Burton said, “I like to see you radiating positivity.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Yancy returned to the T-shirt shop and in the thong aisle he cornered Madeline, reeking of cigarettes as usual. She explained that Pestov had offered her thirty-two hundred dollars to marry him. He’d popped the question one afternoon shortly after an Immigration officer had stopped by the store.
“Hey, I could seriously use the money,” Madeline said. “And Pestov’s an okay dude. I don’t have to ball him or nuthin’.” She was letting her hair grow, the roots showing brown and gray. “Charlie’d understand,” she added. “He was into cash flow.”
“Where’s the proud groom?” Yancy asked.
“Out the back door. He saw you coming.”
“Go get him, please. I need a favor.”
“What kinda favor? Jesus.”
“Tell him it’s very important.”
Madeline bit her lower lip. “Man, don’t screw up this deal for me.”
“Relax,” Yancy said. “This one’s for Charlie.”
So far, the retirement years of Johnny Mendez had been uneventful, full of golf and JetBlue specials. His neighbors knew nothing of his corrupt past and treated him with the respect due a former police sergeant. That was more than Mendez could say for his wife, who had selfishly scheduled herself for yet another cosmetic procedure that his insurance plan wouldn’t cover. This time it was a mentoplasty, commonly known as chin augmentation, which involved the surgical implantation of a small silicone module. In profile the face of Muriel Mendez would soon resemble a Hudson River tugboat, and her husband would once again be draining his pension account to pay for it. There was no point in arguing with her but he tried.
He was on the losing end of another shouting match when Andrew Yancy rapped on the door. It was a tailor-made opportunity to exercise the state’s Stand Your Ground law and shoot Yancy dead as an intruder, and Johnny Mendez might have done it if Muriel could have been counted on to support an embroidered account of the incident.
“Hide the fucking cat,” he said to his wife, who shooed the obese Siamese to another room.
“But Natasha loves me,” said Yancy. “Come outside, Johnny, let’s chat.”
Mendez went to the bedroom and from the nightstand got his .38 Special, which he stuck in the waist of his golf shorts. Yancy was waiting on the porch. He said he was sorry for abducting the cat and thanked Mendez for the use of his sergeant’s badge.
“I want to make it up to you,” he said.
“No, you don’t. You hate my fucking guts.”
“Well, yes, that’s impossible to deny. The truth is, I’m here because I need you to do something.”
“What now? The answer’s no effin’ way. Are you serious?” Mendez couldn’t believe this jerk showing up at his door.
“One phone call, Johnny. Five grand in your pocket.” Yancy grinned and held up five fingers.
Mendez was suspicious, but there seemed no harm in listening. His wife came out complaining that the garbage disposal was jammed again. She was heading straight to Home Depot to purchase a new one, and for the errand she’d dressed in a short canary-yellow tennis ensemble.
Yancy said, “You are lookin’ good, Muriel.”
“Thank you. This is Stella McCartney—Johnny says it cost too much but I say he’s a lucky duck.” She laughed, a jungle hooting that spooked a pair of mockingbirds from the cherry hedge.
Yancy said, “He is the luckiest of lucky ducks. Don’t let him give you any shit.”
Mendez felt like shooting both of them. After his wife drove off he showed Yancy the pistol and told him to start talking fast, or else. Yancy punched him in the gut, shoved him inside the door and whisked the .38 from his pants.
“What kind of drooling moron threatens a man who’s just offered him an easy five grand? Don’t answer, Johnny Boy, that’s rhetorical.”
Mendez was bent double, huffing to catch his breath. Yancy helped him into a BarcaLounger and laid out the arrangement.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be an item in the Key West newspaper—you should look it up online. It’ll say Crime Stoppers is offering five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who murdered a man named Charles Phinney in Key West. I’d appreciate it if you call that hotline number, Johnny, and tell them who did it. Strictly as a concerned citizen, you understand.”
Mendez, still clutching his midsection, was wary. “You know the killer, how come you don’t call up for the reward?”
“Because I might end up as a witness in the case. It wouldn’t go over so good with the jury if they knew I benefited financially from the defendant’s capture. His lawyers would cut me to ribbons, am I right?”
“Only if you’re dumb enough to tell ’em the truth.”
Yancy emptied the bullets from the gun and tossed it back to Mendez, just like in the movies.
“Johnny, I picked you for three reasons: experience, experience, experience. Nobody can work Crime Stoppers like you,” Yancy said. “The killer’s name is Nicholas Stripling. He’s hiding out in the Bahamas. It’s all right here.”
Yancy handed Mendez a paper that listed every important detail, from the suspect’s DOB to his alias to the color Jeep he was driving. It was more like a dossier than a tip. Mendez knew that the cops in the Keys couldn’t brush it off as a crackpot lead. There would have to be a follow-up.
He said, “They don’t catch him, I don’t get any money. You’re aware how that works.”
“Then what—you wasted a phone call? Big deal.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Stripling is the right man, Johnny. Everything I’m giving you is gold. Plus he’s only got one arm, which is what the Wanted posters would call a noticeable feature.”
“Okay, yeah. But I still don’t believe you won’t be takin’ a cut.”
“All I want,” Yancy said, “is to see this shithead in handcuffs. That’s it. That’s all.”
“Guy who died—he was a friend of yours or something?”
“Never met him. Just some kid worked on a fishing boat.”
Mendez thought about it from all angles, and he really couldn’t see a downside to making the call. He’d get a code number, like all the tipsters; nobody would ask his name.
And the five grand would cover most of Muriel’s chin work.
“One thing you didn’t tell me,” he said. “Who put up the reward?”
Yancy looked amused. “You never cared before.”
“Don’t be a douche. Is it the dead kid’s family came up with the money?”
“You’ll love this,” said Yancy. “It’s the Russian mob.”
Twenty-nine
The airstrip outside Barranquilla was stubbled with weeds from years of disuse, although the pale Moorish villa looked the same as Claspers remembered it. He circled back toward the coast and set the Caravan down on a flat sapphire bay. After mooring to a crab pot he dove from the starboard pontoon and swam to shore, where he flagged down a taxi, which took him first to a liquor store and then to the countryside.
His clothes were still damp when he knocked on the tall carved door. Donna was more breathtaking than ever, as he’d known she would be. He said he’d been shocked to hear of her husband’s death, such a terrible crime, and then he asked if she’d remarried. She said no and invited him to come inside. Her English was still very good. He was careful not to throw his arms around her until he was sure she was alone. He iced the bottle of Dom and then she led him up the stairs.
Later, sitting in the twilight on the bedroom balcony, they drank the champagne and watched a pair of emerald-colored parrots courting in the treetops. When Donna asked if he was still in the business, Claspers laughed and said no, not for a long, long time.
“Then what are you doing here?”