probably did know some "boys." And he could make it real hard on a man who crossed him.
Mac nodded like a good soldier.
"Swell. You have a nice day now," the detective added, and, leaning forward in his creaking chair, gave a dismissive nod toward the door.
Since a nice day was pretty much off the radar screen, Mac decided that what he needed was a nice drink. And he was going to have one, just as soon as he caught up with "the godfather's" niece and figured out a way to convince her to play well with others—specifically with him.
It could work. Stranger things had happened. Some bubba from Arkansas was always being abducted from a 7-Eleven by aliens. Men read Hustler for the articles.
So hell, yeah, Mac could bring one short, sexy blue-eyed blond woman around to his way of thinking. And if he could get someone to believe that, he had a spacious high-rise in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood on the Gaza Strip he'd enjoy the hell out of selling them.
Chapter 7
The sun was still burning as hot as a jalapeno when Mac stepped outside the shop—without a new T-shirt, much to the dismay of the salesclerk. Mac looked up and down the street. Eve couldn't have gotten too far. Hell, the entire key was only two miles by four miles. How far could she go?
He hooked a left and started walking down Duval. It shouldn't be too hard to spot her.
Or it wouldn't have been, he amended a couple of hours later, if he hadn't had the good luck to arrive at Key West smack in the middle of spring break. The city was overrun, it seemed, with gorgeous blond coeds. And brunettes and redheads. Tall ones. Short ones. Drunk ones. Lots of drunk ones. And lots of drunk young men hoping to get lucky.
Oh, to be young again. He remembered that age when life was all about partying, drinking, and scoring to a war cry of "get drunk, get laid." Eventually, reality had grabbed him by the ass and gotten his attention. That kind of life cost money. Required a job. A "normal" life. And things got a whole lot more serious than this laughing, dancing throng of coeds, sashaying through the streets in their bikini tops and shorts, pouring out of the restaurants and bars, making out in broad daylight and dark corners.
It was close to one of those dark corners where he finally found Eve several hours later.
Sloppy Joe's was a favorite hangout for any kind of crowd, but the party-hardy contingent had turned out in droves today. They hung out of the doors and open-air windows. They littered the sidewalk, drinks and beer bottles in hand, while music flowed into the late afternoon like sunlight and had them dancing in the streets as well as inside the bar. Suntan lotion was the scent of the day.
Barry Cuda and the Sofa Kings were the featured bands according to the board posting both the daily specials and the talent. Sloppy Joe's was clearly the best party in the Conch Republic, and the standing-room-only crowd inside, moving to the music, swaying to the beat, and drowning in their beer, weren't giving a thought to the brain cells they were killing and would sorely miss when they returned to class in a mere few days.
Mac shouldered his way inside through the glut of bodies. He was tired, he was thirsty, and despite the fact that everyone he'd quizzed had seen a pretty blue-eyed blonde at some time during the day, he still hadn't spotted Eve. Neither had he seen any sign of Tiff. When he'd fished her picture out of his pocket and flashed it here and there, he'd come up with a lot of, "Man, I'd remember that weird chick if I'd seen her."
Of course, since those same expert witnesses had slopped beer on the snapshot and had to occasionally rely on a wall to keep vertical, he hadn't taken a lot of stock in what they'd said.
Somehow, he managed to squeeze his way up to the bar.
"Beer," he yelled above a noise level that would have tripped the meter at a Bulls game over the top of the
Mac nodded like a good soldier.
"Swell. You have a nice day now," the detective added, and, leaning forward in his creaking chair, gave a dismissive nod toward the door.
Since a nice day was pretty much off the radar screen, Mac decided that what he needed was a nice drink. And he was going to have one, just as soon as he caught up with "the godfather's" niece and figured out a way to convince her to play well with others—specifically with him.
It could work. Stranger things had happened. Some bubba from Arkansas was always being abducted from a 7-Eleven by aliens. Men read Hustler for the articles.
So hell, yeah, Mac could bring one short, sexy blue-eyed blond woman around to his way of thinking. And if he could get someone to believe that, he had a spacious high-rise in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood on the Gaza Strip he'd enjoy the hell out of selling them.
Chapter 7
The sun was still burning as hot as a jalapeno when Mac stepped outside the shop—without a new T-shirt, much to the dismay of the salesclerk. Mac looked up and down the street. Eve couldn't have gotten too far. Hell, the entire key was only two miles by four miles. How far could she go?
He hooked a left and started walking down Duval. It shouldn't be too hard to spot her.
Or it wouldn't have been, he amended a couple of hours later, if he hadn't had the good luck to arrive at Key West smack in the middle of spring break. The city was overrun, it seemed, with gorgeous blond coeds. And brunettes and redheads. Tall ones. Short ones. Drunk ones. Lots of drunk ones. And lots of drunk young men hoping to get lucky.
Oh, to be young again. He remembered that age when life was all about partying, drinking, and scoring to a war cry of "get drunk, get laid." Eventually, reality had grabbed him by the ass and gotten his attention. That kind of life cost money. Required a job. A "normal" life. And things got a whole lot more serious than this laughing, dancing throng of coeds, sashaying through the streets in their bikini tops and shorts, pouring out of the restaurants and bars, making out in broad daylight and dark corners.
It was close to one of those dark corners where he finally found Eve several hours later.
Sloppy Joe's was a favorite hangout for any kind of crowd, but the party-hardy contingent had turned out in droves today. They hung out of the doors and open-air windows. They littered the sidewalk, drinks and beer bottles in hand, while music flowed into the late afternoon like sunlight and had them dancing in the streets as well as inside the bar. Suntan lotion was the scent of the day.
Barry Cuda and the Sofa Kings were the featured bands according to the board posting both the daily specials and the talent. Sloppy Joe's was clearly the best party in the Conch Republic, and the standing-room-only crowd inside, moving to the music, swaying to the beat, and drowning in their beer, weren't giving a thought to the brain cells they were killing and would sorely miss when they returned to class in a mere few days.
Mac shouldered his way inside through the glut of bodies. He was tired, he was thirsty, and despite the fact that everyone he'd quizzed had seen a pretty blue-eyed blonde at some time during the day, he still hadn't spotted Eve. Neither had he seen any sign of Tiff. When he'd fished her picture out of his pocket and flashed it here and there, he'd come up with a lot of, "Man, I'd remember that weird chick if I'd seen her."
Of course, since those same expert witnesses had slopped beer on the snapshot and had to occasionally rely on a wall to keep vertical, he hadn't taken a lot of stock in what they'd said.
Somehow, he managed to squeeze his way up to the bar.
"Beer," he yelled above a noise level that would have tripped the meter at a Bulls game over the top of the
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