Janet Evanovich - Motor Mouth

We all got out of the car and walked toward the marina.

“You better watch what you say about God,” Felicia said. “He listens, you know. If I was you, I’d say some Hail Marys tonight just in case.”

Rosa looked sideways at Felicia. “I suppose you never used the shower massage?”

“Well, sure, but I don’t bring God into it. I think shower massage might have been invented by the devil. God invented the missionary position.”

We were on the dock, looking out at the piers. Everything was business as usual, except the Huevo yacht was missing. I walked Beans down to the pier where the yacht used to be tied and approached a guy who was getting ready to shove off on a Hatteras.

“Where’s the Huevo boat?” I asked.

“It just left. It’s going to Fort Lauderdale for repairs. They had a fire in the main salon.”

One less place to look for Hooker.

We went up the steps, past the outdoor bar, and walked around the building to the deli on the street side. I stayed outside with Beans and ten minutes later Felicia and Rosa emerged with two bags of food.

“Wow,” I said. “Is that all for Beans?”

“No,” Rosa said. “The prunes and the gallon-size plastic bags are for Beans. The rubber gloves are for you. The macaroni salad, chocolate cake, meatball subs, and soda are for all of us.”

We sat on a bench outside the store and Felicia opened the box of prunes. “Anybody want a prune?” she asked. “Prunes are good for you. Full of iron.”

We all declined prunes. Saving ourselves for the chocolate cake.

“How about doggie?” Felicia said to Beans. “Does doggy want a prune?”

Beans was sitting straight, eyes bright, ears perked. He sniffed the prune Felicia held in her hand and then very delicately took it from her. He held it in his mouth for a while, drooling, not sure what one actually did with a prune. He opened his mouth, and the prune fell out.

“We got him a meatball sub,” Felicia said. “Just in case.” She unwrapped one of the subs, stuffed prunes into the meatballs, and gave the sub to Beans.

Beans wolfed the sub down.

“Now we just have to wait for the poop to come,” Felicia said, handing us our subs, passing plastic forks around for the macaroni.

We ate our lunch, drank our sodas, and Felicia called her nephew for a progress report.

“He reports no progress,” she said. She stuffed the crumpled wrappers and used forks into the bag we’d designated as trash, and she looked around. “Where’s the box of prunes? I had it on the bench next to me.”

All eyes focused on Beans. He was sitting on the grass not far from us. He was drooling, his eyes looked droopy, and there was a piece of the cardboard prune box stuck to his lower lip.

“Oh boy,” Rosa said. “He ate a lot of prunes.”

Beans stood and lifted his tail and there was a sound like air escaping a balloon. We all jumped off the bench and moved away.

“He could peel paint off a building,” Rosa said.

Felicia was fanning the fumes away with the garbage bag. “It smells like burrito. And look at him. I think he’s smiling.”

I felt like I should be doing more to find Hooker, but I didn’t know where to start. Maybe a property search. I hauled my phone out and called Skippy.

“I was wondering if you could get some more information for me,” I said. “I want to know if Anthony Miranda has property in the Miami area. A house or an office building. Anything.”

“I want to talk to Hooker.”

“He isn’t here.”

“Where is he?” Skippy asked.

“He’s sort of…kidnapped.”

There was silence on the other end, and I was worried Skippy had fainted or had a heart attack.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m dandy. My scrotum is so tight my balls are choking.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said to Skippy. “I’ll be able to get Hooker back as soon as the dog poops.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Skippy said. “Do you have a phone number I can call when I get information on Miranda?”

I gave him my number and disconnected.

“Maybe we should go back to the hotel and see if Carl needs a potty break or wants to get lunch,” Felicia said.

We went back to the lot, piled into the car, and Rosa headed for Collins. After three blocks, Beans made the balloon noise again, Rosa pulled the car to the curb, and we all got out and waited for the air to clear.

We were standing not far from the take-out part of Joe’s Stone Crabs. A black limo glided to a stop in front of us and Suzanne got out.

“Omigosh,” she said when she saw me. “Barney. How’ve you been? Where’s Hooker?”

“He’s been kidnapped.”

“Jeez,” Suzanne said, “that’s too bad. There’s so much of that going around these days. Excuse me a minute. I have to get my stone crabs.”

“Who’s that?” Rosa wanted to know. “She looks like a big bitch. I like her already.”

Suzanne was carrying a large bag when she came out. “So what are you up to?” she asked me, handing the bag over to the chauffeur.

“I’m trying to find Hooker. These are my friends Rosa and Felicia.”

“Have you gone to the police?” Suzanne asked.

“No. Hooker and I are sort of wanted for multiple counts of murder. Oscar, Spanky’s spotter, Hooker’s security guy…and they’ve probably added Ray by now.”

“That’s ridiculous. Ray isn’t dead,” Suzanne said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Ray’s with me. You want to see him?”

Felicia, Rosa, and I got back into the Camry, rolled the windows down, and followed the black limo to Suzanne’s condo. We valet-parked the car and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. All the time, I was dying to jump up and down and yell and be embarrassingly excited because I’d found Ray. Since I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on, and I didn’t want to screw anything up, I just kept my lips pressed tight together and my hands balled into fists at my side and tried to look calm.

“It’s just a temporary rental until I get everything straightened out,” Suzanne said, plugging her key into the lock. “Still, it’s not bad, and it’s got a great view.”

The condo stretched across the back of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the ocean. The décor was modern, mostly white with touches of pastel. The kitchen was high tech and looked totally unused.

“Where’s Itsy Poo?” I asked Suzanne.

“She goes to play group on Tuesdays. And then she gets a whirlpool bath and a pedicure.”

Beans was pressed into my leg as if he understood pedicure and didn’t think a lot of it.

Suzanne set the stone crabs on the kitchen counter. “Follow me, ladies, and I’ll show you what pissed-off mothers do for fun.”

We all marched into the bedroom, which was about half the size of a football field. Her bed was one of those four-poster things, draped in white gauze. The carpet was white. The woods were pale. The upholstered pieces were white. The curtains were drawn, and I thought this was probably to keep the sun out so she didn’t go snow blind.

“This unit has his and hers bathrooms,” Suzanne said. “My bathroom is through the door to the right. And his bathroom is in here.”

Suzanne took a key off the dresser, unlocked the door to his bathroom, and stepped back. Ray was prisoner in the little room, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn to the beach meeting. He was tethered with an elaborate system of clunky chains that wrapped around the toilet and the pipes under the sink. His hands were free to do whatever he needed to do, but he didn’t have enough chain to do what he really wanted to do…which was to choke Suzanne. He had a pillow and a quilt, a stack of magazines, and a tray with leftovers from takeout.