Chapter Two, Part One

"I don't like the way you're looking at me," Hooker said.

"I was wondering what you're capable of doing."

The grin was back. "Most anything."

From what I knew of him, I thought this was probably true. He'd started driving on the dirt tracks of the Texas panhandle, scratching and clawing his way to the top. He had a reputation for being a fearless driver, but I didn't buy into the fearless thing. Everyone knew fear. It was the reaction that made the difference. Some people hated fear and avoided the experience. Some people endured it as a necessity. And some people became addicted to the rush. I was betting Hooker fell into the last category.

The wind picked up, the rain slanted in to us, and we ran to the building for cover.

"Are you sure you don't want to visit the casa de Hooker?" Hooker asked. "It's not raining in the casa."

"Pass. I need to get back to the apartment."

"Okay," Hooker said. "We'll go back to the apartment."

"There's no we."

"Wrong. Until I get my boat back we are definitely we. Not that I don't trust you ...but I don't trust you."

I was speechless. I felt my mouth involuntarily drop open and my nose wrinkle.

"Cute," Hooker said. "I like the nose wrinkle."

"If you're so convinced my brother stole your boat maybe you should report it to the police."

"I did report it to the police. I flew in yesterday and discovered the boat was missing. I tried calling your worthless brother, but of course he isn't answering. I asked for him at Flex II and found out he'd quit. I tried the dockmaster but they have no freaking records left. Blood on everything. How inconvenient is that? I called the police this morning and they took my statement. I expect that's as far as it'll go."

"Maybe someone else took your boat. Maybe the guy who killed the night guard took your boat."

"Maybe your brother killed the night guard."

"Maybe you'd like a broken nose."

"Just what I'd expect from a woman named Barney," Hooker said.

I turned on my heel, crossed the lobby and exited through the door to the parking lot. I put my head down and slogged through the wind and the rain, walking in the direction of Fourth Street. Just for the hell of it, I pointed Bill's car remote in a couple directions, but nothing beeped or flashed lights.

I heard a car engine rumble behind me, and Hooker rolled alongside in a silver Porsche Carrera.

The driver's side window slid down. "Want a ride?" Hooker asked.

"I'm wet. I'll ruin your leather upholstery."

"No problem. The leather will wipe dry. Besides, I'm thinking of trading up to a Turbo."

I scurried around to the passenger side and wrenched the door open. "What do you expect to gain by following me around?"

"Sooner or later, your brother's going to get in touch with you. I want to be there."

"I'll call you."

"Yeah, right. That's gonna happen. Anyway, I haven't got anything better to do. I was supposed to be out on my boat this week."

I wanted to get rid of Hooker, but I didn't have a plan. Truth is, I didn't have a plan for anything. Alexandra Barnaby Girl Detective was stumped. Just pretend it's a transmission, I thought. You take it apart. You see what's broken. You put it back together. Really go through the apartment. Bill was friendly. He didn't have a well-developed sense of secret. Surely, he talked to someone. You have to find that someone. You found the key in the dog poop pile, right? You can find more.

Hooker made a U-turn on Meridian and pulled into a spot in front of Bill's building.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, and I hit the ground running. Okay, not exactly running, but I was moving right along. I was hoping to get into the apartment and close and lock the door before Hooker could elbow his way past me.

I got one foot on the sidewalk, and I was yanked back by my purse strap.

"Wait for me," Hooker said.

"Here's the thing," I told him. "You're not invited in."

"Here's the thing about driving NASCAR," Hooker said. "You learn not to wait for an invitation."

When I reached the front door I tried opening it without the key. If the door had opened, I would have sent Hooker in first. The door didn't open, so I unlocked it and stepped inside.

"Someone broke into this apartment," I told Hooker. "You can see where they pried the door open. It was unlocked when I got here this afternoon. I don't suppose it was you?"

Hooker looked at the doorjamb. "I was here around four o'clock yesterday and again this morning. I rang the bell, but I didn't try the door. I was so pissed off I could barely see. No, it wasn't me." He followed me up the stairs and gave a low whistle at the mess. "Bill's not much of a housekeeper."

"Do you think I should call the police?"

"If something's been stolen and you need a report to put in an insurance claim, yes. Otherwise, I can't see where it does much good. I don't see the boat police out searching for my Hatteras."

"I can't tell if anything's been stolen. This is the first time I've visited. The television and DVD player are still here."

Hooker strolled into the bedroom and gave another whistle. "That's a lot of condoms," he said. "That's a NASCAR amount of condoms."

"How about giving the NASCAR thing a rest," I said.

He returned to the living room. "Why don't you like NASCAR? NASCAR's fun."

"NASCAR's boring. A bunch of idiots, nothing personal, driving around in circles."

"What's your idea of fun?"

"Shopping for shoes. Having dinner in a nice restaurant. Any movie with Johnny Depp in it."

"Honey, he's done some pretty weird shit. And, that's all girl stuff."

I was going piece by piece, picking through the clutter on the floor. I was torn between wanting to put things away and restore order, and feeling like I needed to keep the integrity of a crime scene. I decided to go with restoring order because I didn't want to believe something terrible had happened.

"Maybe you shouldn't be touching this stuff," Hooker said. "Maybe there's something bad going on."

"I'm doing denial," I told him. "Try to be supportive. Help me look."

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know. A place to start. A phone book. A name scribbled on a piece of paper. Matchbooks he picked up in bars."

"I don't need matchbooks. I know the bars Bill liked. We went out drinking together."

"Do you know any of his friends?"

"It looked to me like Bill was friends with everyone."

An hour later, I had everything put away. Couch cushions were back in place. Books were neatly shelved. Knives, forks, assorted junk and condoms were returned to drawers.

"What have we got here?" I said to Hooker. "Did you find anything?"

"A black lace G-string under his bed. Your brother is an animal. What have you got?"

"Nothing. But he made that phone call to me and he cleaned out his refrigerator. The only thing left is a can of Budweiser."

"Barney, that doesn't mean he cleaned his refrigerator. It means he had to go shopping for more Bud."

"These days most men call me Alex."

"I'm not most men," Hooker said. "I like Barney. Tell me about the phone call."

"Bill said he had to leave Miami for a while. I could hardly hear him over a boat engine. He said if some guys showed up looking for him, I shouldn't talk to them. And, he said I should tell you to kiss his exhaust pipe. I heard a woman scream and the line went dead."

"Wow," Hooker said.

It was six-thirty, and the sun was setting. It was still raining, I didn't have a car, and all that was standing between me and starvation was a single can of Bud. What's worse, I suspected if I opened it I'd have to share it with Hooker.

"Do you have any ideas?" I asked Hooker.

"Lots of them."

"About how to find Bill?"

"No. I don't have any of those ideas. My ideas run more to food and sex."

"You're on your own with the sex. I wouldn't mind hearing your ideas about food."

Hooker took his car keys out of his pants pocket. "For starters, I think we should get some."

I did a raised eyebrow.

"Some food," Hooker said.

We went to a diner on Collins Avenue. We had beer and burgers, French fries and onion rings and chocolate cake for dessert. There was healthier food on the menu but we weren't having any of it.

"The all-American meal," Hooker said.

"Did you ever eat here with Bill? Do you think anyone knows him here?"

"Pick out the prettiest waitress and I bet she knows Bill."

I had a photo with me. A picture of Bill smiling, standing beside a big fish on a big hook.

The waitress dropped our check on the table and I showed her the photo.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

"Sure. Everyone knows him. That's Wild Bill."

"He was supposed to meet us here," I said. "Did we get the time wrong and miss him?"

"No. I haven't seen him in days. I haven't seen him hanging out at the clubs, either."

We left the diner under clear skies. The rain had stopped and the city was steaming itself dry.

"You're getting better at lying," Hooker said, when we were belted into the Porsche. "In fact, you were frighteningly convincing."

He turned the key in the ignition and the car growled to life. When you grow up in a garage you learn to appreciate machinery, and I got a rush every time Hooker revved the Porsche. As vocal as I was about hating NASCAR, I've been to a couple races. Last year I was at Richmond. And the year before that I was at Martinsville. I wouldn't want to admit to anyone what happened to me when all those guys started their engines at the beginning of the race, but it was as good as any man had ever made me feel in bed. Of course, maybe I was just sleeping with the wrong men.

"Now what?" Hooker wanted to know. "Do you want to flash that photo some more tonight?"

It had been a long exhausting day with a whole bunch of terrifying moments, starting with the take-off from BWI. Nothing had turned out as I'd hoped. My sneakers were wet, my skirt was wrinkled, and I needed a breath mint. I wanted to think that the day couldn't get any worse, but I knew worse was possible.

"Sure," I said. "Let's keep going."

We were on Collins, heading south. The art deco buildings were lit for the night and neon was blazing everywhere. There were surprisingly few people on the street.

"Where's the nightlife?" I asked. "I expected to see more people out."

"The nightlife doesn't start until midnight."

Midnight! I'd be comatose by midnight. I couldn't remember the last time I stayed up that late. It might have been New Year's Eve three years ago. I was dating Eddie Falucci. I was a lot younger then. I pulled the visor down to take a look at my hair in the mirror and shrieked when I saw myself.

Hooker swerved to the right, jumped the curb and skidded to a stop.

"Ulk," I said, flung against the shoulder harness.

"What the hell was that?" Hooker asked.

"What?"

"That shriek!"

"It was my hair. It scared me."

"You're a nut! You almost made me crash the car! I thought there was a body in the road."

"I've seen you drive. You crash cars all the time. You're not going to pin this on me. Why didn't you tell me my hair was a wreck?"

Hooker eased off the curb and cut his eyes to me. "I was worried it was supposed to look like that."

"I need a shower. I need to change my clothes. I need a nap."

"Where are you staying?"

"At Bill's apartment," I told him.

"You're kidding."

"I've thought it through, and it's perfectly safe. It's already been searched. What are the chances of the bad guys returning? Low, right? It's probably the safest apartment in South Beach." I almost had myself convinced.

"Do you have club clothes with you?"

"No."

"I can probably come up with something."

Hooker eased the Porsche to a stop in front of Bill's building. "I'll be back at eleven," he said.

* * *

The last thought in my head was of Hooker scrounging a dress for me. He probably had a bunch of them under his bed, rolling around like dust bunnies. It was still in the front of my mind when I woke up. It didn't stay there for long.

I opened my eyes and stared up at a very scary guy. He was at the side of the bed, snarling down at me. Hard to tell his age. Late twenties to mid-thirties. He was maybe six-foot-four, and his muscles were grotesquely over-developed, making him look more science fiction creature than human being. He had a thick neck, and a Marine buzz cut. A ragged white scar ran from his hairline, through his right eyebrow, and down his cheek, through his mouth, ending in the middle of his chin. Whatever had slashed through his face had taken out his eye, because his right eye was fake. It was a big shiny glass orb, larger than his seeing eye, inexplicably terrifying. His mouth was stitched together in such a way that the upper lip was always held in a snarl.

I stared at him in stupefied horror for a heart stopping second, and then I started screaming.

He grabbed me by my shirt-front, picked me up off the bed like I was a rag doll and gave me a shake.

"Stop," he said. "Shut up or I'll hit you." He looked at me dangling at arms' length. "Maybe I'll hit you anyway. Just for fun."

I was so freaked out my mouth felt frozen. "Wha do wha whan?" I asked.

He gave me another shake. "What?"

"What do you want?"

"I want your brother. He has something that belongs to my boss. And my boss wants it back. Since we can't find your brother, we're going to take you instead. See if we can't swap you out. And if your brother won't deal, that's okay too, because then I get you."

"What does Bill have that belongs to your boss? What's this about?"

"Bill has a woman. And it's about fear and what it can do for you. And about being smart. My boss is real smart. And some day he's going to be real powerful. More powerful than he is now."

"Who's your boss?"

"You'll find out soon enough. And you should cooperate or you'll end up like that night watchman. He didn't want to tell us nothing, and then he tried to stop us from going into the dockmaster's office to get the occupancy list. What a dope."

"So you killed him?"

"You ask too many questions. I'm gonna put you down now, and you're gonna walk out with me, and you're not gonna give me any trouble, right?"

"Right," I said. And then I kicked him as hard as I could in the nuts.

He just stood there without breathing for a couple beats, so I kicked him again.

The second kick was the home run because the big guy's glass eye almost fell out of his head. He released his grip on my shirt and went to his knees. He grabbed his crotch, threw up and then went face down into the yuk.

I fell back on my ass and scrambled away crab style. I got to my feet and bolted, out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, down the stairs. I was on the sidewalk, ready to start running and not stop until I reached Baltimore when Hooker pulled to the curb in the Porsche.

"B-b-big guy," I said. "B-b-big guy in Bill's apartment."

Hooker felt under his seat and brought out a gun.

This did nothing to make me feel safe. If anything, it added to the panic.

"Don't worry about the gun," Hooker said. "I'm from Texas. We give guns as baptism presents. I knew how to shoot before I could read."

"I don't like g-g-guns."

"Yeah, but sometimes you need them. Lots of people need to shoot varmints in Texas."

"Like coyotes?"

"That would be in the country. In my neighborhood it was mostly pissed off husbands shooting guys in their naked ass as they jumped out bedroom windows." Hooker looked to the open door and then up to the windows. "Tell me about this big guy."

"He was big. Real big. Like he didn't even fit in his skin. Like the Hulk, except he wasn't green. And he didn't have a neck. And he had a scar running down the side of his face into his mouth where he was all drooly and snarly. And his eye ...his eye. Actually he didn't have an eye. Only one. The other one was fake, but it was a cheap fake. Like it was sort of too big for the real eye. And it didn't move. No matter what the real eye did, the one big cheap fake eye just stared out at me. Didn't blink, or anything. It was ...frightening."

"Did he have a name?"

"I'm calling him Puke Face."

"Did Puke Face say anything interesting? Like why he was in Bill's bedroom?"

"He said Bill had a woman who belonged to his boss, so he was going to trade me. And that his boss was smart, and that this was all about fear and what it can do for you."

A curtain was slightly pulled aside at one of Bill's windows. Hooker aimed his gun at the window. The curtain dropped back into place, and a moment later we heard a crash from the other side of the apartment building. "Unh," someone said. And then there was the sound of receding footsteps. Ka thud, ka thud, ka thud.

"Sounds to me like he just jumped out Bill's window," Hooker said. "And he's limping."

"I kicked him in the nuts."

"Yeah, that might make him limp. Do you still want to do the club scene?"

I nodded. "I have to find Bill."

Hooker beeped the Porsche locked, and he tossed a shimmery scrap of material at me. "I hope this fits. It was the best I could do on short notice."

"It's still warm."

"Yeah, you probably don't want to know all the details."

I held the dress up by its little string straps. "There's not much here."

"Trust me, you don't want a lot of dress. This is Miami. They really mean it when they say less is more."

I followed Hooker up the stairs, and we cautiously looked through the apartment.

"I'm a little flustered," I said.

"Perfectly understandable. If you need help getting into the dress..."

Yeah, right. Not that flustered."

This is disgusting," Hooker said, upper lip curled at the mess on the rug.

"He threw up after I kicked him the second time."

Hooker instinctively put his hands to his package. "I could throw up just thinking about it."

I dragged myself and the dress into the bathroom. I did some deep breathing and got myself calmed down enough to keep going. Hooker was out there with his gun, and I was safe in here, I told myself. Just get changed and get out.

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