and I was damned if I was going to buy another six-pack. He drank four out of the six anyway.
“When is she calling?” James asked.
“Any time. She was meeting Jackie at the club.”
“Oh.” His finest English accent. “The club. The veddy important club. The fucking rich asshole’s club.”
“That’s the one.”
“Tell me, Skip. If you could belong, would you? Huh?”
I let it slide by. When I was very young, my father used to say to me, “I wish I had enough money to buy a herd of elephants.” I’d always counter with “What would you do with a herd of elephants, Daddy?”
“Well, son,” he’d say, “I don’t want the elephants. I just want enough money to buy them.”
Would I join the club? Hell, I wish I had enough money to make that decision.
“Anyway, we’ve got a job. An honest to God job. It’s just a matter of time, Skip. Hey, you can do a business plan, right?”
“Yeah, Basic Business 101.”
“Well, we need a business plan.”
“You need to have some goals. Some idea of where you’re going. Right now you cook crab and I suck at selling security systems. Where do you see this new venture going?”
James looked out over our dark brown stream. He tugged a Marlins’ cap over his perpetually sun-burned forehead. “I see us being successful. I see us light years ahead of my old man. This isn’t a hair-brained scheme, Skip, it’s real. It’s finding a need and coming up with the solution.”
“It’s a part-time job that lets us pick up a few bucks.”
He squinted his eyes and looked at me. “I see us making a million dollars in two years.”
“Jesus! You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Two guys started Google at our age. What about them? And Ben Affleck and Matt Damon. By our age they had already written that movie Good Will Hunting that made them millionaires. Why can’t it happen to us?”
“Because you’re talking about hauling somebody else’s shit. That isn’t the same as Google or a hit movie.”
James slowly stood up. I almost told him that the client’s wife thought her husband might be an international terrorist. I almost broke my promise to Em, just to jab him a little bit. But hell, he would have loved the intrigue. James looked down at me from his perceived lofty position. “I’m going down to Gas and Grocery and picking up a six-pack. Hell, you don’t bother to get the beer around here and after listening to your negative attitude, I could use a drink.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE THREE OF US MET AT CHILI’S. If you want a drink and a decent meal in Carol City, Chili’s is about it. And the sad part of that story is that Chili’s isn’t really in Carol City; it’s across the border in Miami Lakes. There’s no place in Carol City to get a decent meal and a drink.
“James.” Em nodded at him, an icy tone from her usually warm mouth.
“Em. Looking sexy as usual.” In her skintight jeans, she did.
She grimaced.
“Of course, it’s all for show. I happen to know you’re frigid as hell.” He smiled, shrugging his shoulders as if it was all a joke we should share.
“And you’re an asshole, James. Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way shall we discuss your business?”
I jumped in. “How much did you tell her we charged?”
“I told her $1,500.”
“How much?” I thought James’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. To be honest, I thought mine would too.
“Well, she didn’t balk at it. I called a moving company and asked them what they’d charge. I think it’s worth it to her to have the stuff moved. She just wanted someone to take responsibility.”
The bartender brought us three short drafts, and we sat silently for a minute, sipping the dark bitter beer and watching the happy-hour crowd walk through the doors.
“Jackie is expecting you guys this weekend. Can you do it Saturday?”
“For that kind of money I’ll move it at three in the morning. Oh, by the way, Skip, did you say something to Angel about the job?”
“Angel?”
“Angel. The Bahamian guy who hangs out at Gas and Grocery.”
I stared blankly at him.
“He asked if we needed any help moving the stuff from Jackie Fuentes’s house. Said he could use some extra cash.”
I thought for a moment. Angel is almost always there. He’s hanging out in the parking lot, looking at the magazines inside, or just appearing out of nowhere. He’s always a little wacked, but I like him. He’s someone who seems very real. “No. I don’t remember talking to him.”
James shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he seemed to know about it, but I told him the first job we were doing alone. Couldn’t afford a third split.”
I shook my head. No third splits! Maybe down the road. And I was certain I’d never said a word to Angel.
“Anyway, he asked, and seemed disappointed when I said no. By the way, where are we taking this stuff?” James raised his frosted glass and took a long swallow.
“She’s rented a small storage facility.” Em had all the information. “Once it’s in there, she can quit paying on it, and the owners of the facility will eventually haul it away or sell it. Apparently people do it all the time.”
“Pretty sneaky.” James seemed pleased with the scam. Make it a little shady and he was there.
A pretty blond waitress walked by and smiled. “Hi, James. Busy this weekend? I’m off.” She stopped and brushed the hair off his forehead.
“It’s tempting. Let me get back to you. I may have to work.”
“Saturday night? After Cap’n Crab closes?”
“I’ve got a second job.”
She frowned.
“Got to make a little more money so I can take you down to Miami and have a proper date.”
She smiled. “Proper. I’ll hold you to that.” She moved on, looking back over her shoulder, giving him a wink.
Em had that disgusted look on her face. She couldn’t see the charm. Given the time and the desire, James could win her over. I would bet he could get her into bed. He just has this winning way about him. However, I wasn’t about to give him the time or encourage his desire.
“Can I see the truck?”
“Out in the parking lot.” James kept his eyes on the blond’s cute rear end as she disappeared into the kitchen.
I took a final swallow of my Amber Bock and we got up from the bar. Em left half a glass. She always does. I was paying, and Amber Bock isn’t the cheapest beer that they serve.
The sun was cooking the parking lot, the heat radiating from the black asphalt. Our truck sat at the back of the lot, shining in the bright sunlight. James had insisted on a truck wash. I told him that the cleanliness of our truck didn’t mean anything to the lady off of Indian Creek Village, but he insisted that a clean truck showed a serious attitude about the business. I agreed with him, until I found I had to pay half the cost of the wash. Eight bucks. From now on, it was half-and-half on the expenses, and only a third of the profits until he’d made the $12,000 back.
“I got a glimpse of it at your apartment the other day,” Emily said. “What’s inside?” She started to open the cab.
