said, “Thanks for lunch, Andrew. But anybody asks, we never talked.”
Yancy grinned. “Hell, I don’t even know your name.”
A squall blew across the island and Yancy drove around Old Town waiting for the rain to quit. On Fleming Street he passed Fausto’s grocery and thought of Bonnie, a.k.a. Plover Chase. With improbable ease he rejected the impulse to dial her number. Perhaps he was finally, at age forty-two, growing up.
He parked on Eaton Street and made his way to Duval. Even in the dead of summer it was crawling with overfed tourists courtesy of the cruise ships, which Yancy considered a vile and ruinous presence in the harbor. After grabbing a beer at the Margaritaville café he began searching the T-shirt shops for Madeline, girlfriend of the late Charles Phinney. He found her at a place called Chest Candy, which aggressively catered to strippers, transvestites and aspiring nymphomaniacs.The display window featured a blond-wigged mannequin wearing a diaphanous tank top with sequined lettering that said: CUM TOGETHER .
Again Madeline spooked when she saw Yancy, only this time there was no place to run. She yelled for the store manager, a sallow twit named Pestov who vanished as soon as Yancy inquired about his immigration status.
After locking the front door behind himself, Yancy cornered Madeline and asked what the hell was going on.
“I got a lawyer! So watch it.”
“Why do you need a lawyer?”
She said, “You told me you weren’t a cop.”
“I said not at the moment.”
Some dork wearing Teva sandals and black socks started rattling the doorknob. Yancy shooed her away. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said to Madeline.
“The cops think I set Charlie up to get ripped off.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Three times they had me in for questioning. What’d you tell them? Jesus, I need a smoke.”
Yancy said, “The police never even interviewed me.”
Madeline’s hands were trembling as she lighted up. “I’m gonna lose my damn job.”
“They’d be doing you a favor.”
She said, “I wouldn’t never hurt Charlie. He treated me good.”
“I believe you, Madeline. But I can’t help unless you tell me the truth. So let’s start over, okay?”
“Not here,” she whispered, glancing behind her. “The Russians, man!”
“Screw the Russians.” Yancy poked his face into the back room and said, “Yo, Madeline’s taking the afternoon off.”
“Is fine,” Pestov muttered sullenly from a closet.
“Thank you, comrade. And God bless America!”
Yancy drove Madeline out to Stoney’s, which naturally had been her and Phinney’s all-time favorite restaurant. They took a two-top in a corner and from the unkempt server Yancy was pleased to learn Brennan was away in Homestead, probably stocking up on frozen tilapia that would later be promoted to fresh swordfish on the menu.
Madeline asked for a vodka tonic and Yancy ordered a Coke.
She said, “I lied. I don’t really have a lawyer.”
“They tend to charge a fee.”
“Which I have about forty bucks to my name.”
“What have the cops told you?” Yancy asked.
“I got a record is the problem. Grand theft a long time ago, shoplifting, whatever. Plus they found out I’m way behind on my Visa card and also my rent, so I guess they think I lined up someone to shoot Charlie and take a cut of the cash. But I didn’t!”
Yancy believed Madeline, for he knew more about the murder investigation than she did. One of his fishing pals was a city police lieutenant who’d told him that the rented moped used in the robbery had been wiped totally clean of prints, even the gas cap and side mirrors, demonstrating an attention to detail not common among the local dirtbag element. The killer’s weapon hadn’t been found but the .357 shell casings and bullet fragments belonged to 158-grain Winchester hollow points, a premium load for a low-rent street crime.
Yancy said, “Tell me again how much cash Phinney was
Yancy grinned. “Hell, I don’t even know your name.”
A squall blew across the island and Yancy drove around Old Town waiting for the rain to quit. On Fleming Street he passed Fausto’s grocery and thought of Bonnie, a.k.a. Plover Chase. With improbable ease he rejected the impulse to dial her number. Perhaps he was finally, at age forty-two, growing up.
He parked on Eaton Street and made his way to Duval. Even in the dead of summer it was crawling with overfed tourists courtesy of the cruise ships, which Yancy considered a vile and ruinous presence in the harbor. After grabbing a beer at the Margaritaville café he began searching the T-shirt shops for Madeline, girlfriend of the late Charles Phinney. He found her at a place called Chest Candy, which aggressively catered to strippers, transvestites and aspiring nymphomaniacs.The display window featured a blond-wigged mannequin wearing a diaphanous tank top with sequined lettering that said: CUM TOGETHER .
Again Madeline spooked when she saw Yancy, only this time there was no place to run. She yelled for the store manager, a sallow twit named Pestov who vanished as soon as Yancy inquired about his immigration status.
After locking the front door behind himself, Yancy cornered Madeline and asked what the hell was going on.
“I got a lawyer! So watch it.”
“Why do you need a lawyer?”
She said, “You told me you weren’t a cop.”
“I said not at the moment.”
Some dork wearing Teva sandals and black socks started rattling the doorknob. Yancy shooed her away. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said to Madeline.
“The cops think I set Charlie up to get ripped off.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Three times they had me in for questioning. What’d you tell them? Jesus, I need a smoke.”
Yancy said, “The police never even interviewed me.”
Madeline’s hands were trembling as she lighted up. “I’m gonna lose my damn job.”
“They’d be doing you a favor.”
She said, “I wouldn’t never hurt Charlie. He treated me good.”
“I believe you, Madeline. But I can’t help unless you tell me the truth. So let’s start over, okay?”
“Not here,” she whispered, glancing behind her. “The Russians, man!”
“Screw the Russians.” Yancy poked his face into the back room and said, “Yo, Madeline’s taking the afternoon off.”
“Is fine,” Pestov muttered sullenly from a closet.
“Thank you, comrade. And God bless America!”
Yancy drove Madeline out to Stoney’s, which naturally had been her and Phinney’s all-time favorite restaurant. They took a two-top in a corner and from the unkempt server Yancy was pleased to learn Brennan was away in Homestead, probably stocking up on frozen tilapia that would later be promoted to fresh swordfish on the menu.
Madeline asked for a vodka tonic and Yancy ordered a Coke.
She said, “I lied. I don’t really have a lawyer.”
“They tend to charge a fee.”
“Which I have about forty bucks to my name.”
“What have the cops told you?” Yancy asked.
“I got a record is the problem. Grand theft a long time ago, shoplifting, whatever. Plus they found out I’m way behind on my Visa card and also my rent, so I guess they think I lined up someone to shoot Charlie and take a cut of the cash. But I didn’t!”
Yancy believed Madeline, for he knew more about the murder investigation than she did. One of his fishing pals was a city police lieutenant who’d told him that the rented moped used in the robbery had been wiped totally clean of prints, even the gas cap and side mirrors, demonstrating an attention to detail not common among the local dirtbag element. The killer’s weapon hadn’t been found but the .357 shell casings and bullet fragments belonged to 158-grain Winchester hollow points, a premium load for a low-rent street crime.
Yancy said, “Tell me again how much cash Phinney was
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