Because Rob had become such a gym rat, I too was aware of the fact that many bodybuilders have almost no body fat. After spending almost all of his waking hours in the gym lifting weights, Rob had sculpted his body to such an extent that on the very few occasions I touched him lately, it felt like I was running my hand over a rock. I knew exactly what Mr. Campos meant when he described the neighbor’s body.
“So what did you do?” It frightened me, but I had lost all pretense of asking for professional reasons.
“I marinated him,” Mr. Campos replied. “And then, when he was soft enough, I barbequed him.”
“You what?” I had to restrain myself from reaching across the interview table and shaking the answer out of him.
“Lily, remember that one of my specialties is creating marinades that break down the fibers of cheap, tough cuts of meat so they will be tender enough to barbeque.”
I nodded.
“Well, I figured if my marinades — there was one in particular which breaks down the sinews of chuck-grade meat — worked on a tough cut of low-grade steak, why wouldn’t it work on a human being?”
As much as I disliked admitting it, I could follow Mr. Campos’s logic perfectly — worst of all, however, was that my mind had now gone into overdrive. “So you marinated him?”
Mr. Campos just looked straight ahead. I took that to be a yes.
“For how long?”
He kept staring at the opposite wall. I hoped he was not shutting down on me — I still needed to extract certain information.
“Mr. Campos, please answer my question: How long did you marinate the body before you felt he was ready to be barbequed?”
“Overnight,” Mr. Campos finally answered. “I put him on the grill the next morning, after everyone in the neighborhood had left for work.” He shrugged his shoulders and continued with his explanation. “I would have liked to marinate him longer, but my wife called to tell me she was cutting her trip short and would be coming home that night.”
I sat back and thought about what he had just told me. “What happened to the dog?”
“Ah! The dog!” I could see the faint outlines of a sweet smile on Mr. Campos’s face. “It was because of the dog that I got caught. That’s why I’m here.”
“Can you explain that to me, please?” I couldn’t recall having read anything about the dog in the A form.
“Well, of course, after the death of the neighbor, the dog didn’t have any place to live, so my wife, bless her, decided to take him in until the owner came back.” Mr. Campos leaned over the interview table and shook his index finger at me to emphasize his point. “Remember, at that point no one knew what had happened to the owner. Everyone still figured he was coming back.”
I thought for a minute about what he had just said. “So why is it the dog’s fault you’re here? I mean, you did him a kindness — you offered him a home.”
“Ay, Lily — it was because one day he dug up his owner’s bones, dug them up from where I buried them in the backyard. And not just that — he did it while the detectives were at our house, interviewing my wife and me, asking us questions about our neighbor’s disappearance.” Mr. Campos shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
I thought about the dog, and how he had remained faithful to his owner until the very end. Then I thought about Rob, and what he intended to do to Royal tomorrow if I didn’t find him a home.
Suddenly, I shoved my notepad over to Mr. Campos. “Please write down the recipe for the marinade you used to break down the tough fibers in the neighbor’s body.”
Mr. Campos did not move — instead he just stared at me, a knowing look in his eyes. Then, just as I was about to lose hope, he picked up the pen and began to write.
T-Bird
by John Bond
Miami River
Before poker I was an insurance claims investigator, a corporate private eye with a short-sleeved white shirt and skinny tie, sometimes catching scumbags but mostly helping big guys screw little guys out of benefits they were entitled to. I put ten years experience to work on my own disability claim — a psych claim, though you can’t buy a decent psych policy anymore. Now I just open the mail for my check once a month and play poker. I’m never wearing a tie or watch again. The trick is to keep your head straight, not be sucked in, not to want too much.
I play at McKool’s, a sweet two-table poker room in a Miami River warehouse, minutes from the Dolphin Expressway. Across the bridge from the downtown ramps to I-95, it has easy access, drawing players from Boca to Homestead. McKool runs six nights a week, says if you don’t give players Saturdays with their wives, then the wives won’t let ’em play. I wouldn’t know from wives, and with any luck never will.
Texas Hold’em’s hot, and I play it, but I prefer Omaha 8-or-better high-low split, which McKool spreads on Fridays. There’s more to think about in high-low, and a lot of seductive starting hands, trap hands which suck people in. I scoop both sides in split-pot games more than anybody. That’s why McKool calls me Bobby Two-ways. Everybody has a nick-name: Rebel, Bumper, Luckbucket, Goombah. Everybody except McKool.
McKool’s has a kitchen girl who knows how you take your coffee, what you want on your sandwich, what snacks you like. I catch two meals every play, and sometimes hit the fridge for a takeout bag at the end of the night. There’s a shower, for guys who play all night and then head straight to the office. McKool’s got a smoking room in back with its own vent system, and another room with two computers so people can play online poker while waiting for a seat. Both rooms have queen-size beds — some guys take a little nap then get up to play more, or snooze for an hour before heading to work.
I met McKool when he first came back to Miami after twenty years in the army, before he opened up his room. We were playing in the big game at Black Jack’s, down in Ocean Reef — $100-$200-limit Hold’em. We’d played all night and were down to the hard cores. Only four of us remained. Tommy Trash — he had the garbage contract for the Keys — had lost $20k-plus, and wanted to play a four-handed $25k freezeout, winner take all. McKool had gotten beat up pretty badly too, and didn’t have the buy-in. I’d been the big winner. So I bought McKool’s cherry-red 1962 Ford Thunderbird Sports Roadster convertible with a 390 V-8 300 hp engine for twenty-five grand — a steal. The four of us played for the hundred thousand. It only took a couple of hours for McKool and me to bust out Tommy and Jack and get heads up. We played and played and played. And played some more. Fourteen hours later McKool busted me. His mental toughness and physical conditioning for the long sit made the difference. He won the hundred grand, and offered me $30k to buy back the T-bird. But I liked it and said no.
McKool used that win to bankroll opening his place. He’s offered me forty, then fifty, and recently sixty grand for the car. I’m not much into things, but I love that ragtop. Besides, it’s good when The Man wants something he can’t have from you.
I don’t really have friends, but McKool and I know we can rely on each other. I think I’m the only player in the game who has his private cell. I do a lot for McKooclass="underline" recruit from the parimutuels; deal when somebody calls in sick; give up my seat when he needs to fit a live one in. Mostly I show up for the afternoon gin game before start time and stay through the last hand. Starters and finishers are key to running a profitable house game, getting games off early and keeping them going late.