Ted Bell - Warlord

"You are depressed."

Stoke, still pissed at Harry over the Fontainebleau debacle, reached over and turned Barry up, now on another CD backed by a full orchestra and Love Unlimited doing "Love's Theme," and concentrated on the music and just cruising Ocean Boulevard, breathing the salt air, the wide blue Atlantic sparkling on his right, gorgeous flowery mansions flashing by on his left. Beautiful. He had a lot of sins, but envy had never been one of them. He appreciated every damn thing he had.

When they got to Worth Avenue, he hung a left, crossed County Road, and pulled up right in front of Taboo.

The unpretentious restaurant was smack-dab in the middle of some of the most expensive shopping real estate this side of Fifth Avenue or Rodeo. The only thing Stoke ever shopped for here was the very expensive bacon cheeseburgers at Taboo. He had bought a couple of pairs of white boxers when Brooks Brothers, a couple of doors down the avenue, was having a sale. But he didn't think that really counted as legitimate Palm Beach shopping.

The valet parking guy came over to the GTO, his mouth hanging open. The rumble of the straight pipes was pretty strong here on the narrow street. Stoke could feel eyes on him as he climbed out of the car. Good. Let 'em burn their eyes on me moving, as the old song said. He climbed out, handed the kid the keys.

"What color is this?" the kid said, caressing the mirrorlike fender.

"Black raspberry. Metallic."

"Custom?"

"Bet your ass."

"How many horses?"

"You can't count that high, son. Now you take care of it and I'll take care of you."

"Yes, sir. I'll just put it right here in front where I can keep an eye on it."

"There you go. Class up the avenue a little bit, right? All these tacky-ass Rolls-Royce Phantoms and Ferraris and Lambos and shit. Now you got some serious Dee-troit iron parked right here, you watch business pick up. Guaranteed."

They went inside, immediately confronting a wall of ice-cold air. A shortish, sophisticated-looking man in a suit and tie, half-glasses perched on the tip of his nose, rushed up and shook Stoke's hand. "Mr. Jones, long time no see. What brings you back to Palm Beach?"

"Doing a little shopping. Actually I'm meeting Detective Garcia here for lunch. Oh. Franklin, please say hello to my driver, Harry Brock."

"Franklin De Marco, Harry," he said, shaking his hand but looking over Brock's shoulder at two spangled and suntanned blondes in stacked heels just sliding in right through the front door. Cougar Cruisers headed for the bar, but God bless 'em, they pulled in the gents. Short, most of them, Franklin joked privately, until they stood on their wallets.

Franklin tore his eyes away from these two human commercials, flicking them briefly at Harry, and said, "I am the owner of Taboo. Mr. Jones here is one of my favorite customers. Never orders just one of anything. Detective Garcia has already arrived, Mr. Jones. I gave her one of our very best banquette tables in the Jungle Room. Follow me, won't you?"

"Driver?" Harry hissed at Stoke as they trailed Franklin past the long bar, every stool occupied by beautiful human females with a wide variety of breasts and with large frothy cocktails on the bar in front of them.

"What?"

"You just introduce me to the owner as your driver?"

Stoke said, "Yeah, well, whatever."

"Wait, is that a fireplace?"

"Yep."

"In July? What the-?"

"Hey, Michelle," Stoke said, kissing her cheek as he slid in next to her on the banquette. Harry took the chair facing the two of them. He couldn't quite get over the surprise of Detective Garcia. She was a total babe. Silky black hair that fell to her shoulders, beautiful face, and a body that-

"Harry, this person you're staring at is my old friend Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD. Michelle, Harry Brock, CIA spook, Washington."

She extended her hand across the table and shook Harry's hand, giving him a friendly smile. And, wait, she's nice, Harry thought, already moving into a rose-covered cottage and having plump pink babies with her. You never knew. Stranger things have happened.

The waitress came over, smiled knowingly at Stoke, and took their drink and food orders. "Be right back," she said.

Harry said, "So, Detective. Nice to meet you."

"Call me Michelle, okay? Nice to meet you, too, Harry."

"Palm Beach PD. Tough gig, huh? So, how do you and Stokely know each other?"

Stoke glanced at Michelle, rolling his eyes-This guy is not my fault.

"Well. We worked a few cases together over the years. I started out with DEA down in Key West after Quantico, before I came up here to paradise. I'm the one who arranged to find Stokely a nice room out at the Glades Motel. I'll be driving him out Southern to Belle Glade and officially turning him over at three."

"Nice, really nice," Harry said for no apparent reason.

She looked at Stoke, who was no help at all, and said, "Well, you know, we're old friends, and-"

High society. Everybody in the place chatting up a damn storm while Stoke, thinking only about Sharkey and the danger he'd put him in, sat and watched the clock over the bar. He looked across the table at Brock, saw all his sunny charm and California surfer sunshine beamed at Michelle.

"Harry, listen up. You know that fat dickhead tried to kill me in my own damn condo? Bashir al Mahmoud or whatever? Turns out Bashi used to own one of the largest houses on the beach here in PB. Billionaire's Row, they call it. Rod Stewart was his next-door neighbor. I ran his name, saw the former address, ran it by Michelle, and it turns out she busted him once. Few years ago. It didn't stick, but she learned a whole lot about him."

"What'd you bust him for, Michelle?" Harry asked, big smile, trying really hard to be a swell handsome guy who, at the very same time, was just, darn it all, naturally curious about law enforcement matters.

"Drugs. White slavery, child prostitution. And soliciting minors. Bashi, that's what he called himself, had some woman recruiting little girls for him. She'd cruise some of the poorer neighborhoods over in West Palm, parks, playgrounds, chat up pretty young girls on the sidewalk, tell them how easily they could make a few hundred dollars. In one hour. Just go with her over to Palm Beach to this really rich guy's mansion on the beach and give him a massage. No sex, just a straight massage. Of course it was always more than that."

"What a dick."

"Tell him the rest, Michelle."

"Well, Mike, that's when Mike Reiter, our former chief, now FBI director, had us put a surveil on the woman who worked for Bashi. Every week she'd drive over to PBI airport in West Palm, sometimes even Orlando or Lauderdale, and meet planes coming in from Morocco, Saudi Arabia, or Caracas via New York.

"We'd check them out, alert Immigration. Young guys, all clean-cut, clean visas, no Interpol red flags, nothing. She'd take them to the Marriott up in Jupiter, check them in, then she'd head back to Bashi's beach blanket bingo party pad over on South Ocean till the next batch flew in."

Harry said, "This woman, what'd she look like?"

"Oh, you know the type. Blond, Victoria's-Secret-model type. Tall."

"We know the type all right," Stoke said to Michelle. "She's working South Beach now. Or, at least she was. Right, Harry?"

"We've got Bashi in custody, Michelle," Harry said, a teeny bit defensive. "Illegal entry, attempted murder."

"Who the hell he try to off?" Michelle asked.

"Me," Stoke said.

"Why?"

"I know what his girlfriend looks like."

"And now?"

"Not talking. He's all clammed up."

Brock said, "Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then."

"Can't. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles. End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the government in Cold Care Plus alone?"