A pause. “You mean the asshole who stole all my money, Roy?” Canseco said.
Back in the command vehicle, Roy McDermott smiled and blew a smoke ring.
Minard Chalk turned down his foliage-shrouded drive and parked in the grass behind the looming white house. The rain had blown northeast to leave a full moon hung above his house like a beacon. Through the trees and over the sea wall Chalk saw the dark sea, its surface sparkling under the moonlight as if sleeping beneath a blanket of stars.
He walked softly to the trunk and put an ear to the metal. Not a sound. She would be immobile in fear, terrified. Thinking of her fear, Chalk’s hand drifted to his crotch.
Whoops. He hadn’t dressed for the meeting.
It would only take a few seconds to strap in place.
Midnight was nearing and we’d parked in the lot of a shopping mall in the center of Key West. Being Saturday, the major streets were a traffic blitzkrieg. Horns honked, lights flashed, music blared from bars.
“The locals are on standby?” I asked Gershwin.
“That’s the third time you’ve asked.”
“Sorry.”
He pointed to the far end of the lot. I saw two KW cruisers. “If we need an escort somewhere, that’s our entourage. I’ve got it all set up, Big Ryde.”
I started to lean back when Roy came over the radio. “We took down the Paraíso, Carson.”
“Orzibel showed up?”
“Canseco was surveilling from across the street. Orzibel ran out front screaming when a monster now known as Chaku Morales followed and carried Orzibel inside. That’s when we went in.”
“You get Orzibel to talk?” I mentally crossed my fingers.
“The scumbucket didn’t say a word. He just handed over a card with the name of a local criminal lawyer, an Armani-wrapped turd, but the absolute best in Miami at springing these bastards.”
I figured Kazankis had the same representation. And also figured there’d be nothing in the club to implicate Mr Redi-flow. He’d probably never been within a mile of the joint.
“What’s the place like, Roy?”
“Gets interesting here. The first floor has the standard strip-joint ambience that makes you wanna put on a hazmat suit. Upstairs are two offices, one quite fashionable. The other looks like Elvis’s finest wet dream. Then there’s the club’s basement, Carson, a hellhole of rabbit-warren rooms, cells. Fifteen in all. They’re currently empty, at least of living people.”
I heard Roy take a puff on a cigar, blow it out.
“Living? Why the distinction?”
A pause. “We found a dead woman sprawled naked on a mattress, a needle sticking from her arm. Healthy-looking carriage, classy make-up, expensive-smelling cologne. There was a reeking, shit-stained commode in the room. You’ll never guess what was in the bowl, Carson.”
“What?”
“A diamond-studded Piaget watch. Can you freakin’ believe that?”
The car had been stopped for several minutes. Then, the slam of a door like on a house, then footsteps. Leala had furiously pressed the On button as the feet drew close.
Please do not open the trunk while the sparkly sound happens.
The light flashed on the phone. The sound. As Leala tapped the numbers she heard the latch click on the trunk. She jammed the phone back into her panties and went still.
The trunk opened. A head leaned in. Far above it the sky was filled with stars.
The head said, “Buenas noches, Xaviera. Good to see you again.”
50
Roy was telling me about the Paraíso bust when my phone rang: Leala.
“Gotta go, Roy.” I bent close to the phone and heard rustling, bumping: Leala moving. We weren’t going to attempt communication without a signal from Leala, the putty over the mic. Then, the sound of a trunk latch. We held our breath as a male voice filled the Rover.
“… next, Xaviera, I need to put this collar around your lovely neck, then clip this to it. Think of it as a … an elegant necklace. Sit up, Xavie. DO IT!”
I looked at Gershwin; like me, he was barely breathing. More rustling. Another click. “Sit up, that’s it. Give me your hand. HAND! Welcome to Key West, Xavie. Doesn’t the evening smell beautiful?”
“Come on, pervert,” I whispered. “Introduce yourself.”
If we got a name, Gershwin would relay it to the Key West cops. They’d match it with an address. Even a non-resident who owned a vacation home would be named on tax records, but I figured we were dealing with a resident, given Orzibel’s reference to the perp’s porch and neighbors. Plus my experience suggested that if this monster had bought Leala for the purpose it seemed, he would create a special venue for the event, a place to sit and fantasize prior to the act. The concept was grim and grisly and something I’d learned from my brother years ago.