Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

Dink thought he heard someone in the kitchen. Grabbed the .45, turned, leveled it and saw Zeller. “Jiminy goddamn Christmas, where in the hell you been at?”

“Where is she?” Zeller said.

“That a trick question?” Squirrel said.

“Go down and see for yourself,” Zeller said, hands on his hips. “She’s gone because you are here watching television, not paying attention.”

Dink was kind of embarrassed. “I tell you to go check on her, or what?” he said, throwing Squirrel under the bus.

“Well she didn’t untie herself,” Squirrel said. “I’ll tell you that.”

He had a point. That crazy-ass redneck knew how to tie a knot. For sure.

Zeller said, “It was Harry Levin.”

“How’d he know where she was at?” Dink said, gaze holding on the German.

“He had a gun,” Zeller said.

“So’d you, I thought,” Dink said.

“Whyn’t you take it from him?” Squirrel said to Zeller.

“ ‘Cause he ain’t Superman. What’s next on the agenda, mein Herr?” Dink said, looking at Zeller. “I think maybe you should fill us in. Looks like you’re in over your head, might could use some help.”

When he was within ten meters of the beach Hess turned off the engine and coasted to shore. The bottom hit sand in shallow water and the boat came to a stop. Hess stepped into the ocean halfway to his knees, dislodged the dinghy, and let the current take it back out to sea. Farther out, the Hatteras looked like it was drifting with the tide.

He was on a private beach, deserted in the early evening. Hess walked toward South Ocean Boulevard, wet espadrilles and trouser cuffs getting caked with sand. There was a huge Mediterranean villa straight ahead on the other side of the road, and to his right a beach house that matched the villa’s Italian shade of umber.

Hess had Brank’s watch, wallet, credit cards and $1,500 in cash. He also had Brank’s Smith & Wesson .38. The sun was fading, casting streaks of red behind the oceanfront estates as he walked the beach side of the road, saw the sign for Via Bellania and knew he was only a couple miles south of Worth Avenue.

He kept going, walked with purpose, arriving at Gulfstream Road at 6:40 p.m., and entered a seafood restaurant, went through the bar and dining room to the telephone that was in a hall leading to the restrooms. Hess opened the Yellow Pages, selected a taxi service, phoned and asked to be picked up at Charley’s Seafood. It would be fifteen minutes, so Hess found a seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Macallan’s neat.

“You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.

“What do you do?”

Hess studied her, a plain-looking brunette without a lot to work with, and yet, there was something appealing about her.

“I produce erotic films,” Hess said.

“So you’re not in front of the camera, you’re behind it,” she said, picking up her martini glass, taking her time before bringing it to her mouth, sipping the drink. “Dirty movies, huh?”

“I prefer to think of it as art.”

“Of course.” She speared an olive with a plastic sword and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

“What are some of your movies?”

“Have you seen Twat’s Up, Doc?

“No, but I’ve heard of it.” She shook her head and smiled. “You did that?”

“Largest-grossing erotic film of all time,” Hess said.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sure don’t look like the type.”

“Public perception is it’s a sleazy business.”

“Exactly, and you don’t look sleazy.”

She had good teeth and skin, and an outgoing personality. Late thirties, maybe forty.

“What’s another one?”

“Deep Six. It was my ex, Denise’s, film debut.”

“Your ex was a porn star?”

Hess nodded, picked up his drink and took a sip.

“What’s that like? I mean watching her doing it with all those studs.”

“Why do you think I’m divorced?”

A valet in a red vest came in the bar and said something to the bartender. “Somebody call a cab?” the bartender said, heavy New York accent.

Hess drank his single malt in a couple swallows, put the glass down on the bar top, and a $20 bill next to it. “I have to go,” he said to the brunette.

“I’ll give you a ride,” she said.

“Cab?” the bartender tried again. “Anyone?”

“I have a car right outside. I’m Lynn, by the way,” she said, offering Hess her hand. “Lynn Risdon.”

“Tony Brank,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“You don’t look like a Tony.” She finished the martini and placed it on the bar top. Hess raised his hand and the bartender moved toward him.

“Another round?”

Hess nodded.

“You get remarried?” Lynn said. “I don’t really care, but I guess it’s better if you didn’t.”

“Still single,” Hess said. “Until the right woman comes along.” He thought about Anke, his mistress. She had become demanding like a wife. Wanted a commitment, wanted children. That relationship was over as well, and Hess was relieved. “What about you?”

“Divorced,” Lynn said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

An hour and three martinis later, Hess escorted Lynn Risdon to the parking lot. She was drunk. He could feel her weight, the sloppiness of her stride as she clung to him. He had watched her transform to annoying from interesting, the alcohol making her stupid and clumsy. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” she said, slurring her words, glassy eyes scanning the lot. “There ’tis.” She pointed at a white Ford Mustang.

Hess said. “Where do you live?”

“On Seabreeze.”

He had passed the street a number of times, remembered it was just north of Worth Avenue.

“Anyone in the house?”

“Whaaat?”

Do you live with someone?”

“Nooo… I told you, I’m divorced.”

“You better let me drive,” Hess said. “You can’t even stand up.”

“I drive sitting down,” Lynn said and laughed. She reached a hand into her purse, feeling around. It took a few minutes to find the keys, half a dozen on a silver ring. She handed them to Hess. He unlocked and opened the door, sat her in the front passenger seat, leaned in, brushed her cheek with his, buckling the seat belt around her.

She touched his face and said, “Is Mr. Scruffy growing a beard?”

He closed the door and walked around the car and got in. “What is your address?”

“Whaaat?” She was angled in the seat, leaning back against the door, eyes closed.

He reached over on the floor in front of her, picked up the purse, opened it, found her wallet and driver’s license. He drove to Seabreeze Avenue, checking addresses. Lynn lived in a single-storey house hidden behind a sculpted wall of hedge four blocks from the ocean. Hess parked on the circular drive. The front porch light was on and there was a light on inside.

He got out, went to the front door, tried several keys until he found the right one, and opened it. Went back to the car, picked Lynn up and brought her into the house and bumped the door closed with his hip. He heard voices in another room, sat Lynn on a couch in the salon, and went to investigate. A television was on in the kitchen. He turned it off.

Adjoining the kitchen was a utility room with a washing machine and dryer. On the opposite wall built-in shelves held tools, cleaning supplies, an assortment of items, including a coil of rope which he grabbed, and a knife. Hess walked though the house. There were two bedrooms off the salon, one obviously lived in, disheveled, and the other spotless. He went back in the salon. Lynn was stretched out, sleeping on the couch. Hess bent and picked her up, carried her to her bedroom, and laid her across the double bed. He cut lengths of rope and tied her ankles and wrists while she slept.