Ted Bell - Tsar

“Ah.”

“Do you normally grill your suspects before they have a chance to wake up, detective?”

“Sorry. I’m a beast.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Come here. Look at this.”

Hawke rolled naked off the bed and lifted the ring attached to the circular section of flooring that concealed the top of his fireman’s pole and the blue grotto below.

“What’s that?” she said, flopping forward on the bed and staring at the hole in the floor.

“It’s called a fireman’s pole, for somewhat obvious reasons. There’s a hidden grotto just below us. You slide down the pole and into the water. I do it every morning. Great way to wake up.”

“Wait. Why are you so curious about Hoodoo?”

“Tell you later,” Hawke said, and then he disappeared through the floor.

“Hold on, I’m coming, too!” she cried, leaping from the bed. Grabbing the pole with both hands, she slipped down into his waiting arms.

Raining cats and dogs used to be true. Back in Robin Hood’s day, Stoke had read somewhere, the domestic animals used to sleep curled up inside the thatched roofs. When it rained really hard, down they came, wham on the dinner table. Hello, Sparky, hey, Ginger! It was raining that hard now. Luckily, except for a few Seminole tiki huts, there were very few thatched roofs in Miami today.

It was just after two in the afternoon when Stoke turned the GTO off Collins and onto Marina, headed for the Miami Yacht Group’s showroom. It was located almost kitty-corner from Joe’s Stone Crabs. Big glass showroom with red, white, and blue flags standing out stiff from the tall poles surrounding the lot.

The weather today, finally, was perfect for what Stoke had in mind. Blowing hard out of the southwest, a big tropical depression headed up from the Keys, the leading edge about over Islamorada now. As he drove slowly through Miami Beach, palm trees were bent over backward, crap was flying around in the streets-no cats or dogs, though, at least he didn’t see any.

He’d taken a good long look at the ocean from the balcony of his penthouse apartment. Blowing like stink out there. Huge rollers, whitecaps with the crests whipped off soon as they peaked. He’d been waiting all week for weather like this.

Today’s the day , he thought, smiling at himself in the mirror, sliding the knot on his Italian designer silk tie up to his Adam’s apple. He adjusted his wraparound sunglasses. Would Sheldon wear sunglasses on a day like this? he’d asked himself. Yes. He had the whole Sheldon Levy thing down now. Hell, he was Sheldon Levy.

Traffic was light on a stormy day, and he’d made good time getting over the causeway. Miami Yacht Group looked just like a car dealership, except it had boats where all the cars would normally be. Big boats, little boats. The littlest ones were out front on trailers. The medium ones would be inside on the showroom floor. The big go-fast ones he was interested in, those of the Cigarette persuasion, they were in the water at the docks located on the marina side of the glitzy glass and steel showroom.

Soon as he walked through the front door in his shiny sharkskin suit, Elsa Peretti tie, Chrome Hearts wraparound shades and pointy-toed alligator shoes, a salesman was on him like sucker fish on a mako.

“Good afternoon!” the guy said.

“You, too.”

“And how are we doing today, sir?”

Stoke smiled at him. Tall and angular and blond. Blue-water tan. Faded khakis, no socks with his bleached-out boat shoes, collar of his navy-blue polo shirt turned up on the back of his neck. Two little crossed flags on his shirt with the words “Magnum Marine” underneath. Talked funny, too, through his teeth, like his jaw was permanently wired shut.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Stoke said, looking around the showroom.

“Heckuva storm out there, isn’t it? Golly!”

Golly? When was the last time you heard that word? Seriously.

“Golly is right, darn it,” Stoke said, as he bent over and peered out the big plate-glass showroom windows, as if noticing the weather out there for the very first time today.

“Nothing a Magnum Sixty couldn’t handle, I’ll bet,” Stoke said, clapping Larry Lockjaw on the back. “Right?”

“Well, n-now,” the salesman said, staggering a bit before recovering his balance, “you’d have to be pretty darn plucky to go out on a day like today. But you know what? Your timing is perfect. We’ve got a pre-Christmas special going on, and I-”

“Call me plucky, but I want to rock one of those Magnums right now!”

“Well, gee, you know, I don’t think today is ideal for-”

“Actually, you know what? I’m here to see one of your other salesmen. Piss, I think his name is.”

“Piss?”

“Yeah, Piss. Like-take a piss? I’ve got his card somewhere in my wallet.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My hearing’s terrible. Are you saying Mr. Piss?”

“Yeah, Piss. Pisser, something like that.”

“You’re looking for a Mr. Pisser? I’m afraid-”

“No, wait. Urine. That was it. I knew it was something like that. Like piss, I mean.”

“Oh. Yurin, you mean?” the guy said, sort of chuckling. “Right, sir, that would be Yuri Yurin. He’s our divisional sales manager here at the Miami Yacht Group.”

“He around?”

“Matter of fact, he’s on his lunch break. But I’m sure I can help you. I’m Dave McAllister, by the way.”

“I’m sure you could help me, Dave. But, you know what, I came here to see this Yurin guy.”

“Well, in that case, let me go back to his office and see if I can get him. May I tell him who’s asking for him?”

“Sheldon Levy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sheldon Levy. No, no, don’t apologize. I get that all the time. I don’t look all that Jewish, do I? But then, look at Sammy Davis, Jr. Know what I’m saying?”

“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Levy. I’ll be right back with Mr. Yurin.”

Two minutes later, Yurin came out on the floor, wiping the mayo off his lower lip. Big boy, good-looking blond bodybuilder. He still had a little piece of shredded lettuce in the corner of his mouth. Big Mac, Stoke thought, seeing the guy eating one at his desk, wolfing it down, when he heard he had a fish on the line. Russians couldn’t get enough of Big Macs ever since Mickey D had opened that first one on Red Square. Beat the hell out of borscht, you had to figure.

“Mr. Levy!” he said, shaking Stoke’s hand, Yurin trying to figure out where the hell he’d seen the huge black guy before. He knew he’d seen him, you didn’t forget someone Stoke’s size easily. But where?

Like all the black-shirted security guys at the Lukov party, Yurin was muscled up, beefy, anyway, going to fat around the middle courtesy of the good life in sunny south Florida. Too many stone crab dinners at Joe’s.

“Yurin, Yurin, Yurin, good to see you again, man. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“No, I do, I do. I’m just trying to remember where we met.”

“The Lukov birthday thing. You gotta remember that. Kaboom ?” Stoke clapped his hands together loudly when he said it, and both of the salesmen flinched, McAllister actually taking a couple of steps back.

“Ri-i-i-ght,” Yurin said, drawing the word out, deep Russian accent, still no clue. It was the suit, tie, and sunglasses Stoke was wearing, that’s what was throwing him.

“Fancha’s manager? Suncoast Artist Management?” Stoke said.

“Fancha! The beautiful birthday singer! Of course! So, what can I do for you, Mr. Levy? Dave says you’re in the market for a new Magnum Sixty.”

“I certainly am,” Stoke said, holding up a genuine crocodile satchel with his right hand. “Man, what a machine. I want to get Fancha one to celebrate her new movie contract. We just cashed the first check,” Stoke said, holding up the croc case again just for emphasis.