Janet Evanovich - Motor Mouth

“Focusing on her ass?” I asked.

“It’s a pretty decent ass. Looks to me like a StairMaster ass. Man, her ass is so tight, you could bounce a quarter off it.”

“You like that?”

Hooker had his binoculars to his eyes. “I like any ass that…” He froze in midsentence. He was having a mental head-slap moment. A deer-in-headlights moment. He lowered the binoculars and looked at me. “I like your ass.”

Okay, so he wasn’t perfect, but he was trying.

I had my binoculars back up, watching the woman go into the main salon and disappear from sight. “Do you know who she is?”

“Darlin’, that’s the newly widowed Mrs. Oscar Huevo.”

“Zowie.”

“Exactly. She’s wife numero uno, and she’s out for bear.”

Ten minutes later numero uno marched out of the salon door, crossed the deck, and swung her ass down the gangplank. She adjusted her sunglasses, tucked her dog back into the bag, and power-walked the length of the pier.

I dropped my binoculars into my new tote bag. “You stay here and watch the boat,” I said to Hooker. “I’m going to follow her, see where she goes.”

Hooker handed me the keys to the SUV. “In a small, dark corner of my brain there’s a fear that once you’re out of my sight you’re going to get on a plane and go home without me,” he said.

I ran to the SUV and slid behind the wheel just as the widow Huevo strode into the parking lot and got into a waiting limo. I cranked the engine over and followed at a distance. The driver took Fifth Street and then went north on Collins. Several blocks later, the driver turned into the elaborate entrance to the Loews Miami Beach Hotel. Mrs. Huevo disembarked, still carrying her doggie bag. The limo trunk popped open and bellmen scrambled to unload luggage. The luggage was put on a cart and whisked away into the hotel, following the swinging ass of Mrs. Huevo.

I had Hooker on the phone. “She’s checking into Loews, and she’s got a lot of luggage.”

“She looks like she’d take three steamer trunks for an overnight.”

“I’m going to hang out here for a while and see if anything interesting happens,” I told Hooker.

“Ten-four.”

Loews is a spectacular hotel with acres of marble, pretty couches, and potted palms. It has outdoor areas that look like a cross between a Fred Astaire movie and King Tut’s tomb. And it all leads to the glorious wide white sands of South Beach and the rolling Atlantic. I valet-parked the SUV and walked into the super-air-conditioned lobby. It was so cold my nipples got hard and my fingertips turned purple. I’m not one to make frivolous purchases, but in the interest of nipple well-being I forked over thirty dollars to the hotel gift shop and bought a sweatshirt.

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.