

Diabla

meets

Large Lola

By

Karl

Tutt

Copyright Karl Tutt 2018

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

It washed up on the beach in the darkness not far north of the corner of Las Olas and Ocean Boulevard. At first no one paid much attention. It was basically formless, and it stunk . . . maybe a maimed Dolphin or some other dead thing shrouded in seaweed.

The first one to notice it was an eight-year-old boy. He said he saw something sparkling in the morning sun. He held his nose and got a little closer. He fixed on it for a moment more. Then he wanted it. He removed the thing gingerly, washed it in the surf, and took it his mother. It stole her breath. A ring . . . not just any ring . . . but an elegant, if somewhat gaudy, bundle of 24 carat gold and diamonds that even Mariah Carey would have been proud to sport on one of her meticulously manicured hands.

His mother thought about stuffing it in her beach bag and grinning all the way home, but there was the boy. She wanted him to grow to be honest and trustworthy. She showed him the initials "A G" engraved inside. It belonged to someone . . . or at least it had. He was baffled . . . not sure what he'd seen or what he picked up, but he did know it was of value, and he also knew his Mom would do the right thing. She flagged one of the bicycle cops that work the strip, held it out for him to inspect, and pointed. It was hard to like what he found.

Chapter One

I first met him long before I became Diabla. At the time, I was dancing with brass poles in my birthday suit, hooking a little on the side, and trying to make my way through a cloud of cocaine, opioids, and any other dope I could get my hands on. I may have even screwed him a couple of times. It's hard to remember when your life is nothing but a frothy dark cloud. I was deep in the abyss, and in my mind . . . and my heart . . . or what was left of it . . . I didn't think I'd ever climb out. It was only through the heroic efforts of my dad, Fritz, and old friends, T.K., Chris, and Sunny, that I made it through without much more damage than a couple of now faded tattoos. They had all risked their lives. But we all came through. Now it is a good time to forget, and I'd done my best. But sometimes, late in the night, I knew it would haunt me like a malevolent wraith, a banshee who would never stop baying.

One thing I did remember too well was the night the good Mr. Gianinni "made it rain". I was working the All-Nighter, a gentlemen's club in a strip center near I 95. Only there weren't many gentlemen there.

Mr. G was at a table almost on top of the stage with four or five of what were, no doubt, his "closest friends". I never heard a word of English from any of them except him, and that was confined mostly to grunts, groans, and "get it on, Baby", accompanied by an occasional fondling of his crotch.

Avis was my business colleague (read fellow stripper) and neighbor. Nice girl, fabulous shape, and despite a voracious appetite for a variety of pharmaceuticals, I could trust her. She lived in a small apartment near the upper end of the New River. I was her downstairs neighbor. That was before I moved onto my old Pearson 365, GREAT GESTURE. We'd had many a nite cap on her tiny balcony laughing it up over the antics of some of our supposedly high class clientele.

Avis could definitely shake it up. We had been working the boys pretty hard and finally decided on a tag-team approach for our grand finale. Our garters were sporting a fistful of fives sprouting like green bouquets engulfing our thighs. We were jiggling our tits and shaking our asses for all we were worth . . . all close enough for the boys to damned near taste. I must admit it wasn't one of my finest moments, but to say we were well received would be a monumental understatement.

Artie G. bounded up and howled like a wolf sniffing heat. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and came out with fistfuls of rich, dirty green currency. He thrust his palms into the air and the bills fluttered to the stage like wounded birds. Hell, I'd seen the Florida crackers roll in from the groves and do the same thing on payday. But this time it was different. The hardwood was flooded with wadded up tens. Avis and I were grabbing the green like two starving children snatching bread crumbs. Within minutes I had a month's rent and more than enough to keep me in coke for time immemorial. It was certainly one of the more lucrative nights in my former rather dubious career, although I wouldn't term it a smart move. I couldn't say my own name for weeks after that. Thank God for Avis's homemade chicken soup. She bring it down every day or so . . . even feed it to me when I was damned near paralyzed. Kept me from starving to death and tasted mighty good. She finally swallowed one too many pills. I still miss her. I guess you could say she sorta saved my life. I wish I had saved hers.

You might have me wrong . . . think I'm bragging . . . that I'm proud of all that shit. I'm not. My Dad and Mom instilled a sense of morality deep in me. I guess I got lost, and stayed lost for quite a while. Money, sex, and drugs will do that . . . even to the best of us. But I still believe in some concepts that are probably quaint, if not grossly outmoded in these days. They sometimes remind you of the Wild West . . . days of might makes right, the rule of the gun, every man for himself . . . that sort of crap. Some stuff needs to be fair, and honest . . . and we all need to remember we are nothing more than human, imperfect creatures who need to try. I'm not saying I'm a Girl Scout, but I occasionally help an aging widow across the street, drop a few bucks in the red Salvation Army bucket, and stand up for what looks like justice. Okay, I get it . . . I've bored you to death . . . I'll step down off my soapbox and tell you the rest of the story.

Thank God, Dad came through. He got some records expunged, and believe it or not, I was accepted at the Police Academy and became a cop. Fort Lauderdale P.D. I can seriously tell you that I was a good one . . . a cop, that is . . . honest, hard-working, all that solid shit. I even got promoted. But there were rules . . . the written ones and those that smart cops didn't talk about. I developed a very bad habit . . . stepping on toes . . . sometimes the wrong ones . . . those that belonged to the very important and influential. I guess that's when Detective Dee Rabow, the Pillar of Justice and Truth, got the nickname Diabla. It means she-devil in Spanish. Hell, I earned it for being a bitch. It hung on me like a badge of honor . . . at least for some. For others it was a threat, an indictment . . . a warning that I couldn't be trusted to play the game the way the old hands wanted it played. Unfortunately it had a lot to do with their pockets . . . keeping them full . . . houses, cars, etc. . . . and in my mind that's not a good thing.

When I got canned, and unemployment loomed like a storm cloud circling my head, I got my license and turned to what I knew the best. Simple detecting . . . the private kind. My first partner, Ricky, is dead. That's another story. But his fiancé, Evelyn, has proved a resourceful and determined replacement . . . not to mention the fact that she is a total knockout. It helps lots when some of the bad boys are staring at her tits or her ass instead of trying to figure out how to kill us. I gotta say my stuff isn't bad, either. Anyway, it gives us a little time. So be it. We stay as busy as we can, and eke out a decent living off other people's secrets . . . and often . . . their indiscretions.

So back to our boy. Arturo Gianinni. Right . . . everyone knew the name was phony. So was the accent. The only Italian old Artie knew was bongiorno, vino, and pizza, but I think he believed the moniker hinted at Mafia connections. He talked about Sicily like it was the fatherland. And, as Mom used to say, "give the devil his dues". Artie could get that look on his face that made you think of cement overshoes and sleeping with the fishes. I gotta admit it was chilling . . . hey, whatever works. And of course, the dude had money . . . huge piles of it. A villa on the beach, maybe 15,000 square feet, with the home theater, the private gym, bowling alley, the Olympic sized pool, the Jacuzzi, the Lamborghini parked next to the Mercedes Limo and numerous other accoutrements that screamed, "I'm a whole lot richer than you . . . not to mention much classier." He was rumored to be buddies with Donald Trump, Wayne Huizenga, Tom Brady, and other luminaries who just couldn't stay under the radar no matter how they tried. Of course, some of them didn't try at all, but what the hell?

It didn't matter anyway. Artie was way beyond dead. I tried like hell to care, but I was more concerned about which round the Dolphins would be picking in the NFL draft. They definitely needed some help in the secondary and a couple of dependable defensive linemen. Actually, I doubt Artie would have disagreed, but now I guess we'd never know.

Chapter Two

Evelyn, my gorgeous/genius/Brazilian partner, had run down to the street vendor to get us a couple of hot dogs. Don't stick your nose up. It was the umbrella man, the one with those fat juicy Sabrett's. They'd been turning in that roaster for an hour or so and the buns melted in your mouth. Throw on a little mustard, maybe even some chili and their fabulous onion sauce, slaw if you wanted it, and you had one hell of a feast. My mouth was watering and I was drumming a dried up ballpoint on the scarred desk. Patience was never one of my virtues.

The phone rang. I picked it up, "Dee Rabow Detective Agency. How may I help you?"

"Cut the shit, Baby. I'm on to something . . . at least I think I am."

Always the charmer. It was Bert Adamson, my current squeeze. He was the epitome of "tall, dark, and handsome", not to mention charming as Errol Flynn, but that was only one reason to listen when he talked. Bert was one of the best investigative reporters in South Florida. He had several claims to fame, the most recent contributing to the bust of a cartel connection that was funneling opioids to Kentucky and surrounding states in the midlands. The funeral business in those areas was booming.

Bert was tough, thorough, and he had this way of making people trust him. It had damned sure worked on me more than once, not only in public, but even better, in some more private settings. (Just in case you're wondering, there is no video.) There was one more thing. He liked to laugh. He start with a little rumble, then boom and roar like a wounded rhino. People just took to it. Me . . . I'm a big fan of laughing. It beats the hell out of the alternative, no matter how bad you're hurting.

"Okay Big Shot, shoot," I breathed in my best Lauren Bacall.

"You know Artie G., or I guess I should make that past tense. My sources tell me there was barely enough of the body left to get a positive ID. Dental, I think. He had some new implants, and that hunk of gold and diamonds the kid found sealed it all."

"Yeah . . . okay . . . all old news, Pal. What's the rest?"

"If you asked him what he did, Artie would mumble 'financier', then show his teeth and turn to the next guest at the cocktail party. There were always rumors, but few of his associates were brave enough to confirm them. And of course, there were a couple of convenient disappearances. As you might guess, most of them had their own fingers in the pies, and they were pulling out plums on a regular basis. You know that huge piece of property out west of I 95. He had an option on it. Some big-time developers were planning another fat slice of exurbia, their own little town with shopping centers, houses, condos, even a hospital, and a branch of the community college. They were waiting for our distinguished President Trump to ease some regulations, especially EPA stuff. There's some damned snails, or birds or something that are on the Endangered Species list. Plus a particular senator had vowed to open up part of it for the spillway to Everglades that is supposed to help flush the Indian River Lagoon . . . get rid of some of that crap that's fouling the water flowing from Lake Okeechobee."

"Still old news." I repeated disgustedly.

"Okay Miss smart assed PI. A little patience might be in order."

I sighed loud enough to be heard on the west coast. I could almost feel Bert shrug over the phone. Finally he went on.

"Okay, I give. Here's the deal. You meet me for dinner at The Tropics and I give you the rest of the take."

The Tropics was the newest place on south beach, reputed to be very delicious and very expensive . . . didn't take me long to accept a deal like that. We agreed on eight. That would give me time wash my hair, drench myself in perfume and doll up in my most provocative "come hither" togs. Definitely sounded like a win-win to me.

I could smell those dogs before Evelyn opened the door. She cradled the bag like a mother with her new baby. She placed a wad of napkins on the desk, grinned, and gently laid the bag before me. Then she pulled the chair over from her desk and seated herself like the sacred Tupi Princess of an ancient site near the Amazon. Then it was down to business. Two dogs apiece . . . better than any human sacrifice I could think of. She licked her lips and wiped a bit of drool off the lower one. Such a lady. I let her wolf down a couple of bites before I hit her with the Bert's offer.

"So I guess I'll get the play-by-play tomorrow. Please don't spare me any of the lurid details. Keeps my mind off how we pay the rent this month."

I held up my mustard covered hand and we made a pinkie promise. Then we laughed and stuffed our faces.

\--------------------------

I was fashionably late, as is a lady's MO. Bert had arrived, and the maitre'd bowed and guided me to a quiet table near the back wall. Bert stood and bowed like the courtier he could be when he wanted to. Our man pulled the chair for me. Candlelight glowed and a sweating bottle of champagne was sitting at attention.

Bert was staring . . . right at me.

I gotta admit, I looked like a million dollars, blond curls pulled back over my ear, a slinky black satin cocktail dress with just enough cleavage to be alluring, if not obscene, some sterling silver earrings and a matching bracelet I hadn't worn since Noah's flood. Bert looked pretty damned good himself, silver gray silk suit hanging on his broad shoulders, shiny black t-shirt peaking out of the double breasted, thick lapels, like some George Raft clone out of a thirties gangster epic. His thick sable mustache was trimmed and I caught a hint of Brut wafting from his sculptured, tanned cheeks. The smile was winning, even sweet, and lest I forget to mention . . . sexy.

The waiter glided over and poured me a generous portion of the golden sparkling liquid. Bert raised his glass and gave me his best Clark Gable. God, was it working. Rhett toasting Scarlett from "Gone with the Wind." Too damned good to be true.

"My God, you look stunning, but business first."

I tilted my crystal toward him and glowed.

"One of the drivers on the deal is a Brazilian billionaire, Gabriel Souza. He is the heir to the Lowlands Coffee fortune. They own more businesses than I can trace, and I'd bet my last buck the ones I can't trace are smelly as a septic tank. Anyway, he and Artie were supposed to be real tight. I got nothing hard, but I got good reason to think Artie might have been juggling the books, putting a little in his pocket for a rainy day. There could be some payoffs involved, someone in the EPA . . . might go very high. I'm just guessing right now, but I need information to bring it together. Evelyn jumped into my brain."

"Yeah, that's been happening to about half the guys in South Florida."

"Come on Dee. Get serious. I know Ev's a Brazilian native, was a high class attorney in Rio, and could sell snowballs to Eskimos. I need her."

"Yeah, another line I've been hearing from lots of bozos the last couple of years."

My voice was flooded with sarcasm, but it was the damned truth. What they figured they needed was all too obvious.

"Okay, sad jealous one, must I remind you that you are the only damsel who plucks the strings of my poor, pitiful heart? And by the way, this is a paying gig. I got the okay from my editor. This story could put me on the front page of every newspaper in Florida. Talk to her. If she thinks it's a good bet, we'll cover plane tickets, hotels, give her a fat per diem, and fill the coffers of the Dee Rabow Detective Agency with shekels of gold."

"All right, Bert. Now you're talking my language. Veritable music to my aching tortured ears, not to mention my poor empty pockets. On this I'll get back to you quick."

"Okay, now on to other matters."

He seemed a bit reluctant . . . even nervous. He drummed his fingers on the table momentarily, then cleared his voice. It wasn't really like the fearless Bert I thought I knew --- but he finally went on.

"Dee, you and I have a thing. I'm not really sure I can even define it, but it's there. I guess I'm trying to find a way to say I've fallen in love. I want you to move in with me. I know how independent you are. It's a damned cliche, but I know you need your space. You can have it. I just need you near me. I need to hear your voice and smell the fragrance of your body when you wake up next to me in the mornings. I don't have to have an answer tonight. Just think about it. We make sense . . . and I believe we need each other. Two drifters who should be one."

It was almost corny, right out of "Breakfast at Tiffany's", but it was so damned sweet and so damned sincere. I took the hook like a starving tarpon. I tried to speak, but my lips seemed numb. I took a sip of champagne and shook my head slightly.

"I gotta say, this is not what I expected."

"I didn't expect it either, Dee. When first meet you, I thought "hey . . . a few drinks and some laughs with a pretty lady . . . maybe I'll even get laid. Can't be all bad." But it didn't take long to realize that you're so much more than that. So just tell me you will. You . . . your space. Me. Keep the boat. Maybe we'll even adopt a puppy."

"It's all too quick, Bert. I need some time to think . . . digest it. It's not about you. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I got to Lauderdale. I just need . . ."

He reached across the table and put his fingers to my lips. His eyes burned with something warm and kind.

"You got it. Just let me know when you're ready. Maybe I'll even bake a cake."

We giggled like two teenaged kids at the malt shop. From there things got even better. When the sun rose I was in his arms, my head lost in the rhythm of his breathing, and my heart quiet and steady.

Chapter Three

Ev was at the office early. I wasn't. She gave a quick once-over and smiled.

"You must have had one hell of a time last night. You damned sure look it."

I mumbled something that sounded like coffee. She poured me a cup of something that looked like recycled motor oil, and I collapsed into the chair behind the desk. I took a hit of the thick brew and shuddered. Too much champagne does bad things to my head in the morning, but I never seem to remember that the night before. I began to blurt out the story, leaving out the part about me moving in with Bert. That had to come later.

"So we get paid and someone else is taking care of all the expenses?" she sputtered through a mouthful of jelly donut.

I nodded vigorously. "Yeah, we get paid lots," I spit out.

"Sounds like a deal to me. You know I haven't seen any of my people down there in a couple of years. It's probably a good time to brush up on the old family tree and practice my Portuguese. I can do a little investigating, a little visiting, maybe even find a cold mojito somewhere. And how's this for a spoiler alert? I actually met the famous coffee heir at a party a few years back. He followed me into the bathroom, and locked the door. If you're lucky, you just might be able to guess what he had in mind. I slapped his hand energetically . . . then I had to slap his face. He didn't like it too much. Too damned bad. Anyway I was in the middle of a visit from my red-haired aunt. It would have been pretty sloppy."

"Okay Evelyn, you can spare me the nasties. When can you leave? I got that sense from Bert . . . the sooner, the better."

"Well, I'm finishing my donut first, then you can color me gone."

The fat end of the dough disappeared into her gaping mouth, leaving a slight trace of jelly at the corner. She delicately dabbed a napkin at it, stood like the queen of England, and sauntered toward the door, Gucci tucked under her arm. She turned and gave me a sly wink, shook her silky black waves over her shoulder. I listened as her Jimmy Choo stilettos clicked down the hall. That's my girl . . . always crafty, elegant, and eager to please. If there was anything to find in Rio, she was the woman to do it.

The next morning she was on an Avianca flight to Rio, and booked for four nights at the Hotel Santa Teresa, five star, of course. It's a good thing the agency VISA card had a very high limit, but only the best for our Brazilian Princess.

So Ev was gone and the riff-raff --- that's me --- was left to turn over some rocks around the city and see what might crawl out, but I just couldn't get myself moving.

Keeping my mind off Burt was like trying to forget an earthquake. The aftershocks just kept on coming. The biggest one was the word "love". I'd been so damned busy being independent and strong that I'd forgotten about anything real . . . emotional . . . the proverbial affair of the heart. I guess I still had one, but somewhere in the labyrinth I inhabited, it was lost and silent. Now it pounded in a way I hadn't felt in a very long time.

Was Bert Prince Charming, the dashing one who with a kiss had awakened this damsel from her deep sleep? Could I give up . . . or at least arrest . . . the tough broad in me and give anything other than a few bad jokes and a good lay? I just didn't know, but within my aching confusion was the nagging thought that he deserved better.

I'm no Snow White, but you know that. Deep within me it's hard to believe that anyone could actually love me. Burt said he did, but does he really know about those demons that shriek during my darkness?

I took a deep breath and did Scarlett again. "I'll think about it tomorrow."

Work . . . my only refuge was work.

I sat in front of the computer for a moment. Then I launch a Google search on Arturo Gianinni. His address was on a prominent point on the west side of the ICW, not too far from the entrance to the New River. Of course, he had his own dock, but it was across the water from Bahia Mar and within striking distance of Pier 66. I decided to ride over there and just ogle the opulence. Who knows? Maybe a little class would rub off on me.

The place wasn't too shabby. Neither was the sparkling Viking 62 parked behind his humble residence. The entire estate was surrounded by a six-foot ornamental iron gate painted in sparkling white enamel. Every time I lifted my eyes I saw a camera pointed at me. I'd just like to have the money he spent on his security system. I didn't see any guards, but I did hear loud barking in the distance. I stopped for an instant pretending to suck up the magnificence. Through the stately row of bowing palms the three story cream-colored faux Italianate loomed fifty yards or so down the coquina driveway. I could live like the queen in a place like that, but affording the full-time gardener, the property taxes, the water and the electric bills might be just a bit beyond my means. Of course, eight or nine roommates could help cover the cost, but I'd be willing to give your odds the neighbors would complain. The good news was, considering the size of the estate, I wouldn't have to see my roomies more than once a week, but that's why they make postcards.

I was still gaping when a couple of inquisitive Dobermans the size of Shetland ponies trotted up to give me one more warning. Now I gotta tell you some of my best friends are dogs, but the rumbling deep in their throats, and the gleam of incisors dripping a bit of drool was somewhat unsettling. I tried to strike an innocent pose . . . maybe the harmless matron out for a morning walk, but my cut-off jeans and red tank top probably gave me away. In the interest of transparency, I should also admit I'd left the bra at home. I shook my long blond curls over my face, and hoped if there was a monitor that it was focused on my nipples. I guess you could call me suitably impressed.

I've been known wait for darkness, and make an uninvited visit to a curious place just to check things out. You'd be surprised at what's sometimes laying around on a coffee table, hiding behind a cereal box the kitchen, not to mention the medicine cabinets. It often reveals the proclivities of the resident, including tastes for all things indecent, and often illegal. But I don't like it when there are more cameras that birds, and dogs that look like they need a snack before bedtime . . . and it might be you.

So what was Plan B? I didn't have one, and my clever, and often industrious, sidekick was probably in Rio sipping exotic cocktails by now. In a pinch, Evelyn always had an idea and most of them were pretty damned good. But for right now, I was on my own. I flipped through the rolodex in my mind trying to ferret out a reliable source, someone who traded in information not found in the morning newspaper. Of course, there was Bert. I hadn't talked to him in a day or so, but I wasn't sure I was ready for that. Too much on the table right now. Besides, he would have called if there was anything new, or if his masculine love cup need filling . . . and I knew the latter would happen soon enough. So who else? Maybe it was time for a visit to the Elbow Room.
Chapter Four

Cammie usually came in about two. It was the middle of the afternoon and things usually didn't heat up until four or so. I parked down near the Las Olas Marina and walked the two blocks up to the Elbow Room. My timing was perfect. She stood behind the bar, thick platinum hair billowing around her head. The makeup was thick, as usual, fire-engine red lipstick, and pink blush on the cheeks, definitely overdone. She had a hint of a double chin, very appropriate for a woman who had to be in her late forties, and was probably fifteen pounds overweight.

The boys called her Slammin' Cammie for two reasons. She wouldn't hesitate to take you down if you got too far into your cups. They didn't even need a bouncer when that lady was behind the bar. And if you waited until she got off around two A.M. . . . and if she'd taken a fancy to your clever banter or large tips, she could bury you in the cheap mattress at her place just a few blocks away. It was a burial many men longed for. Of course, it helped if you were younger, but that was a determination that she made somewhat indiscriminately. She once told me . . . in confidence, of course . . . that she kept a stash of Viagra in the drawer next to the bed . . . but only for emergencies.

You couldn't help but love her. Like Billy Joel's bartender in "Piano Man", "she was quick with a joke or a light of your smoke". If you sat long enough, she'd also tell you she was one of Jimmy Buffett's original groupies . . . following him from concert to concert in the back of an old Dodge Caravan. "We were very, very close." That was all she'd say . . . but it was always accompanied with a discrete wink. Actually, Jimmy even came into the bar one evening, but no one was sure it was just see Cammie.

All that not withstanding, Cammie had more information about what happened in the silent dens in Ft. Lauderdale than anyone else who breathed in our sinful little city by the beach. She knew all the players and the playgrounds they called home. Call it gossip, pillow talk, just plain trash. She was the ultimate source.

"Dee," she grinned, "haven't seen you in a while. Jameson or a nice frosty Modelo Especial?"

"Cammie, you sure know the way to a woman's heart."

I ordered the latter, laid a twenty on the bar and placed my elbows on the sticky surface. After a little girl chit-chat, or should I say bullshit, I got to the point.

"Cammie, did you know Arturo?"

"Are you kiddin' me? I even banged him a few times. He was small, but enthusiastic. Really not a bad fella . . . and quite generous. Good for both of us."

"So he's gone. Got any ideas about what might have caused his untimely demise?"

I pushed the twenty forward on the bar. She shook her head. I laid another ten on top of it. I knew it wasn't much to her, but I also knew she had a sweet spot for a poor female detective, and there was that thing with the creep who had decided he owned her. He'd blackened her eye and left a few bruises. Cammie's strong point was definitely not forgiveness. Evelyn and I had to get a little tough. Our boy actually walked kind of funny for a week or so, but he got the message. Cammie hadn't forgotten the favor.

"Well, Dee . . . for you and only you. Arturo had his fingers in too many pies. I 'm sure you read about the deal for the soccer stadium, new digs for the Strikers. They need the land out to the west side of town, and they need it cheap. The commissioners made it clear that the city wasn't going to lay thirty mil on the line to get the project started. Big Sugar owns part of it. They aren't exactly happy with the possibility of giving up some of those federal subsidies. Let's just say that Arturo was negotiating some alternatives, financing, kickbacks, miscellaneous stuff. You didn't hear it from me, but the mob boys from Miami had decided there was nice buck to be had from some related activities . . . most of them strictly illegal. There was mumbling about a new casino, and other forms of entertainment. Some of the pros who work the strip bleeding the tourists, are positively giddy about new sources of income, not to mention some cheap blow, maybe even opioids. God bless capitalism."

I nodded and took a swig of the Modelo.

The Strikers were in the second tier of professional soccer, kind of like Triple A in baseball. I had heard rumors that they wanted to move up to the first tier, become major league. Of course it all required major league money, and that included a new stadium. It was more complicated than it looked. The EPA, The Army Corps of Engineers, and lots of local and state interests, including the Seminole Indian Tribe, were all dancing, and not necessarily to the same tune. I was trying to get it all together when Cammie lifted a finger to her mouth and tipped her head to my left.

A tall guy, swarthy, muscular . . . probably Latin . . . or maybe Italian . . . had slipped up behind me. He was wearing a tailored black linen sport coat with a white silk shirt poking from beneath the lapels. A teal Florida Marlins cap was perched on his head, and he looked like he could belt one out of the park right now. Actually he was quite good-looking, but there was something that seemed serpentine curling around his thin lips. A small club . . . I don't know what else to call it . . . was draped over his right wrist with a leather strap. It was like a little league Louisville Slugger, all wooden and shiny. He slapped it against his hip a couple of times with an audible pop. Then he glared at Cammie. She nodded and placed a double Chivas . . . neat . . . on the counter in front of him.

The cap sat one seat away and hulked over the bar. I half expected a smile or one of those phony lines. Maybe "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?", but he was silent. Cammie forced a smile, but when he looked away, she met my eyes with a hint of caution and possibly even a little fear. I got the message.

I pushed the bills toward her, downed the last of my golden brew, ready to head back toward my faded Corolla. Cammie scooped the cash up, smiled again, dipped her chin, and grimaced as she delivered one last message. "By the way," she said, her teeth clenched, "Large Lola said to say hello." Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the Cap nod.

Still I didn't get it. Who the hell was Large Lola? I wish I hadn't found out.

I turned right. When I looked over my shoulder near the convenience store across from the marina parking lot, the swarthy gentleman was standing on the sidewalk a hundred feet behind me. He lit a smoke and tried his best to be inconspicuous. I gotta tell you, he wasn't.

I don't like to be followed. It always gives me a little chill. I patted the small pocketbook slung over my shoulder. I felt better knowing it was just big enough for my Beretta. I went on to Goldie. That's what I named my '82 Corolla. Believe it or not, I bought her in a yard sale for a grand. She was owned by a little old lady who only drove them to church on Sundays. At least that's what the little old lady told me. The little four cylinder fired up purring like a kitten on my lap. It was somewhat reassuring, and at least the radio still worked. I tuned in to BIG 105, and pushed the volume up to ten. Hell, I'll admit it. I'm a Joan Jett fanatic. I love rock'n'roll. This time it was Aerosmith, blasting "Love in an Elevator." That was something I'd never done, but somehow it made everything okay. I put it on my bucket list. At least for now.

I had just cleared the office door when the phone rang.

\--------------------------------------------

I couldn't hear a damned thing except Evelyn's voice over blaring trumpets and trombones, and that was only because she was screaming.

"What can I tell you? It's Carnavale in Rio. Makes Mardi Gras look like a church picnic. A woman covered in shrink wrap with blinking LED's on her boobs just skirted past. She had a huge parrot on her head. They were both drunk . . . but they were both smiling. Behind her was one more lady painted swamp green. She had a boa around her neck, and I'm talking constrictor. Maybe my imagination, but the damned thing looked hungry. Those girls were putting down salsa moves that would have been the envy of the "Dancing with the Stars" crew. I left the room at the hotel. I'm sure it is bugged. My friend with the coffee plantations has very long arms and many friends in high places."

"So you've seen him?"

"Hell, we had dinner last night. Champagne that must have cost three or four thousand reais a bottle, ribeye steaks thick enough to feed most of the starving children in Rio, and I won't even try to describe salads or the desserts. Afterwards, cognac on the fourteenth floor of his penthouse overlooking the lights of the city. I tried like hell to be a good girl, and I believe he thinks I was very good. I'm not sure, but he may have asked me to marry him . . . at least for the night."

"My God, Ev, I thought you were down there to gather information."

"I got some, but it was curious how quiet he got when I brought up his business interests in the states. He did mention some land acquisitions near Lauderdale. He's huge soccer fan, and he wanted to know how Florida was receiving their version of football. I ohhed and ahhed, smiled a lot, laughed girlishly, and told him what little I knew. I let Arturo's name drop a couple of times, but he just raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and shook his head. "I don' believe I had de pleasure," he said. I can't tell you exactly why, but I'm damned sure he was lying."

"So are you okay . . . I mean safe and all."

"I called my nephew as soon as I hit the runway. He supplied me with a nifty little Ruger . . . fits like a glove in my handbag. Very efficient at close range. I haven't had to use it, although coffee boy did get a little rough at times. I'm just lucky I've learned a few things from you."

"Very funny, V.I. Warshawski." A little inside joke, V.I. was the heroine of a number of murder mysteries by Sara Paretsky. Ev loved them, but then she was always a sucker for tough broads in tough situations.

"Just get your pretty ass back to the states before you succumb to any more temptations."

"Hey, I'm on it. I'm done here. Checked a few other sources. Not much. Sorry. Should see you at the office sometime tomorrow afternoon."

Ev hadn't found out much, but at least the land and soccer stuff seemed to match. It was time to call Bert. I needed more info, and to be honest, I was getting a little horny. It was a basic "my place or yours" scenario, and his won out. I stopped at the Total Wine on the way to the beach and picked up a bottle of Sterling Cabernet. Bert's condo was probably twenty years old and it looked it. But he had a fabulous view. The blue Atlantic on one side and a constant parade of party yachts on ICW on the other. The balcony was the ideal place for private conversation and subtle foreplay . . . well maybe not so subtle . . . at least on my part.

So far, we'd kept it purely physical. He was being patient about his little proposal. Believe me, I was very appreciative, but I knew the time was coming.

Chapter Five

So Gisele had Tom Brady, and I had Bert Adamson . . .at least for now. I scanned the thousands of city lights sparkling in the muted darkness, took a deep breath of the thick salt air, and stared into his indigo eyes. Too bad, Gisele, no trade. I was wearing a burnt orange pullover with a neckline that disappeared into the belt of my jeans. I don't know what the hell I'll do when I can't go braless any more, but that time isn't here . . . at least not yet. Good ol' Bert was appreciating every second of it. I had deliberately perched on edge of a chair on the west side of the deck so he could catch my goddess-like profile and the scent of that damned perfume. It was new and it had better work. I paid seventy bucks for it at Saks. My elbows were on the edge of the glass top table and I was shooting my most sensuous "Come Hither" look in his direction. Poor boy . . . I thought he was going to start slobbering any minute.

He licked his lips and stared. Then he spoke quietly.

"Dee, it's pretty obvious we both have things on our mind . . . mostly of a carnal nature . . . but just to be safe, let's take care of business first. I'll try to keep it short."

"Business, my ass," I thought. Maybe the "Come Hither" had come and went. I was more than slightly distressed, but the man did have a point.

"All right, Loverboy, you'll get your wishes . . . hopefully all of them."

He began with a list of names. It was sort of a "Jeopardy" thing. He was Alex Trebek, clever, friendly, and somewhat suave in his own way. I guess I was the contestant, a shy little girl detective who was definitely intimidated by the bright lights of the big city. My boy Alex would give the answer and I was supposed to come up with the question.

This was the list: Roger Ackerman, Mack Jones, Elvis Eagleclaw, and Luis Gonzales.

The first one was easy. Ackerman is a state senator from our area who is advocating a giant reservoir to collect runoff from Lake Okeechobee. The Treasure Coast, just north of us, is an area bordered to the east by the Indian River Lagoon. They are experiencing severe pollution in the nearby waters. Most of the problem is the dumping of billions of gallons of water through the canals into the lagoon. When the lake gets too high, the daily releases number in the millions, all fouled by fertilizer and septic tank runoff. Sometimes the algae gets so thick, you can walk damned near across it. Businesses are suffering and the stuff is beginning to look like some monster out of a bad sci-fi movie. Of course, Ackerman wants that reservoir smack dab in the middle of property owned by Big Sugar.

That led us to number two. Mack Jones is the administrative director for Consolidated Environmental Health, a front organization backed by the sugar industry. They controll millions of dollars in political contributions and have a huge staff of paper pushers and lobbyists who are bound by one basic philosophy, "let the government make us fat and happy".

I had actually met Elvis Eagleclaw a couple of years back, even worked for him for a few months. I hoped he didn't remember all of it. It was in the days when I was sucking up cocaine and selling my lovely physical wares to the highest bidder. I used to work his territory. Elvis is the Chief of the United Seminole Tribes of Florida. Those folks are sitting on a virtual goldmine in Coconut Creek, just a stone's throw from Lauderdale, and by the way. . . he is on the board of the Hot Rock, another Seminole enterprise. Oh, And did I mention that each of them have lavish casinos, luxurious hotels, and all of the goodies that rake in the dough from the locals and the tourists. The state of Florida makes out like a bandit and every tribal member gets a stipend from the tribes' businesses. They number in the thousands. No one wants to mess with that, especially if you are a Seminole.

"Okay, my lovely, three out of four ain't all bad. Luis Gonzales was the point man for Arturo Gianinni. Some might say advisor . . . others . . . maybe enforcer. There's no sheet on him. He's been too cool for that, but the street says he's not a nice man to cross . . . never forgets a favor . . . or a grudge. Since Artie has gone to his last reward, someone has to take over Mr. G's many, and maybe nefarious, interests. I'd make odds that Luis is the guy."

"All right, genius, one more question. Who is Large Lola? Cammie said she had left me greetings."

"Oh shit. You don't want to know. Large Lola is the leader of an equal opportunity gang that controls a large portion of our beautiful city by the sea. There are probably fifty of them, black, white, Hispanic, even some Asians. And did I mention the LGBT crowd? More than a few. As a matter of fact, Lola's sexual orientation is, should I delicately suggest . . . in question. He/she is probably six four, a solid 200 pounds. At a glance it looks like a woman, but walks like a man, kinda like the old Kinks song. Her crew stays happy because everybody stays rich . . . drugs, petty crime, prostitution . . . all the good stuff . . . and stuff that keeps the coffers full. He/she showed up about four years ago. There was plenty of competition, but curiously enough, people began to disappear, bodies washed up on the beach, and witnesses became scarce. Word on the street is that Lola is a big fan of violence . . . nothing casual, mind you . . . bloody, vicious, vengeful, shit that includes whole families, and even distant relatives. So I wouldn't invite her for a sleep-over."

Okay, it was all plenty complicated. Lots of pieces and hard to match up, especially since I didn't even know what the puzzle was supposed to look like. Nevertheless, Bert had conned me with promises of "an evening of bliss" and I was ready. I slipped out of my jeans and top while he was in the bathroom. I slid under the covers and hoped my scented treasure from Saks would do its magic. He stood before me completely nude and smiled. I gotta admit. I sure liked the looks of that.

After the second go around we both dropped into a lovers' sleep, deep, contented, and wrought with Burt's assurance of a sensual morning. I jumped up with jolt when my cell rang. It was ten after three. I hit the green button and forced it to my ear.

"I got something for you."

"What the hell, Cammie? It's the middle of the night."

"Dee, just shut up and listen. This is important. Meet me at the Coffee Beanery in Beach Place on the strip at ten in the morning. No more questions. Just be there."

She hung up before I could issue even a few feeble protests. Bert rolled over and I ran my tongue over the nipple on his chest. It didn't work. The boy was out, but there was always the morning. Sometimes that was the perfect time for the man to come alive. Believe me, he did.

We showered together. That was fun, then both dressed and headed out on our appointed rounds. I had to pick up Ev at the airport around two. I'd meet Cammie, see what the big news was, check in at the office, pick up my partner, and hopefully squeeze in nice nap late this afternoon. A little hectic maybe, but all manageable, and by the end of the day I expected to know more than I knew now. After all, what does a good detective do? Detect. It might be a little presumptuous, but I include myself in that "good" group. Unfortunately there's always a glitch, but isn't that just the way?

Chapter Six

It was still early for the Lauderdale Beach gawkers. The day was magnificent, low 80's, a glorious morning sun, and a light breeze from the southeast. Most of the tourists were probably fighting off hangovers with Mimosas or Bloody Marys and fists full of aspirin or ibuprofen. I should know. I've done it myself on more than one occasion.

There was a parking place on the street right across from Beach Place. There was even thirty minutes left on the meter. Hey, my lucky day. At least that's what I thought. I was at The Beanery a little before ten. I ordered it black and thick. A cute teen barista in a tidy brown apron served me and smiled. Sometimes I get the memo that I am seriously out of touch. But since when did a cup of coffee cost four bucks? At least it was rich and satisfying. I sat at a table facing the door and waited. A 10:20, the cup was empty. No Cammie. I decided to wander around the mall for a few minutes and check back. The vendors were setting up their t-shirt stands and cases full of cheap jewelry. If the weather held, it would be a good day for junk sales. I went out onto the street and looked both ways. No Cammie. Well, I suppose I could have misunderstood . . . I was half-asleep with visions of naked men dancing in my dreams . . . actually mostly Bert. I gave it another twenty minutes, then decided to go ahead to the office.

I bought another cup of coffee from the machine in the lobby. It tasted like weak swamp water, but it was only a buck and half. I congratulated myself for saving $2.50. There were no messages on the office phone. I checked my cell. Apparently I hadn't missed anything. I finally squeezed into Goldie around 1:30 and headed for the airport.

The traffic was like a bad episode of "The Walking Dead", except the zombies all had driver's licenses and were buzzing by at eighty MPH. Still the little Toyota and I were on the tarmac in the waiting area when Ev came scrambling through the heavy glass door lugging a small suitcase that shouldn't have been that heavy, but probably was. She looked beat, but even beat, my partner looks like a young Raquel Welsh. A couple of yahoos stood under the Ground Transportation sign. They damned near got whiplash when she sauntered by.

"Hello Honey. I know you must be exhausted, but we gotta check on something."

She rolled those gorgeous almond eyes, but didn't say anything. We were parked in the lot near the marina in thirty minutes. The Elbow Room was already starting to heat up. Billy Blue was tuning up his Martin on the tiny stage. I'd heard him many times howling like Muddy Waters or Soon Boy Williamson, and I'm tellin' you, the man is good. He waved as we entered through the side door. Seaside Sally was behind the bar.

"Where's Cammie?"

"I'll tell you where she's gonna be," Sal growled. "She's gonna be dead. Didn't show up for her shift. Hell, I've already been here since ten."

"Anybody call?"

"Whatdda ya think? I been blowing up her phone for an hour. Ya' see her, tell her to get her fat ass down here . . . like yesterday."

I nodded and tried to dodge the venom. But that wasn't like Cammie. If she said she'd show, she'd show.

The sun was ablaze. The breeze had died and it was getting hot, but something cold was crawling up my spine. We climbed back into Goldie and headed for the flophouse apartment that Cammie called home. I hopped out and rushed up the stairs. I banged on the hollow door and called her name. Nothing. Then I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. I knew Cammie always locked herself in.

She was on the floor. A stain the size of a fish pond surrounded her . . . but it was red, already starting to congeal in the warm, stale air. I had to look twice to make sure. Her head was split like a ripe watermelon and parts of her brain were still oozing out of the cracks. The platinum hair lay in sickly pink waves still sinking into the dirty carpet. Her face, or what was left of it, was something from a bad Picasso imitator. No recognizable shape, just a series of unnatural forms, hideous things that bore no resemblance to anything human. It was crushed, smashed, mutilated by what looked like repeated blows from some blunt object. The only time I'd ever seen anything like it was when one of the local gang-bangers had decided to rearrange the physiognomy of a rival with a baseball bat. Ev stood behind me hunched down with her hand over her mouth. She groaned. Then she made for the bathroom. I could hear her gasping and retching.

I was careful not to touch anything. No hand to the breast, no fingers searching for pulse, no ear cocked for any trace of breath. Cammie was dead. I had the station on speed dial. I hit the button, hoping an old friend would answer.

I was lucky.

"Fort Lauderdale P.D. Detective Reynolds."

Al and I had worked together before the F.L.P.D. decided I was persona non grata. I told you before. I had stepped on too many toes, and lots of them rather large. I think it was the mayor who finally did me in, although that's just an opinion. He wasn't the one only that had it in for me. Let's face it. A cop can be only so honest, then she gets to be a nuisance . . . if not a definite liability. Al was one of the better boys in blue. He knew how to walk that line . . . smart and tough enough to be useful without digging too deep when he knew the shit storm was brewing.

"It's Dee. I miss you sweetie."

"Yeah . . . and I miss you like a case of the flu. You wouldn't call if you didn't need something. Let's cut the shit."

I told him about Cammie. He was very quiet for a moment. Cammie had been a reliable contact, not to mention a damned good lady. I knew Al and every other good cop on the strip had gone to her more than once for information, or just a sympathetic ear and an icy beverage of some description. The boys would work this one hard. She was damned near one of their own.

I heard the sirens a block away and saw the reflection of the blue lights bolting through the window. Two cars, two uniforms, and two detectives, Al and Muhammed, two of the best.

Al paused at the door and tried to step around the blood. This was your ultimate tough guy, but I also knew him well enough to know he was shoving back a couple of tears. Muhammed was working hard on cool, but he was breathing much too heavily and the sweat was creeping down toward his eye. Ev was better, but she wasn't quite done heaving. For a moment, all of our stares met in hell. Cammie . . . Slammin' Cammie. She was worth it.

I gave Al the once over. I'd actually forgotten how good looking he was. Tall, dark, in a sort of Irish way, with eyes that were almost black. They cut you like a razor. He wore a cotton turtle neck and a Nehru jacket . . . yeah . . . a little retro, but he was always into a sort of Miami Vice vibe. On him, it looked great. Long ago, in a galaxy far away, I had given serious consideration to hitting on him, but at the time he had a girlfriend who reminded you of a young Christy Brinkley. I just wasn't sure I could compete. If it wasn't for Bert, I'd be considering another round.

We didn't have to stay too long. It was all pretty obvious. Al and Muhammed went about their business while they waited for forensics. Al nodded toward the door. We were being invited to leave. He knew how to reach me if there was anything else. I knew there would be, but I think we were in a shock mode . . . at least for now.

Ev and I slid into the stained seats of Goldie. We sat for a moment, neither of us wanting to break into tears. Yeah . . . we were girls, but we were P.I.'s and supposed to be plain old tough, if not totally invincible. Yeah . . . right. I remembered what Dad used to tell me, "if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." He nailed it.

"I need a drink." I coughed.

Ev looked at me and nodded. Lu Lu's Bait Shack might not be perfect at this time in the afternoon, but I couldn't do the Elbow Room and I didn't think Ev could either. What the hell? We were close and the sooner I tried to salve my conscience with alcohol, the better. I found a spot down the street and pulled the dusty Corolla up next to the curb. We made the entrance to Beach Place and caught the elevator up to the second floor. The little mall was pretty quiet . . . too early for a hostess at Lu Lu's. We got a table at the rail looking out over Ft. Lauderdale Beach. There were a few guys in jams and a bevy of bikini-clad beach bunnies looking like they ought to be sitting in history class soaking up the wisdom of the ages. But I guess that had changed, too. I ordered a Rum Runner and Ev had a double martini on the rocks.

I think I mentioned my conscience in the last paragraph. It was pounding me like a sledgehammer. I looked at Ev, dabbed at my eyes with a paper napkin. The mascara was coming off in clumps.

"Okay Dee, I know what you're thinking. The answer is no. You didn't get Cammie bashed in like a cheap piñata. Yeah, you talked to her. Yeah, she provided a little background info. Yeah, she called to give you something else. But that's it. Who's the perp? Who knows? An old boyfriend? A barfly whose beer wasn't cold enough? Someone settling an old score that we don't even know about? But it wasn't you. She's dead . . . and Al or Muhammed, or some other bull will get the bastard. Case closed."

"Okay Ev . . . maybe it wasn't me. God, I hope not, but you're damned sure right about one thing . . . someone will get the bastard . . . and that someone is me."

I took a slug of the Rum Runner and coughed again. That's when I caught it out of the corner of my eye. She pranced over to our table . . . unbelievably tall, silky blond locks shading one blue eye, shaped like a centerfold, and dressed like Kim Kardasian's twin sister. I guess the tip-off was the muscles. She had 'em. They rippled and flowed with a subtle message. "Better not to fuck with me." She was followed by a guy I already knew. He had been sitting at the bar in the Elbow Room the last time I'd seen Cammie. She towered over our table and smiled . . . no, make that leered. Her voice was gravelly, almost fuzzy, kind of like there was some sort of transition going on.

"Ladies, I hope your drinks are adequate . . . but under the circumstances, perhaps not. Of course it's hard to lose something, or someone that may be so dear . . . even sometimes useful. Consider the situation . . . it may be that a re-evaluation of your mission is in order. Need I say more? I doubt it. And, by the way, give our regards to Cammie . . . if you see her again."

That message was pretty damned clear. Back off . . . or else. I knew we had been warned, and the herald had to be Large Lola and her bat wielding buddy. He grinned, and I snatched at my handbag. My cold steel friend was just a few inches away. Ev reached across the table and seized my wrist with a grip of iron. She glared at me, but spoke in a whisper.

"Another time. There'll be another time."

I forced my fingers to relax, but it was tough. I clicked my teeth together, my jaw set in stone.

"Yes," I said, "there will."

Large Lola and bat-boy turned and made for the door, but just before they left, she spun and flashed a smile. It was the devil guarding the gates of hell. I figured it wasn't supposed to be friendly, much less even cordial. We had been warned, and there was nothing subtle about it.

The Rum Runner seemed to evaporate. The sweet concoction chilled and warmed me at the same time, but there was no comfort. My pulse was on steroids, and I thought for a moment my head would explode. Ev put her hand on my wrist one more time. She signaled the server for two more, and leaned in toward me.

"I know you, Dee. You want to blow that he/she into bloody bits and take that slithering bastard with her. It's too damned risky. We need to know more, and you damned sure don't want to leave that red goo all over Lu Lu's floor. It's bad for business . . . theirs and ours. Take a deep breath, honey. We're supposed to be detectives . . . clever, discreet, and all that shit. Let's do it. It's not like we don't have resources. Let's use them. Then we'll worry about settling the score . . . Permanently."

I liked the sound of that word. I sucked in a breath, swallowed hard, gulped a little more sweet poison, and tried to clear my mind, if not my gut.

I dropped Ev at her place and and headed back to GREAT GESTURE. I hauled myself on board. My head was beginning to clear. Lucky me . . . just in time for a shot of Jameson . . . only for medicinal purposes. Hell, I deserved it.

I sat in the cockpit and thought about Cammie . . . thought about the Large one and her swarthy sidekick. Maybe Large Lola was right. "reconsider out mission", those were her words. Unfortunately, I wasn't even sure what our mission was. It seemed like we were just poking into a haystack hope a needle might drop out.

Still, I kinda knew what she meant. Maybe the intrepid Dee Rabow Detective Agency needed to stick to messy divorces, occasional industrial espionage, and some random surveillance. It paid the bills most of the time and probably wouldn't get you killed.

But maybe they should have left Cammie alone . . . let her sling beer, laugh, and bed the stud she found to her liking. Her corpse had made things a little too personal.

The second hit of Jameson did its work. I crawled up into the vee-berth still fully clothed.

Then I dreamed about Bert.
Chapter Seven

Ev and I met back at the office the next day. I was packing two Big Macs and double fries. I wasn't sure I could eat, but I knew Ev could. I needed to soak up the rum and get some calories in my body. We ate without talking . . . grim, but determined. I wiped the last bit of special sauce off of my lips and tossed the napkin in the waste basket. The fetid smell of fried fast food hung in the air like the plague. In self-defense, I finally broke down and scrounged a stale pack of Marlboros from the bottom drawer. I had been trying to quit for months, but this afternoon bad habits seemed more than appropriate. Ev even joined me. The air in the office got gray fast.

"I guess we need a place to start."

I snatched a stained legal pad off the corner of the desk and scratched a blue Bic over the top, hoping for a last vestige of the liquid ink. It worked. Next, I tried to figure out what we knew . . . or more accurately . . . what we didn't.

  1. I didn't know what Cammie had for me. It must have been something important given the urgency of the late call. She couldn't tell me with her head bashed to a pulp. How would I find out?

  2. I had to figure out how the other players Burt had mentioned fit into the overall picture.

  3. The only one I knew personally was Elvis Eagleclaw, the Seminole Chief and president of the Cocoanut Creek casino. A few years ago I had worked briefly as a dealer at one of the blackjack tables. It didn't last long after they found out I was doing drugs. Even though I was drawing high rollers to my table like flies to roadkill, it was a risk they couldn't take. I knew Elvis liked me, but he fired me. It was quick, but not without some compassion. "Get clean and come back," that's what he told me, "we always got a place for a classy lady like you." It didn't make things any easier, but he treated me like a human being and not a piece of trash that had blown up on the sidewalk. I didn't know any of the others, but at least Elvis gave me a place to start.

  4. I figured we'd already met Large Lola, but who was the bat-boy? I didn't know how they were involved, but my intuition was kicking me heavily in the ass.

  5. Ev agreed with me. There was something big going down. We'd been warned by the scary Amazon and her dark smirking lieutenant. Maybe we didn't want to know.

I chewed on the blue end of the Bic for a moment, but nothing else came. Okay . . . it only made sense for Ev to continue to work the Brazilian angle, use her feminine wiles to root out any kind of lead. We both knew it was probably a dead end, but that was all we had now.

I'd do some poking around, meet with Elvis, and generally make a nuisance of myself. I couldn't forget the blood and the bits of flesh and brain that had stained Cammie's floor. A wave of green bile rose in my throat. The best thing to do might be leave it alone, but I owed the lady . . . and I'm fanatical about paying my debts, whatever form they come in.

We popped the top on the Jameson and poured some strong medicine. It warmed me as it slid down my gullet. We sat and stared alot. Around five I headed back to the boat. Maybe that night I could sleep. Ev was still sitting . . . and still staring. I just hoped I could sleep.

Chapter Eight

I did, but I was awake as soon as the sun peeked through the blinds. The sliver of light promised another magnificent day in paradise. Stupid me . . . my version of paradise didn't include the brutal murder of a friend . . . especially when it was a gruesome message most probably meant for yours truly.

Somehow I couldn't get into it. My body lay in stasis. I finally willed myself to crawl into the shower. The steaming water and the shampoo seemed to revive me a bit. Hot coffee with a taste of the hair of the dog finished the trick. I crammed an ancient biscotti in my mouth and went to the phone.

One message . . . my buddy Burt. "Not much new. Gotta be honest. I'm worried about you. Cammie . . . makes me want to puke. Watch your back and make sure you check in regularly. I don't want to have to miss you. I want you here."

It was sweet in a Burt sort of way and I got the message. I smiled to myself and resolved to stay in close touch in more ways than one. I picked up my little black book and thumbed the faded pages. There it was . . . Elvis Eagleclaw, Cocoanut Creek, and the number. It was still early, but I figured I'd give it a try.

The voice on the other end of the phone was feminine and icy.

"Mr. Eagleclaw is not in at the moment. May I say who's calling?"

I stated my name and waited while she whispered something behind an open palm.

"Just a moment," she said precisely.

"Hello, Dee. I been following you on the street. If we need a good P.I., you're on. What's up?"

"Good to talk to you Elvis. Hope you're making a bundle off the suckers from the north."

"Now Dee, you know we run an honest game . . . winners, losers . . . they come to get top entertainment, good food, and some thrills . . . all not necessarily cheap."

I laughed. They did run an honest game, and the vast majority of the locals and tourists came away with good stories and a vow to return as soon as their pockets produced some more mad money.

"I'd like to meet with you when it works."

"What? You want to come back to work? I got a table just crying for a talent with your kind of skills."

"Not exactly. I'm working on something and your name came up."

"Came up, huh? I'm not sure I like the sound of that, but you know me . . . always ready to accommodate the ladies. But let's make it off campus. How about lunch? Meet you at Gus's Place in Pompano about one. You know where it is?"

"I do and I'll be there."

It took me about forty minutes to get to the restaurant. On the way I tried to figure out what questions I could and couldn't ask. It didn't work. I finally decided I'd just wing it. Elvis could choose what kind of info he divulged. And if I knew him as well as I thought . . . he would.

He was seated at a table near the back when I entered. He rose and smiled. He didn't look much different than the last time I'd seen him, maybe five years ago. He was donned in a sleek Armani sport coat, cream colored silk, No tie and a midnight black shirt that shimmered when he moved. His chest looked like it belonged to a stud buffalo. Gray slacks, shiny tassel loafers, no socks. His hair was pulled back and a black pony tail flowed down his back. He had that red/brown skin that polishes many of the Seminoles, and deep brown eyes that were almost soulful. His voice usually boomed, but today it was quiet.

"Dee . . . my God . . . you are as beautiful as I remember."

He engulfed my hand in a huge paw and then, reassured it was alright, hugged me in a non-threatening way. It felt sincere . . . and just plain good.

"I went ahead and ordered a bottle of Cab. Old habits you know."

Our server brought a bottle of J. Lohr and two crystal glasses. With great ceremony he corked it and put just a touch in Elvis's glass. My host swirled it around the crystal, inhaled the scent twice, sipped at it, and ran it over his gums. Then he signaled with one finger. With a white towel draping his arm, our man gave us a generous pour. Elvis lifted his glass, nodded toward me and whispered, "to one lovely lady." It was actually quite gallant. The man knew his stuff.

"Thank you, sir," I said with effusive decorum and dipped my glass.

"I know you're busy. So let me get down to business."

He drilled his brown eyes into mine and placed his elbows on the white linen.

"You heard about Cammie?"

"I did . . . damned fine woman. She worked for me for about five years. We even had a little fling. It didn't last long, but I often wish it had. She was packing it all . . . looks, personality, brains, and one lovely heart. I hope the sonovabitch that did her rots in hell."

"You nailed it. She was one fine lady. She was also my friend. Sometimes she fed me info that made a lot of people's lives a little easier . . . maybe even a little more just. I'm gonna find the fucker that bashed her brains out . . . and I'll get him one way or another. I need help. All I've got now is a list of names and some weak rumors about casinos, soccer stadiums, and reservoirs."

"Listen, Dee. Maybe I'm the wrong guy."

"Elvis . . . you are never the wrong guy. I need help."

He raised his glass, seemed to look through it, and swirled the Cab one more time. He bit his tongue lightly, then shook his head.

"Okay, Dee. This meeting never took place. You don't know me from Dennis the Menace. No shit. Got it? This is for Cammie."

His voice almost seemed dead . . . and we both knew that Cammie was.

"I got it, Elvis."

He stared at me for a long moment. He'd made his decision. I could see it in his dark eyes, but a smart man always confirms what he thinks he might know. He brushed the glass against his full lips and took a small taste of the dark, red liquid. Then he sucked one last deep breath and let it sputter from his tight mouth.

"Okay Dee . . . like I said . . . for the lady . . . fire away."

The server appeared. I ordered crab cakes. Elvis got a salad with blackened tuna. The man gave us another nice pour and we started.

"You know about the reservoir they want to build to catch the overflow from Lake Okeechobee. It's poisoning the Indian River Lagoon. Has been for years, the fish up there used to damned near jump into your boat. Not so much now. Too much fertilizer, septic tank leakage and just general crap. The water is the color of coffee, and the algae plumes look like something from the Creature from the Black Lagoon."

"Yeah," I said, "I know, and so does everyone else in south Florida."

"So that Ackerman . . . he's the president of the state senate . . . has made a lot of promises . . . even getting some federal money because we got a republican governor who kisses the POTUS's ass real regularly. The gov wants to run for U.S. senator come election time. Well, Big Sugar got another idea. They own that land not far from the Big Cyprus Seminole Reservation. That's where we come in. The casinos, Big Rock and our operation at Cocoanut Creek are rolling. They bring money in by bulldozer and we treat the suckers to good food, great entertainment, and on the way they part with a little hard earned cash at the tables. The state of Florida gets a nice cut and the tribe makes out like John Dillinger. Some of the elders of the tribe are getting a little greedy. They're thinking another location might just sweeten the pot. Those boys know a lot of VIPs and got a lot of pull."

"Okay, I get it, but why can't we all just get along?"

"Pullin' a Rodney King on me, huh? Well there's one more little detail I haven't mentioned yet. You heard of Brian Kinchloe?"

"The soccer player who's married to that chick who used to sing?"

"The very one. Got more money than God. You probably remember when that pro soccer team in Miami folded. Just didn't draw . . . the Fusion, they were called. Well our British boy Brian is bringing a franchise back to try again . . . needs land and financing for a new stadium. You're a smart girl . . . I'd take odds you can guess where."

"Near Big Cypress on the land owned by Big Sugar, and encroaching the property where the state was gonna put the reservoir."

"Bingo. You damned sure got most of it, and this pond is one you don't want to swim in. Miami mob involvement, way too damned much money, and some very dangerous people. Hate to tell ya', but they usually get what they want . . . and they don't care how they get it."

"Cammie knew something. Artie G may have been tied into it. She was gonna tell me. It might have gotten her killed. Now I'm just supposed to forget about it?"

"Yeah, Artie. He was always good for business, big loser at the tables, not to mention the rich foreign bozos he brought in with him. Cammie? God knows I loved that woman, but baby, you better consider your health, and Evelyn's, too."

He stared at me and I got quiet. A million things were spinning in my head, and there were more coming. I'm one thing, Ev's another. I'd already lost one partner, and it just happened to be Ricky, Evelyn's fiancé, and the man who saved my life. I live with it, but it howls in my gut day and night. I would've bet my last buck that Large Lola was deep into this shit one way or another, and she and her bat boy had already had their credentials stamped.

I drained my glass and picked at the crab cakes. They were awfully damned good, but my appetite had somehow disappeared. Elvis knew.

"Okay honey, sorry. Gotta rush . . . business to take care of. Consider what I told you. I don't want to read about you in the newspaper."

He tapped my shoulder gently as he went by the table. I sat there for another moment, but I also had business to take of.
Chapter Nine

I was back at the office within an hour. I turned the key in lock and the door creaked open. I'd asked the super to oil it about six times, but he operated on his own schedule, mostly in the basement slugging Mad Dog 20-20. I was surprised. No Evelyn. She usually came in about nine and hung around shuffling papers and taking calls. No note, no message on the office phone. She must have had something going. I just decided to wait and do a little brainstorming.

About two-thirty I heard some metal scratching around the lock. Something wasn't quite right. I pulled my Beretta out of my handbag and rolled the chair to one side of the desk. I pointed it at the door. There was loud click and Ev stumbled through the opening.

"Hey, where you been?"

She looked up and I realized it. I jumped up from the chair and took her arm. She fell into the chair in front of the desk. That was when I got a good look at her. My beautiful partner wasn't so beautiful this afternoon. There was trail of blood coming from the corner of her swollen mouth, and another dribbling out of her nose. Her left eye was an expanding hunk of raw flesh and had already gone a light shade of purple.

I grabbed a wad of paper towels and dampened them in the bathroom sink. I swabbed the blood and ran my other hand through her chestnut hair.

"Last warning," she whispered through the misshapen lips, "that's what they said."

"Who, Ev? Who?"

"Don't know, but big, probably Hispanic. Happened last night when I came home from the deli. Dark. Jumped me from the alley, left me next to a damned dumpster. At least nothing broken. I came to stinking, bleeding. Finally made my way home."

"Why the hell didn't you call me?"

"Went in. Passed out on the sofa. Now I got to have the damned thing recovered."

"Hey . . . the least of our worries. You're the one needs to recover."

"Will, will . . . then we get the sonsovabitches."

I dabbed a bit more at the blood and took her over to the ratty loveseat that we reclaimed from Goodwill. She curled up and was asleep in seconds. I covered her with an old jacket I kept for the weather. She began to snore quietly between ill-timed gasps.

I sat back down at the desk. It was too early for this. Hell we'd collected next to nothing besides a bunch of unconfirmed rumors. Were we closer than we thought? Did we warrant this kind of attention? What the hell did I do now? Cammie was dead, Ev had been beat up pretty damned good.

I checked on her on more time, then called Burt. I gave him a quick run-down on Ev. He clicked his mouth, then spoke.

"I hate to say I told you so, Dee. Back off."

"I'm thinking about it."

"Yeah . . . I'll bet."

"Burt, you did a story on Mr. G when they found him on the beach. So tell me who was the lead detective."

"Dee . . ."

"Just tell me, Bert."

He let out a long sigh and probably bit his lip.

"An old buddy of yours. Detective First Class Cyntia Diaz."

"Great, and I guess thanks. Talk to you soon."

I hung up the phone before he could say anything else. I didn't need to hear it and I was pretty sure I could have quoted the words verbatim.

I dialed the station house and asked for the lady. She was Cuban-American, family had been tied in with Batista. They got out with not much more than the clothes on their backs before Castro had a chance to consolidate his power and take over the government. Cyntia was born in the states and her people did well running a small grocery in little Havana. She didn't like it too much, and that is one hell of an understatement.

She and I had a run-in when I was with the department. Some mishandled evidence in a big drug bust. It cost her an official reprimand, and a conviction. The sleaze walked and immediately went back into business. To make things even worse, she used to date Burt and there was a streak of Latina jealousy in her a mile wide.

"Cyntia . . . Dee Rabow."

"That's Detective Diaz to you, Ms. Rabow. What the hell do you want? And make it quick."

"I'm sure you know I'm a P.I. Now, and I'm working a case."

"The only thing I'm sure of is that you're still a shit detective."

"Thanks for the kind words Officer, but I still have a question. You were the lead on the Giannini case. Was the M.E. able to determine anything in the examination of the body?"

"Okay, bitch. I'm gonna answer, but only if you promise to never call me again."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You already know there wasn't much of him to examine. Too many fishes in that sea, but his skull was partially crushed, two broken bones in his left arm, and a couple of cracked ribs same side. Probably blunt object trauma. You're welcome . . . now get lost."

I did, but there were some interesting little tidbits in that scant information. Skull smashed, broken bones in left arm could be defense wounds. Cracked ribs on same side means the assailant must have been right handed, attacking from the side of his greatest strength. No gunshot. It would have chipped the bones or broken them in a different configuration.

Okay . . . so Cammie was bludgeoned to death. I saw the body . . . also blows from the right.

Same M.O . . . maybe same killer.

Ev began to stir. She sat up and started to shake her head, but a sharp moan filled the room and her grimace was fierce. I went over and propped her up.

"Coffee or whiskey?"

"Both," she mumbled.

I filled the stained carafe and piled grounds in the bin. I hit the switch and the small appliance spit and crackled to life. Then to our faithful bottom desk drawer where we kept the brown elixir. The coffee maker spit one last time. I grabbed a couple of chipped porcelain cups I'd picked up at a yard sale and poured each one about ¾ full. Then a nice dollop of Jameson to top them off. Ev was shaky, but she reached eagerly for the steaming brew.

"So tell me everything you can remember. Any small detail might be useful."

She gave me a weak nod, took a ragged breath, and sipped carefully. Her face was still a mess, but her eyes were clear.

"I'd been to the deli. Rye bread, some rare roast beef, and some of that hot mustard we like. I passed the alley just down from my place. Heard a shuffle, like leather scraping the pavement. Next thing I know a hint of cheap after-shave swallowed me in a cloud. Now I've got a goon on each arm pulling me into the darkness. I couldn't see faces, but they were big and strong. Something slammed into the side of my head . . . a fist, I guess. Then another smashed into my nose. I could immediately feel the warm blood running over my lips. I was laying on the concrete. There was a thumping sound, like a foot tapping, or a wooden walking stick hitting the ground. Just before I blacked out I heard one of them say, "No. De boss say don't kill her. Last warning bitch." Definite accent. Then I was gone before I could wave bye bye."

"That all?"

"Left my handbag with the money and my little friend, but I think the bastards stole my roast beef and rye. When I came to, I looked and felt around. It was gone. Shit."

That's my girl, sitting, still swaying, still bleeding slightly, and worrying about her roast beef.

\----------------------------

The big one twirled the Dom Perignon in her crystal glass.

"Look Mikey, they had their chance. That's enough. Either one of them so much as makes a peep, they gotta go," she growled.

The dark one smiled.

"So I can kill dem? I like dat."

"Okay, you get your wish, but it's gotta be neat. Our girls have some powerful friends, Adamson, the newspaper guy, and also some members of our esteemed police force. Can't be anything messy or obvious. You'll have to keep your little fishin' billy at you side."

The dark one sighed and shrugged his broad shoulders. Suddenly he sat up and raised a fist in triumph.

"I got a idea. De blond . . . she was once de junkie. You know dat ting dey say, "once de junkie, always de junkie. Maybe she ready for relapse, so sad . . . big OD. . . happen all de time."

"I told you buddy. Hang around with me . . . you get smarter and smarter."

She ran her hand through her hair, downed the Dom, and smiled like constrictor about to swallow a helpless mouse.

Chapter Ten

I took Ev back to her place, cleaned her face up one more time and slipped her into a thread-bare pair of pajamas. I ran a glass of water, forced a couple of ibuprofen down her, Brazillian beauty had handled worse that this. Tough gal. She'd be okay in a few days. Meanwhile I decided not to leave her alone, just in case. I plumped up the pillow on the sofa, kicked off my shoes, lay down and watched the sun set through the blinds.

Okay, so where to next. I didn't have to wait long. My cell rang.

"Dee Rabow Detective Agency. How may I help you?"

"Dee. Al Reynolds. I've been meaning to call, but damned if I'm not like a one-armed paper hanger right now. Anyway, hope you're okay."

I told him about Ev. I could hear him spitting expletives under his breath.

"Not much you can do, Al. She'll be okay, but I'm at her place now. Got a little surprise for anybody with indecent intentions who tries to enter the apartment."

"Yeah . . . I'll bet. Here's the thing. Forensics found a post-it note in the back pocket of Cammie's jeans, "Miguel Andiamos". That's all it said. I know you were supposed to meet her . . . thought you'd want to know."

"Did you run it through the computers?"

"What do you think, smart-ass? Of course. Nothing. No sheet, no telephone numbers, no addresses. It's like the guy never existed. It happens. Maybe an illegal, a phony name, who the hell knows? Anyway it is what it is. Still working it. I gotta believe something will turn up sooner or later. I'll let you know."

"Yeah, do. Thanks, Al."

I hung up and fought a few tears. Cammie was dead. My partner and best damned friend was laying in a bed aching from a beating delivered by some stinking creeps. And me? I felt handcuffed by tides full of black, smelly shit . . . and I was swimming against the current.

Just for giggles, I booted up Ev's computer. I knew all her passwords and she knew mine. A necessary evil for PI's bound at the hip.

I pulled up Google and typed Miguel Andiamo. Then I hit search. I guess I was having a bad day . . . 'Sorry, there are no search results for your query." Yeah . . . screw me, too. I fooled around a little more . . . trying different combinations. Then I remembered the Marlins cap. Large Lola's evil crusader had been wearing one in the Elbow Room. I typed in Florida Marlins/Mike Andiamos. There was the hit.

Our boy had hit 31 home runs in the Panamanian League a few years back. The Marlins had drafted him in the third round. Too bad. He had a shot, but he couldn't figure out the Major League slider and he was a little ham-handed around third base. Hey, happens a lot when you try to move up and play with the big boys. There was a postage stamp photo of three guys, each with a bat tucked over his shoulder. It was small and somewhat out of focus, but the one in the middle was a little more than familiar.

I checked public records and found one more little tidbit. Miguel had legally changed his name to Michael Allen. A miserable excuse, but probably why Al's computers had some problems. There wasn't much else, but that didn't mean he had been a stainless citizen.

Now my gut was churning. I learned a long time ago to trust my intuition. It was almost like a sixth sense . . . more right than wrong the majority of the time. My mind began to project. The broad shoulders, the smirk on his face. I could see it. That short wooden thing he slapped against his thigh when I had seen him at the Elbow Room. Cammie at the bar, looking at least intimidated, if not damned near frightened.

Then something else started to come. I drifted back to a old boyfriend . . . I don't know what else to call him. He was a fisherman. I went out offshore with him and a couple of his buddies on a beautiful Bertram 51. My job was to look good in a pink bikini and distribute cold Heinekens. I was doing a damned good job. We were just out of the Port Everglades Inlet when one of the guys hooked a bull shark. The big devil fought like hell, but they pulled him aboard. My gentleman friend grabbed a small wooden bat with a leather lanyard. He smacked the fish with a two vicious blows to the snout and then one more on the head, just between the eyes. Blood flooded the deck. The shark shuddered, flipped his tail, and was still.

The scene seeped into my consciousness. Now I could feel the anger welling up within me. I was willing to bet that the mysterious Mr. Miguel was the hulk I'd seen, the one who had followed me . . . Large Lola's right-hand man, and just maybe one of the guys who smacked Ev and beat Cammie to a bloody pulp. If that was the case, it was time for a little "come to Jesus" meeting with my dark friend.

So where to now? I had read that Brian Kinchloe was in London finishing up the World Cup preparations. Ackerman was in Tallahassee for the last of the Florida legislative session. That left Mack Jones, the point man for Big Sugar.

I checked my watch. It wasn't too late to give it a try. I found the number of Consolidated Environmental Health on line.

"Hello, my name is Gloria Staples. I am a journalist for a new magazine on Florida business that goes to press next month. I would love to meet with Mr. Jones at his convenience to gather some background information on the role of your organization and it's contributions to the Florida economy."

The secretary must have bought it. She put me on hold for a minute or so, then came back on the line.

"Mr. Jones is very busy, but he can free up an hour at two tomorrow. I assume you are familiar with our location. Please be prompt, Ms. Staples."

"Indeed, I will. Thank you very much."

The next day I was at their office a bit early. I parked in the lot underneath a tall, steely structure in downtown Lauderdale. The attendant waved me in with a bored look on his face. The high-rise had about as much personality as a wilted Caesar Salad. Fifth floor. Long hall. I saw their sign and entered. The secretary, an icy smile etched onto her face, greeted me perfunctorily and asked me to sit. I handed her a phony, but impressive card courtesy of the local QUICK AS A MINUTE print shop.

I was well prepared . . . hair pulled behind my head in a bun, conservative business suit, nothing revealing. I had bought a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses with clear lenses at Walgreens. No make-up, no perfume. I had even taped my usually prominent boobs down under my arms to avoid any potential indiscretion. Boy was I ready.

A couple of minutes later, the inner office door opened smoothly and Mr. Jones appeared. There was a lot of him. Probably pushing three-hundred pounds, shaved head, well-trimmed Van Dyck on his chin. His suit must have been tailored by Omar the Tent-Maker, but it was fine silk, gray pin-striped, and his tie must have cost a week's pay for a poor indigent such as myself.

He shoved a fat hand in my direction and smiled in a greasy sort of way. I entered his sanctum and took a tufted leather chair in front of his desk.

"How may I help you?" he bellowed.

I gave him my spiel about the magazine. He let me go on and on. When I'd finished, he began to chuckle under his breath.

"You must think me quite foolish. I know who you are Ms. Rabow. I know what you now do, and I can guess why you are here. I'm sure you don't remember, but I even caught one of your shows a few years back. The All-Nighter, I believe it was. Perhaps you were so busy collecting the bills that you missed me. I can assure you that some of that money was mine. You were, indeed, stunning, not to mention your assistant. Avis . . . was it?"

"Well, Mr. Jones, I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

"Oh please, call me Mack. All of my friends do."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones, but I am not one of your friends, and I doubt there is any reason for me to stay."

"Don't be so hasty. I may be able to help you, but at the risk of being crude, I must ask what's in it for me?"

Call me a sucker . . . but I bit.

"What, sir, did you have in mind?"

"Only a little more of the same."

I guess Mack was having his Harvey Weinstein moment. Sexual harassment . . . he said/she said? Tough shit.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but those goods are no longer for sale."

I was up and out of there before he could rise from his chair. As I stormed out of the office, the secretary raised her hand to her mouth, but it didn't quite hide the smirk or stifle the wicked laugh.

When I got back to Goldie, I tossed the phony glasses onto the tarmac and crushed them under my foot. I got into the car, slammed the door and pulled the pins out of my hair. I shook my head and let it fall. Then I unbuttoned my suit and yanked the tape off of my boobs. It hurt like hell. I caught the parking lot attendant out of the corner of my eye. He was certainly enjoying the show. I threw the tape out the window, gave him the finger, and gunned Goldie toward the exit.

I had to laugh at myself just a little. It actually felt good. This was definitely one case where I wish my reputation hadn't preceded me.

Okay, cross that one off the list.

Chapter Eleven

I got back to the office a little late, checked the messages and turned on the computer. Nothing worth repeating. My mind was still struggling. Cammie . . . the name, the images of her gruesome death beyond any plan or comprehensive strategy to deal with them. Miguel, Mike, call the bastard what you will. I was sure he was the man I wanted dead. That was all I knew for sure. I heard the door rattle.

It was Ev. She was doing better. I thought I had convinced her to lay around for another day or so, but not my girl. Anyway, the bruises were fading fast and her lip was near normal. She was beginning to look like the fashion model she could have become if she hadn't gotten involved with that female reprobate who was me.

I wanted to hug her, but she was still moving gingerly. I blew her an air kiss and let it go at that. She eased down in to the chair at her desk.

"So how was our buddy Mack."

I gave her the whole story. She pointed a mocking finger at me and started to laugh. Her body jerked and I could tell she was still very sore.

"Anyway, I made one decision."

"And fair maiden, what is that?"

"I'm gonna kill the bat-boy."

"Very funny, Dee . . . you mean kill as in shoot . . . stab . . . run over with a truck? Don't forget, Honey. You are the Wonder Woman of Fort Lauderdale, an original member of the League of Justice, and defender of the last bastion of right in this whole damned lousy world. What if he didn't do it? Are you absolutely sure . . . and by the way, what are you gonna do if you get caught? Prison orange is definitely not your color, Love."

"You're hilarious, Roseanne Barr. Anyway, I'm as sure as I get. He's damned scum. It's enough."

I had killed two men before, but always in self-defense. Ev was right . . . but then was she?

"Damn it, Dee. It's a bit unseemly to think of you as a murderess."

"Thanks, old pal, but what about Cammie? Murder? Maybe, but can't we just call it settling scores?"

"Dee . . . for just once . . . couldn't you leave it to the cops? They get paid . . . maybe not enough . . . but sometimes we don't get paid at all."

She had a point, actually several. I tried to be rational, but I wasn't.

I laid my Beretta on the desk and stared at her.

"I'm gonna kill him. I just not sure how."

Ev was silent. She looked at me, then down at her desk, then back at me one more time. Her brown eyes had gone coal black. She got up slowly and slipped out the door. I put my head in my hands and cried. Maybe I didn't need to cry, but I did need a plan.

Chapter Twelve

A couple of days went by. They were long and fruitless. I felt like a rat on a treadmill, but without the energy to even put one foot in front of the other. I wanted to call Ev or drop in unannounced, but I didn't. I guess I was grieving. Ev was the best friend I'd had for the last several years. To be trite, I always knew she had my back, but maybe I'd seen her for the last time. It hurt, but what hurt even worse was the idea that she was simply disappointed . . . that her doting compadre was about to become a stone-cold killer.

Justice . . . right . . . I'd always treasured those words . . . tried to live by them, at least when I got off the junk. I thought about Dad. "Right's right and wrong's nobody." He said it to me a thousand times when I was his kid. But was I still his kid? The laughing little girl who had followed him around like a lost puppy. Had I seen too much . . . come to be some sort of soulless avenging angel . . . or had I just turned to shit? I didn't know.

I decided the office was the best hideout I could find for now. I plugged the key into the door and sat down at my desk. No messages.

I hadn't heard from Bert in a couple of days. I wanted to call him, but I knew I couldn't tell him what he wanted to hear. He'd also ask about Ev. I couldn't tell him the whole story. It was just too damned much. I smashed my fist into the desktop and stayed glued to my chair for a moment.

I sighed deeply and finally broke down. I dialed his cell. No response. I figured he'd turned it off. I tried him at the newspaper, but his secretary told me he was "on assignment" and couldn't be reached. I asked her to tell him it was me when he checked in.

"Yes, Ms. Rabow," she replied pertly and hung up.

I had my note pad on front of me on the desk and a pen in my hand. The page was eerily blank. Nothing was working. I'm not sure why, but I had left the door slightly ajar, maybe hoping Ev would show.

Bad idea. I heard a slight snap outside, followed by another light popping. The door swung open and two men rushed inside. Both were wearing pale, thin surgical gloves.

I knew the leading man instantly. He slapped the billy club against his thigh like some evil commissar in an old WWII movie. A small black canvas bag hung over his shoulder. He grinned through yellow teeth. His sidekick was holding a nasty looking Glock at his side. Number Two pulled the door. It made a hollow, almost fatal sound as it shut. The leader raised his hand like a traffic cop. There was definite menace in the way he thrust it forward. I froze for a moment . . . they were here and I knew why. My mind scrambled for a next move.

In my bottom drawer next to the pint of Jameson was another old friend. Underneath the desk I arched my foot and eased the drawer open just enough to get my hand in and out quickly. I pretended to drop my pen and appear scared out of my wits. That part was easy.

I bent down and grabbed the Taurus revolver exploding into a lightening aim. The fishin' billy struck like a cobra. It slammed into my thumb with a thunderclap and damned near crushed the ends of my fingers. The weapon flew across the room and clattered to the floor. I instinctively grabbed my damaged fingers, forced them into my lap and began to moan. My hand was pumping with searing pain. Hot tears flooded my eyes. It was probably broken.

Number Two bounded behind me and covered my mouth with an open palm. Then he slapped a strip of duct tape over my lips. He got my right arm behind my back in a steely hammerlock, then pinned my left arm down on the desk-top, palm up.

Miguel had barely moved, obviously taking great delight in my agony and the sharp reflexes of his buddy. He peered at me like I was an animal in his own private zoo. Then he took the black bag off his arm and unzipped it.

The first item was a baggie with an ounce or so of white powder. Next a charred spoon and a plastic lighter. Now a syringe. I could just make out the milky liquid in the cylinder, no doubt carefully prepared for my own personal satisfaction . . . or maybe something more deadly.

"Ms. Rabow . . . or may I call you Dee?"

He didn't wait for an answer. It didn't matter. I was still whimpering.

"Dese items on your desk. Dey are familiar, no? You remember de fire in you veins, dat hot rush dat give you de sense dat you were on top of de world. We going to do you great favor. We going to bring back dat heaven on earth. The soaring, sky-scraping trip of de junkie. Of course, you must know dat when you touch de sky, sometimes you fall . . . all de way to hell. Don't resist . . . just enjoy. It may be de last enjoyment you get before dat descent . . . before you become invisible."

He pointed the needle to the ceiling and tapped it twice with his forefinger. The he raised the vein in my arm with a gentle slap. It surfaced, purple and eager. I watched the needle dive deep. He was right. I felt the burn creeping up my arm. It was slow, but it was also quick. Objects begin to move, I blinked my eyes, trying to focus. Suddenly I was relaxed. It was like a visit from an old companion, unexpected, but somehow welcome. Everything was turning gray. The darkness was enfolding me. Soon it would be black.

"Oh, one more thing before you go. I know what you think . . . but it wasn't me. I was in Miami dat day. Is good to catch a game when I can. Too much business . . . I 'm occupied mos' of de time."

The last thing I heard was a welcome voice.

"Freeze fuckers."

Ev was pointing her Ruger dead-on at Miguel's forehead.

"Nice little pistol," he smirked, " you know dere are two of us."

"Yeah . . . and the hollow points with blow your shit into little pieces."

Mikey slapped the billy against his thigh. It was the last time. The first slug exploded into the left side of his face. The blood and bone splattered. The second one hit him in the chest, and he the took the third in the belly as he thudded onto the hardwood floor.

Number Two bolted for the door. He knocked Ev hard on her ass and didn't look back.

That's when it all faded into the void.

Chapter Thirteen

I could see the faces, but they were indistinct . . . a mass of blurs. A hand with a wet cloth caressed my forehead, then my cheek.

"Dee, it's Ev. Bert's here. You're in the hospital, it's okay. You're safe now. You need to thank the building super. Mikey's accomplice nearly knocked him down on the stairs. Super said he thought he could identify the bastard if he saw him again. Anyway, he heard the shots and called 911. The cops and the EMTs were there within ten minutes. Otherwise, you'd be on a slab in the basement."

I knew that was the morgue, not a place I wanted to be.

I blinked a couple of times and things began to clear a bit. My lips were dry as hell and I was hooked up to some sort of monitor. The lights flashed on my face, but somehow the consistency was a comfort. The man standing next to the bed took my hand and gave it a light squeeze. I turned my head slowly, but I knew it was Burt. I could feel it in his touch. He was smiling and gave me a slight nod. Ev was right . . . It was good and I guess I was safe.

"Mikey?"

"The EMTs worked on him, but he was DOA."

"Did I . . . ?"

"No Dee, you didn't. You didn't kill him . . . I did."

So Ev did have my back.

"I decided to check on you. I gotta admit the conversation chilled me, but I finally came to grips with it. No . . . it's not okay to intentionally kill a man. That's the province of God, not a woman, not the state. God, and God only."

She choked a bit and paused.

"But you are my friend."

There was a hint of tears, but she brushed them away quickly. I knew what that meant. I had nursed her through the death of her fiance and my partner, Ricky . . . held her as she cried . . . soothed her as she tried to make sense of an unjust and insane world. She remembered . . . and while she agonized through more than her share of sleepless nights, she knew I was there. Those were things we couldn't turn away from. So be it.

The doctor came in and gave me a cursory examination. Told me no alcohol whatsoever, and said I needed another day or so in the hospital. Then I could go home to my temple on the water, GREAT GESTURE. Ev volunteered to stay on the boat with me when I got out, just in case. It all sounded to good to me.

Bert stayed at my side every hour of my stay at the hospital. He whispered in my ear, he cooed, he even lay down beside me and just held me. I was in and out, but I began to get bored, and lust after a slice of steamy pizza slathered in extra cheese and red peperoni. The doc said no alcohol, but I figured just a taste of Cabernet probably wouldn't hurt me. That's when I knew it would be all right.

GREAT GESTURE, my beautiful old girl, was rocking in the slip when we went down the dock. It was a Florida sun accompanied by a light warm breeze. I spotted the birds overhead and a few fish breaking the blue water in the basin. I was home. Ev was at my side, and all seemed right with the world. Unfortunately it wasn't.

Another day and I was finally clear-headed enough to pick up a newspaper. Ackerman was glowing on the front page. The Florida legislature had approved the reservoir. The surveys would begin almost immediately. Everyone hoped the run-offs from Lake Okeechobee would be properly tamed. No one in the state could argue with news like that. There was no mention of casinos or soccer stadiums, so maybe it was all over. I decided to call Elvis. If anyone could fill in any of the blanks, he could.

"Elvis, thanks for taking my call."

"Dee. You okay? I heard what happened. Honey, I told you those people play rough."

"Yeah . . . and I guess I didn't listen. I saw the local paper . . . Ackerman, the reservoir, but no mention of the other stuff we discussed."

"Well you can rest that gorgeous head. It's pretty much over. As soon as the surveys are done, we do the site plan for the casino, and guess who gets land for a brand new soccer stadium."

"Wow . . . seems kinda quick."

"It took some late nights with the right people, a little horse-trading, a little arm twisting, but everyone got a nice piece of the pie, and they're all fat ones. So you're off the hook. I know you. You're a curious lady, but remember what they say about the cat. Cammie is no longer part of the equation . . . not with our boy Miguel gone to his eternal reward. So leave it where it lies. I'll try to scare up some business for the agency, just to keep you and Ev off the streets."

I tried to manufacture a laugh, but he was damned near right on. I thanked him for the info and his concern. We promised to make lunch sometime soon.

Bert came by. The environmentalists were raising hell about more development in South Florida. Their complaints ran from endangered species to more traffic, and every other green concern I could imagine. Hey . . . let them fight it out. I figured I had nothing else to contribute, but I'd soon find out there were those that disagreed.

Ev had gone back to her place. Burt headed out on assignment yet again. I was secure and comfortable in my home on the water and even returned to office, and what little work was coming across the desk. That afternoon, I headed down to the mail box in the downstairs hall to see which circulars would promise me the deal of a lifetime, but only if I acted quickly. Nothing remarkable . . . or maybe just nothing I could afford. One glaring white envelope caught my attention. My name was scrawled in black ink, no stamp, no return address on the corner, no post mark . . . just cheap and thin, seemed like just one small sheet beneath the flap. It slid out easily.

The words were dashed off with a Sharpie, barely legible.

"I miss Mikey real bad. Comes down to you. Be by soon to check on you, BITCH.

LOL

LL"

Okay . . . LOL, LL. My best guess was lots of love, and who other than Large Lola.

My spine stiffened and I felt a chill that started at the lower edge of my spine, and crept upward. That was it. I was still on the list. I reached for the comfort of my hand-bag and the sweet little Beretta that was tucked inside. Hell . . . I'd left it on the boat. I told myself that would be the last time it happened. It sure didn't make me feel any better. If Large Lola or one of her henchmen, was after me, they'd corner me sooner or later.

Chapter Fourteen

I was trying to get myself together. The prospect of an encounter with that Lady was unnerving, and I damned sure didn't want a meet and greet in a dark alley.

The phone rang. I looked at the number ID. FLPD . . . had to be Al Reynolds.

"Dee, I've been trying to give you time to get your head together, but I need you down at the station. Your building super is coming in the morning to go through some mug shots. I want you here. Two IDs are always better than one. He's coming around nine. How about I see you at ten?"  
"Works for me, Al. The sooner you can catch up with that scum the better. I don't want him lurking around my place for a repeat. Ev might be getting her nails done this time."

He laughed, and I penciled in on my note pad.

I was actually feeling pretty good. The clouds were breaking up. Maybe the heavens were going to smile on this poor distressed damsel. I found a parking place right across the street. Goldie hummed on in right between the white lines. I shut her down and headed for the station door. Our building super was coming down the stairs near Al's office. He looked a little grumpy. It was probably too early for his first drink, but I knew he would fix that soon enough. Anyway, he forced a tight smile and a weak wave. I nodded.

"Damn it Dee, you look mighty good for a lady who almost bought it just a few days ago."

"Oh you charmer. I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

I batted my eyes and flipped my hair over my shoulder. He chuckled.

"Wasn't my time, Al. Okay, let's see the candidates."

He swiveled his computer screen toward me and brought up a page of twelve mostly young men . . . some obvious bangers, pushers, your garden variety thugs, B&E, assault, parole violations . . . the gamut of Lauderdale's finest citizens. He waited a few seconds and scrolled to the next page. This went on for a good ten minutes. He called his secretary and she brought in coffee. He smoked a cigarette and I longed for one.

I guess I was getting a little testy. He noticed.

"Okay, Dee, a couple more pages and I'll let you go."

Bottom line, number three, looking a bit grim, but more inconvenienced than anything else. He had the demeanor of a guy who knew he'd be out before the ink dried on the warrant.

"Ah, one of our more distinguished guests. One Roberto Donado. Multiple arrests: assault and battery, carrying a concealed weapon without a permit, sexual assault, and some other goodies. Funny thing, the witnesses have this odd habit of recanting their testimonies. Ex-member of the Latin Kings and known associate of Luis Gonzales. You sure?"

I told him I was.

"Very curious. Your super said the same thing. I think I'll have our boy picked up. No doubt he's got an alibi . . . probably meeting with the priest to make a contribution to the CYO."

I didn't know whether to thank Al or not, but at least the book gave me a face I could look for among an unfriendly crowd.

_________________________

Large Lola sat with her feet propped up on a cheap veneer dresser. They were a little grimy on the bottoms, the dingy carpet, no doubt. It was a Travel Lodge, old, outdated, a remnant of a Florida long gone by. She sipped the expensive Chardonnay and congratulated herself on the premise that she didn't have to stay the night here. But it was the good place for a meeting, a few miles from the center of town out off I 95. She doubted anyone would look for them out here.

Despite the heat and the A/C which was barely functioning, she wore a black turtle neck. It hugged her full breasts and met a tight gold lame skirt --- suitably short --- at the waist. The belt was wide and studded with rings of sterling silver. The hands sported rings with rocks that screamed money. Nails exquisitely done to match her red lipstick, long and sharp like talons ready to pick a plump pigeon off a branch. A distinctive air of menace and readiness enveloped her like some poisonous cloud.

She was big, but she wasn't fat, and prided herself in a sexy demeanor that would probably remind you of RuPaul. Actually, she pulled it all off quite nicely. She'd left the door unlocked . . . a special guest was due. She heard a quiet knock and said, "Come, in Luis."

He was alone. She had specified that. He opened the door slowly and looked around, hand at his side, the Sig Sauer ready, if necessary.

She motioned to a scarred wooden chair across the room.

"Place smells like shit. Is this the best you could do?"

"Now Luis, this is a business meeting. If you and Mikey had attended to your duties, we wouldn't be here at all."

"All right, Lola. You know I like to keep a low profile, but this is ridiculous."

She slammed her feet to the squishy carpet, and glared at him. Then she took another sip of the white magic. She swallowed, then spit out the command.

"Just shut up and listen. I know you think that bitch is scared, on the run . . . that we won't have any more problems. Forget it, baby. That would be too damned easy. The bitch is tough and so is that South American cunt she calls a partner. We give them time . . . they'll be back in our shit before we know it. Not only that, they killed Mikey. You weren't there --- maybe you should have been --- but your boy didn't do his job. I'm trying real hard not to blame you. I'm not sayin' you could have fixed it then and there, but he was your boy . . . and I admit it has been on my mind. We can't have that crap going down. It's bad for business, puts ideas in other heads. Makes us look weak. We aren't . . . they all need a reminder. Fuck with us . . . and you're fucked."

Luis, who liked to think of himself as the enforcer, the uncrowned king of the Lauderdale underworld, shuttered quietly. Maybe he had fucked up . . . shoulda chosen someone more efficient. He reminded himself silently that Large Lola was a force of nature, a vicious killer with flunkies and compatriots all over South Florida. Best to agree with her whenever it was possible . . . and if it wasn't . . . killing her was the only alternative. It might come to that at some time, but he wasn't quite ready. Play the game . . . appear subservient . . . that was the strategy . . . for now.

"Okay, so what do you want?"

Lola smiled and drained the glass.

"I want to do it myself . . . feel my hands around her throat . . . watch her eyes roll back into her head. I don't need your help, but I do need a backup . . . and that's you. It's for Mikey. I gotta admit . . . the boy and me were kinda like soul-mates. He deserves it. He'll get it. Call it a memorial, I don't give a shit, but it is what it is."

Chapter Fifteen

I was tired, longing for a breathtaking sunset and a nice double of Evan Williams over the rocks. I steered Goldie into a spot near the corner of Cooley's sandy parking lot. It was getting near dusk and I knew GREAT GESTURE was rocking gently in the slip, just waiting for me to step aboard. I had tried Bert before I left the office, hoping for another type of relaxation, carnal of course. What the hell . . . still on assignment, I guessed. That delight would just have to wait.

I locked the door to the old Corolla and headed for the dock. That's when I heard the scuffing sound . . . sand being ground under foot. I didn't think too much of it until I heard my name.

"A minute, Ms. Rabow. Some unfinished business. Shouldn't take long."

I knew the voice, somewhat feminine, but deep and a bit scraggly . . . kinda like a work in progress . . . maybe even one that would never be complete.

Large Lola was standing behind, the fishing billy swing from her wrist. She grinned like something out of a Freddy Kruger nightmare. All in black, skin tight spandex hugging her firm breasts and sculpted over her hips. A pair of matching Nikes on her long feet. She was definitely dressed for action. Her blond hair was pulled tight at the back of her head. A big Latino was guarding her back, clutching what looked like a Sig. He began to raise the barrel in my direction.

"No Luis. Don't shoot her. I told you. This is my job. I promise to do it with great efficiency and indisputable pleasure."

She looked at me and slammed the bat into her fist. Then a sneer curled her painted lips. It became a cruel smile.

"One thing you should know, bitch. It was me, not Mikey. He was just stupid for the Marlins, just couldn't skip that game . . . bunch of losers . . . kinda like you. I watched the blood explode from her head and heard her grunting, whimpering, begging. I gotta tell you it almost made me laugh. Nosy cunt . . . laying there whining while I scattered her shitty brains."

She took a quick step forward and swung the billy. It sliced the air like a deadly rocket. I dropped my pocketbook and stepped into the arc. The shiny wood grazed my ribs, ricocheted around my waist and up into the back of my shoulder. My whole body vibrated, wracked with pain, but I couldn't go down. I knew if I did, it would be the last time. Feral instincts fired through my veins. I had to survive.

I grabbed her ears, and slammed my forehead into hers. I instantly felt the blood trickle, but Lola's red matched mine. She was stunned. With her free hand, she slashed at the blood in her eyes and shook her head. I looked around for my pocketbook. The Beretta was in forward compartment. I didn't see it, but I did see Lola . . . circling, stalking, a bit more cautious, waiting for an opening so she could crack my skull with the golden cylinder.

I stumbled over a chunk of concrete. Maybe I was getting lucky after all. I scooped it up and turned it in my fingers. Rough, sharp, a jagged point on one end. Now if I could just get in one fierce blow. She moved stealthily forward. I stepped back and caught my foot on something. I tumbled onto my back. She was on me like a panther. She swung the club downward and I rolled to my right. It missed me by inches. I pulled her down on top of me, feeling the sand grind into my back. We wrestled and broke.

I bounded back to my feet, the concrete still in my hand. Now she swung with a roundhouse motion. I lurched backward and grabbed her wrist as it flew by. I pulled her into my body and drove the makeshift weapon into her temple. The flesh erupted, the left side of her face now leaking bits of skin, brain tissue . . . and life. She staggered, the billy plummeting into the sand. He eyes were wide and her mouth seemed to want to say something . . . anything that would deny the truth. She and I both knew. It was a death blow. She smiled and nodded . . . almost a signal of respect . . . or maybe relief that it was somehow over. She looked at Luis and gave him a final wave . . . almost as if to say "do what you must." Unfortunately, I knew what that was.

I threw the blood-stained concrete at him, but my aim was lousy. I guess this was it. I looked down, searching for a prayer, but I've never been too good at it. I hoped in the end God would forgive me.

The Sig was now leveled at my chest. He spoke softly.

"Ah, milady. You are quite beautiful even through the blood and dirt on your lovely face. You have done me a favor. He . . . she . . . it . . . was a dangerous animal. She and her insane muchacho are when they belong . . . deep in the pits of hell. I think about letting you live. I could break you, you know. Force you to your knees to suck at my dick. But alas, you would only poison me or slash my throat while I slept. Luis knows that. It will not happen."

I spit a crimson stream into the dirt and waited. I wanted to be brave . . . to die like some sort of martyr, my head up and my breast thrust forward. I tried, but the truth is I was scared shitless. I sucked in my final breath. So be it.

He gripped the Sig and I saw his finger move to the trigger. Then I heard a whoosh, like to the sound of something thrashing the air. Now a sickening thud. The graying two-by-four slammed into the back of his skull. His eyes grew big. The Sig dropped to the ground and he followed with a muffled thump into the sand.

Bert stood beside him for a moment, waiting for any sign of movement. There was none. He dropped the improvised weapon and rushed over to me. He held me and kissed the side of my bloody head. Then he dialed 911.

The cops were there within minutes. Luis was still out. Lola was still dead. I asked them to call Al Reynolds. He came. The EMTs cleaned me up. Nothing life threatening, but they wanted me in the hospital. I begged and they finally let me go on to the boat. Burt mixed me some strong pain-killers, mostly alcoholic in nature. We talked for just a minute or so, and I was out.

There were dreams. They ranged from not too pleasant to damned near terrifying, but when I woke in the morning, Burt was there with hot coffee and blueberry bagels.

He knew I loved the damned things.

Epilogue

Luis was arrested and charged with intent to commit murder. When Al and his lieutenants got into it, they found trails leading to a list of crimes that was damned near endless. I figured Luis for a long-time guest of the state.

The whole thing with Large Lola was hot for about a week. Then she faded into the background behind Stormy Daniels and a host of other salacious tales involving the stalwart defenders of our national security and welfare. But that's another story.

Nothing ever came out of Ev's Brazilian escapades. The reservoir and the soccer stadium seemed like done deals. Naturally, the Seminoles made out like bandits. Burt wasn't able to turn up anything about payoffs, illegal activities, or other nefarious deeds . . . except for the ones we committed in private.

Meanwhile, Ev and I were scraping by. Divorce cases, shoplifting, clandestine surveillance . . . all the fun stuff . . . but hey, it pays the rent.

As for Bert . . . I called him . . . I told him. I could almost hear him grinning on the phone. Then I started packing.
