Janet Evanovich - Motor Mouth

“We could borrow one. There are lots of little boats here. I bet no one would mind if we borrowed one for a couple minutes.”

“You want to steal a boat?”

“ Borrow ,” I said.

“Okay,” Hooker said, taking my hand. “Let’s go for a stroll and look around.”

We got to the last pier and Hooker stopped in front of a medium-size cabin cruiser. Dark inside. Nobody home.

“I know the guy who owns this boat,” Hooker said. “He’s only here weekends. And he keeps a dingy tied to the back. It should be easy to borrow .”

We climbed onto the boat and made our way to the back where the dingy was tied, just as Hooker had predicted. We scrambled into the boat, Hooker released the rope and turned the key. The motor hummed to life and Hooker pushed off.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hooker said. “I don’t want to run into anything.”

There was just a sliver of moon in the sky. The piers were lit and some of the boats had their running lights on. A few boats had interior lights on, as well, but not much light reflected onto the black water. The air was still. No wind. Not a lot of tide running.

Boats occasionally came and went at night here, but none was currently under way. Only us. We came abreast of the Huevo boat and sat at a distance, watching. Not much was happening. Windows and doors were closed and sound wasn’t carrying.

“Huh,” I said. “Disappointing.”

Hooker was fidgeting around in the dingy. He’d turned to the back and was poking through a watertight chest. “I might be able to produce some action. At least get everyone on deck so we can take a head count.”

I looked over his shoulder, into the chest. “What did you have in mind?”

Hooker pulled a snub-nosed, fat-barreled gun out of the chest. “Flare gun. I could lob a flare over the boat and maybe draw them out.” He two-handed the gun, holding it at arm’s length, raised the barrel so the flare would arc high, and pulled the trigger. A flare went off with a loud phunnf and sailed into the night sky. The flare gracefully curved up and away from us, reached its zenith, fell on a sloping downward trajectory toward the Huevo yacht…and crashed through a window on the first deck.

“Oops,” Hooker said.

The flare exploded with a burst of light that danced around the main salon like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sound carried out through the gaping hole in the tinted window, and we could hear the hiss of the flare and the panicked voices of the people inside.

Hooker and I sat in stupefied, bug-eyed silence. There was a small explosion, and then the crackle of fire, and a yellow flame licked up the side of the salon.

“Oh shit,” Hooker whispered. “If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

“You have some good luck. You have me .”

“I don’t have you. You won’t even sleep with me.”

“That’s true, but I’m here with you now.”

Hooker got that look in his eyes.

“No,” I said.

“How about you tie the anchor to my ankle and throw it overboard.”

“I have a better idea. How about we sneak away before someone sees us sitting out here.”

Five minutes later, we eased up behind the cabin cruiser, secured the line, and scrambled out of the dingy. Emergency vehicles were on the scene four piers down. Fire and rescue. Police. Lots of people. Strobes flashing. The unintelligible chatter of police band. No one paying attention to Hooker or me. And thank goodness, no smoke or flames shooting out of the Huevo boat.

Hooker stayed back in the shadows, but I edged closer to the pier. One of the three men who’d flown in earlier stood off to the side on the cement walkway, watching the activity. I moved next to him and gestured to the boat.

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Something came through the window and started a fire. It didn’t burn much. Everything on the boat is fire resistant.”

I was thrown for a moment. I’d expected a foreign accent. Russian maybe. His accent was New Jersey. “Wow,” I said. “Was it a firebomb?”

“I don’t know. They’re investigating. I was below in a stateroom when it happened. I didn’t actually see anything.”

I was scanning the crowd as I was talking, looking for Ray Huevo. “I can’t help noticing, you’re not wearing Miami clothes. Did you just arrive in Florida?”

He looked down at his wool suit slacks. “I flew in earlier. It’s been a long day.”

“Let me guess. Jersey?”

“Not for a lot of years.”

“But originally, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you never really get rid of the Jersey in you.”

I stuck my hand out. “Alex.”

“Simon.”

“Where are you living now?”

“The world.”

“That narrows it down,” I said.

“My employer travels, and I travel with him.”

“Is your employer originally from New Jersey, too?”

“Yeah. Originally.”

He was looking down at me, and there was a quality to his eyes and the set of his mouth that I’d seen before. It was the same look Hooker got…a lot. “And now?” I asked.

“The world.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

I could see him weighing his desire to stay anonymous against his desire to get a playmate for Mr. Frisky. He shifted slightly, leaned a little closer to me, and I knew Mr. Frisky was at the wheel.

“For the last couple years, we’ve been based in Zurich,” he said.

“That would explain the suit.”

“We ran into some problems when we arrived, and I haven’t had a chance to change. What about you? Do you live here?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I live in the world.”

“Trying to make fun of me?” he asked.

“Trying to flirt with you,” I said. Might as well use the few weapons I had in my arsenal, right? I just hoped Hooker was armed and keeping close watch.

That got a smile from him. “Nice,” he said.

And just for the record, I was fully aware that he would have smiled and said nice if I had scabs over two-thirds of my body and had an ass like Francis the Talking Horse.

“So, what is it that you do in Zurich?” I asked him.

“I’m an expediter.”

In my neighborhood in Baltimore, an expediter is someone who makes sure things move along smoothly. For instance, if the owner of a bar isn’t making his protection-money payments on time, an expediter might go talk to him and break his kneecaps as a performance incentive.

“An expediter,” I said. “What kinds of things do you expedite?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Making conversation. I read somewhere that men like it when you seem interested in their work.”

More smiling. “The guy I work for is in the import-and-export business. I facilitate movement.”

“What does he export? Carburetors?”

“Maybe we should take this conversation somewhere else,” he said. “Like over to the bar.”

The night’s game plan. Get the dumb chick liquored up. “Sure,” I said.

We walked a short distance and went up the stairs that led to the outdoor bar attached to Monty’s. We wrangled a couple stools and ordered drinks. I looked over Simon’s shoulder and saw Hooker watching from an alley, making signs like he was going to hang himself.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I followed Hooker down the alley and around the corner.

“What was that all about?” I asked him.

“Did you order a drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh man, you’re gonna get drunk, and then I’ll have to rescue you from King Kong there. He’s got about thirty pounds on me. It’s going to be ugly.”

“I’m not going to get drunk.”

“Darlin’, you’re just about the worst drinker I’ve ever seen. You get drunk on fumes when you open a bottle of merlot. What did you order? I bet you got one of those froufrou drinks with the fruit and the umbrellas.”