth as glass. The air was still. No breeze to rustle palm fronds. The boats were leisurely coming to life. The morning aroma of coffee brewing in galleys mingled with the sharper scent of ocean brine.

  I watched Hooker head for the parking lot, and I stretched on the bench and thought this would all be incredibly nice…if only Beans was here. And if only I wasn’t being hunted down by a sadistic maniac with an oversized johnson. It seemed to me that Ray Huevo would get over the loss of his cars. He was bent over about it now, but he had a lot on his mind and a business to run, and I suspected if we just weathered this, we’d be off the hook in a day or two. Ray Huevo had never before cared about the car side of the business. And God knows, Huevo could afford to build two more cars. Even if he had illegal technology on the 69, he should be realizing he wasn’t going to get busted on it.