John Lutz - Hot

“I’m fully dressed, Fred. You wanna do that kinda stuff, you shoulda woke me last night.”

“You mean morning,” he said. “Five o’clock’s when I got back.”

“Hmm. Shouldn’ta woke me after all.”

He ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks. Terrible taste. Coffee and bologna and seawater. Yuk! She was watching him with her fists on her hips as he rolled over, grabbed his cane and struggled to sit on the edge of the mattress. His feet made contact with the floor. Henry’s bedsprings squealed with his effort.

“You all the way awake, Fred?”

“Sorta. Had breakfast?”

“Nope. I read until late and just woke up about an hour ago myself. I figure tonight’s my turn to squat out there behind branches in that spooky blind and spy with binoculars, I better get all the sleep I can this morning.”

“Lemme get dressed,” Carver said, “and we’ll drive into Fishback for some breakfast.”

“We could eat here,” Beth said. “I can fix us some bacon and eggs while you’re getting yourself together.”

He stood up and waited for dizziness to pass, a lithe, muscle-ridged man leaning nude on a cane. “Let’s eat in town,” he said. “I got my reasons.”

“Such as you wanna be seen. Wanna let those dickheads across the way know you weren’t scared away.”

“I guess it’s something like that.’”

“That exactly. Go splash some water on yourself and get into some clothes so we can eat. I’m hungry.” She sounded angry, too. Ah, well.

Angry or not, as he limped toward the bathroom, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Want me to get your gun outa the suitcase?”

He said, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, in case Fern tries to overcharge us.”

On the drive into town, Carver told Beth about what had happened last night.

“First they were going to make it look like you mighta died accidentally,” she said thoughtfully. “Then they decided to shoot you and probably hide your body. Wanted your ass real bad. Something to think about, isn’t it?”

He said, “I’ve thought about it.”

“You get the idea they knew it was you they were after?”

“They can’t be sure who it was,” Carver said, “I think.”

“Wanted you real bad,” Beth repeated softly.

She didn’t speak the rest of the way into town. He figured that was probably for the best.

Fern was indeed on duty this morning. Order pad in hand, she trudged across the tile floor of the Key Lime Pie and smiled down at Carver and Beth. There were a dozen other customers in the restaurant, all of them in booths where they could stare out the window at the cosmopolitan bustle of Fishback. The ceiling fans were ticking away at a fairly brisk speed and it was cool in there, a slight breeze from above. Smoke or steam was drifting from the kitchen, over the serving counter, but the body of air from the fans held it at bay and let only the scent of frying bacon waft out into the restaurant.

Carver glanced at the grease-spotted menu and said, “What’s good, Fern?”

“Not your chances of a long and prosperous life.”

He looked up at her. “What’s that mean?”

“Means Key Montaigne’s a small place, an’ word gets around.”

“Which word?”

“That you’re meddlin’ where you shouldn’t be, that you been warned.”

“And ignored the warning?”

“Well, you’re here, ain’t you?”

Sometimes Carver had his doubts about that, but he didn’t want to get metaphysical with Fern.

“What was that crack about long life?” Beth asked.

Fern stood solidly with pencil poised and eyes averted as she said, “This island’s kinda deceptive in some ways. Beautiful to look at, with all the green an’ the colorful flowers, the tourists walkin’ around town or goin’ out to sea in charter boats. Like paradise under a blue sky. But there’s some awful rough people here. Awful rough. An’ as a Christian woman I feel compelled to let you two know that. Now I done let you know, so that’s that.”

“Are these rough people into drugs?” Beth asked.

“I honestly ain’t sure what’s goin’ on, but maybe it’s drugs. An’ you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Okay,” Carver said.

“Two coffees, was it?”

“Right. With cream.”

When Fern returned with the coffee, Beth and Carver both ordered the scrambled egg special.

It arrived at the table within a few minutes with toast, strawberry preserves, and Canadian bacon. Fern commanded them to “Enjoy” and plodded back behind the counter.

Carver decided the Key Lime’s breakfast was its best meal. Whoever was in the kitchen was an expert fry cook.

When they’d finished eating, they each had a second cup of coffee. Then Beth went into the rest room while Carver paid the check and limped outside to smoke a Swisher Sweet cigar. He was leaning back against the front right fender of the Olds, squinting into the sun and touching flame to tobacco, when a shadow drifted across the ground in front of him.

Immediately he flicked the match away and turned, keeping a firm grip on his cane, aware of the bulk and deadliness of the Colt automatic in its holster beneath his shirt. Davy wouldn’t get the chance to move in close with the cargo hook again.

But it wasn’t Davy standing five feet away and smiling at him.

It was Walter Rainer.

Rainer was wearing what looked like the same white sport jacket today, only it was more wrinkled. He had on a money-green shirt, open wide at the collar so his thick gold chain showed against the glistening expanse of his chest. Up close his face appeared puffier, yet there was an added sharpness to the features set in that doughy expanse of flesh, an almost startling shrewdness and vitality in his tiny blue eyes. He was a fat man suffering in the heat, reeking of sweat and deodorant.

He said, “Thought we ought to talk, Mr. Carver.” Beyond him, on the other side of Main, the long gray Lincoln was parked. A tall Latino dressed in jeans and a black muscle shirt that revealed a wiry and powerful physique was standing near the car with his arms crossed, looking cool and controlled. Hector Villanova, no doubt. Carver recognized him from last night in the boat. About thirty and lean and tough-looking; if people could become panthers, Hector was halfway there. He caught Carver’s eye, smiled and nodded. He could be friendly and slash you up with a boat prop.

“I see Hector’s keeping an eye out for your safety,” Carver said. He drew deeply on the cigar and exhaled a white stream of smoke that the breeze spirited away.

“Ah, that’s right, you more or less know Hector,” Rainer said. He had a reedy voice that didn’t match his huge body and would soon get annoying. “Know him from a distance, that is.”

Did he mean last night? No, he’d be playing dumb about that. Carver recalled the glint of sunlight off a lens yesterday. That was okay; Rainer still probably didn’t know where the blind was, or when or how often he was being observed. Carver hoped. “Were you going to ask me how Henry Tiller is?” he asked.

Rainer shrugged. “No, no, my information is that the poor man’s slipped into a coma. That’s how it happens sometimes with our senior citizens. The slightest illness can escalate unexpectedly.” He screwed up his fat face in the heat and dragged a hand slowly across his glistening chin to wipe away perspiration, as if he’d drooled. Wiped the hand dry on his pants. “What I actually wanted, Mr. Carver, was to apologize for the unfortunate and painful incident in Miami. I honestly vow to you that Davy wasn’t acting on my instructions. He has a troubled past, is indeed a troubled young man, and at times his emotions propel him into mistaken assumptions and unwise actions.”