Motor Mouth by Janet Evanovich Page B

the couches and watched the elevator. Widow Huevo looked to me like a woman who needed a drink, and I was guessing she’d settle into her room then waste no time hitting the bar. My plan was to wait around for an hour. If nothing happened, I’d go back to Hooker. Turned out an hour was overkill because the widow emerged from the elevator after ten minutes and went straight to the bar. Since South Beach doesn’t actually cook until midnight, the bar was empty. Mrs. Huevo took one of the little tables and looked around for a waitress. Impatient.
Really
needed the drink. She still had the doggie bag with her, but the dog was deep inside. Probably freezing. As soon as the dog head popped out, I was going to make my move.
    Not a bartender or waitress in sight. No one in the area but me and Mrs. Huevo. I cracked my knuckles and zipped the sweatshirt. Mrs. Huevo removed her suit jacket. Obviously having a hot flash. Or maybe she just liked hard nipples. Probably the latter. I saw the dog stick his head out and look around and instantly disappear back into the bag. Good enough for me.
    I approached Mrs. Huevo and bent down a little by the bag. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I had to come see your dog. He just popped his head out, and he looked so adorable.”
    Here’s the thing about people who carry their dogs everywhere with them. They love their dogs. And they love talking about their dogs. So it’s possible to approach a total stranger, coo over the dog, and become instant best friends.
    The widow Huevo looked at me hopefully. “You wouldn’t happen to work here, would you? Christ, who do I have to fuck to get a drink in this place?”
    “This bar doesn’t look like it’s operating right now,” I said. “I was going to try one of the tables on the porch. People seem to be sitting there.”
    Widow Huevo craned her neck to take it in. “You’re right!”
    She was on her feet and moving, her long legs gobbling up the Loews art nouveau patterned carpet. I was taking two steps to her one, trying to keep pace.
    “Jeez,” I said, “how can you walk so fast?”
    “Anger.”
    I tried not to smile too much. Oh yeah, I thought, this was going to work out just great.
    We pushed through the doors and found a table on the patio that overlooked the pool and the ocean. Probably the dog wasn’t allowed here, but no one was going to tell that to the bitch Huevo. She put the dog bag on her lap and swiveled in my direction, opening the bag a little. “This is Itsy Poo,” she said. “She’s three years old, and she’s the best little girl.”
    Itsy Poo popped up and looked at her mistress, and Huevo made an instant transformation from bitch woman to gaga googoo dog mommy.
    “Isn’t she the best?” Huevo asked Itsy Poo. “Isn’t she the cutest? The sweetest? Isn’t she mommy’s darling?”
    Itsy Poo’s eyes bugged out of her tiny head and she vibrated with excitement. She was a miniature something, small enough to sit in a woman’s hand. Sort of rat size but not that much muscle. Her mousy brown hair was long but not especially full. If Itsy Poo were a woman, she’d be on Rogaine. The hair on her head was pulled into a topknot and tied with a tiny pink satin ribbon.
    I tentatively stuck my hand into the bag, and Itsy Poo cuddled into it. She was in a nest made from a cashmere shawl. She was warm, and her scraggly hair was as soft as a baby’s breath.
    “Wow,” I whispered, genuinely taken with the dog. “She’s so silky. So pretty.”
    “She’s mommy’s baby. Isn’t she? Isn’t she?” Huevo gurgled at the dog.
    A waiter approached the table, Mommy Huevo partially closed the bag, and Itsy Poo settled herself into her cashmere.
    “Martini, dry,” Huevo told the waiter. “Three of them.”
    “Iced tea,” I said.
    The widow Huevo’s unblinking eyes fixed on me. “Get serious.”
    “I have to drive.”
    “I can’t sit here drinking martinis with someone nursing an iced tea. How about a