“God?”
“It would seem.”
“Oh, please.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Okay. And,” her annoying spoon tapping sped up, “where does all this trouble fit in?”
“Getting to the next level — with James, with you, with Cashdollar’s philosophy — doesn’t just happen. I think it’s a struggle to get there.”
“What? And you’re telling me that the truck, the tires, a threatening letter, the girl getting murdered, a vendor having an accident, and the senator getting shot are all things that you have to overcome? These are your problems so you can get to the next level?” She whipped the sunglasses off her face and her eyes were wide and bright. “Skip, have you completely lost your mind?”
I buried my head in my hands. It had all made sense last night, or early this morning. In a twisted sort of way I’d figured it out. And now, when I needed this concept to save a relationship, to get to the next level, it had escaped me. It sounded stupid.
“Can you forget it? James and I have some trouble. I’ll get through it.”
I looked across the street, toward the beach. A big limo was moving slowly in the heavy traffic, and I thought about Cashdollar and his trappings. The staff, the gold Bible, the limo with the tinted windows. Then there was a break in the traffic and I caught a glimpse of a man, standing in the grassy area. He immediately turned and ducked behind a passing car. When the line of vehicles finally passed, he was gone.
“I’m sorry, Skip. We’ve just seen each other after three months, and I have no right to come down on you like this.” There were tears in her eyes. “I want to start over. I’m not going to argue with you, okay?”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just smoke.”
“No. You’ve got to figure out what your dream is. I’m all right with that. And,” she wiped at her eyes with her hand, “I’m glad I give you dreams. Really.”
I looked into her eyes as she wiped them with her hand. Then I scanned the grass on the other side of Ocean Boulevard. He’d disappeared. The man had gone over the dunes, run to the beach, walked across the street, maybe even jumped into a car. But there was no doubt about it. The short stature, the thinning hair, it was the donut man, Bruce Crayer. And he’d been staring right at us.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
B y the time we left it was eleven a.m. I knew that James was planning on serving lunch, but Brook was coming in so he should be covered. Em and I drove over the Venetian Causeway and we ended up at her condo in the Grand Condominium complex. She’s got a sky-box view of South Beach and I’m always both glad to be there and envious at the same time. We didn’t talk much because there wasn’t much to say. I didn’t ask where she’d been and she didn’t volunteer the information. She didn’t ask what I’d been doing; I’d already told her. If she’d had any affairs while she was gone, I didn’t want to know about it. And since she didn’t ask me about the past three months, I decided she already knew. I’d pretty much been celibate. I’d been out with James’s cousin Gail one night. So, as I said, I’d been celibate.
We took the elevator up, and for the next hour we still didn’t talk. We looked out the window at the causeway with its stream of cars and trucks, the marina with its sailboats and yachts, and we viewed the islands and the buildings of South Beach just a little over a mile away. No talk, just the occasional grunting and groaning that come with the physical act of sex. At about twelve fifteen she rolled over, looked at me, and said, “Well, that was fun. We should do it more often.”
I agreed.
As we pulled into the park, the clock struck one. The story was breaking at the top of the hour.
“Controversial talk show radio host Barry Romans, a syndicated right-wing conservative staple in the Miami area for the past ten years, was gunned down in South Beach this morning just two blocks from the former Gianni Versace mansion on Ocean Drive.”
My eyes locked on Em’s. We’d been two blocks from the huge, gated mansion ourselves.
“Romans remains in critical condition at Mount Sinai Medical Center. Personnel at the hospital refused to comment any further. Romans’s assailant remains at large and police are asking for anyone with information to please call the Miami-Dade Police Department.”
“Does this have anything to do with your story about the reverend Cashdollar’s call for action against Romans?”
I thought about telling her. I thought about Bruce Crayer being in the exact location at the exact time. I thought about our previous conversation, where she said that my being in trouble didn’t help a stable relationship. I didn’t want to go there again.
“No. It has nothing to do with any of this. There are a lot of people who disagree with the guy. You’ve listened to him. I’m sure he’s a regular target for the lunatic fringe.”
Em kissed me on the lips, I stepped out of the car, and before she’d disappeared from sight I was on a dead run to the truck. James had to hear this one.
He was wiping his hands on his apron, the lunch crowd having disappeared. I motioned him down from the truck and told him my story. James glanced up at Brook, in her tight shorts and halter top, and she waved down at us. She was covering the pans of peppers, onions and potatoes.
“Jesus, Skip. It doesn’t necessarily mean that — ”
“James,” I was whispering loudly. “I told Em, it could have been anyone. I mean this guy Romans agitates on a daily basis.”
“Yeah,” he copied my hushed tones, “but it does seem to be an added coincidence that it happens as soon as Cashdollar starts ranting against him.”
“And this thing with Bruce Crayer.”
“But Skip, he had every right to be there. It’s stranger than hell, but maybe he’s thinking the same thing.”
He’d lost me. He did that sometimes. “What?”
“Crayer comes back here and hears the same story about Romans getting shot. So he remembers seeing you at almost the exact location.”
“And he thinks that Em and I shot Romans? Give me a break.”
“Dude, it makes as much sense.”
“Not to me.” I glanced at the donut wagon. “James, this guy didn’t want me to see him. He ducked down, like he was trying to hide. Remember what he said about being there when Senator Long was shot?”
“Yeah, but — ”
I glanced over at the donut wagon.
“Was he open for lunch?”
“Yeah. There was a long line. I didn’t notice who was running the show. He might not have been there. I didn’t have time to see. Hell, we were swamped. I’ll bet we did a couple thousand dollars.”
“James,” she’d moved to the edge of the truck bed and sat her pretty butt down, letting her perfect, tanned legs swing over the edge. “I think everything is put away.”
“Hey, babe, thanks. Skip was just saying that he is very appreciative of your taking over lunch today.”
“Uh, yeah, Brook. It was great of you.”
“Well thank you, Skip. I’m glad you got to spend a couple of hours with Emily.”
“Yeah. Thanks. It was nice.”
“Mmm, I’ll bet it was. And we did some serious business of our own, didn’t we James?”
“We did.” He grinned at me. “We also did a good lunch.”
I didn’t even want to think about what went on in the truck before lunch.
“You see. My investment was a good one.” She hopped down from the truck, walked up to James, and gave him a big kiss. “You’ll be back at the apartment at ten?”
“Should be.”
