Stuff to Die For (4 page)

“And you’re an asshole, James. Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way shall we discuss your business?”

I jumped in. “How much did you tell her we charged?”

“I told her $1,500.”

“How much?” I thought James’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. To be honest, I thought mine would too.

“Well, she didn’t balk at it. I called a moving company and asked them what they’d charge. I think it’s worth it to her to have the stuff moved. She just wanted someone to take responsibility.”

The bartender brought us three short drafts, and we sat silently for a minute, sipping the dark bitter beer and watching the happy-hour crowd walk through the doors.

“Jackie is expecting you guys this weekend. Can you do it Saturday?”

“For that kind of money I’ll move it at three in the morning. Oh, by the way, Skip, did you say something to Angel about the job?”

“Angel?”

“Angel. The Bahamian guy who hangs out at Gas and Grocery.”

I stared blankly at him.

“He asked if we needed any help moving the stuff from Jackie Fuentes’s house. Said he could use some extra cash.”

I thought for a moment. Angel is almost always there. He’s hanging out in the parking lot, looking at the magazines inside, or just appearing out of nowhere. He’s always a little wacked, but I like him. He’s someone who seems very real. “No. I don’t remember talking to him.”

James shrugged his shoulders. “Well, he seemed to know about it, but I told him the first job we were doing alone. Couldn’t afford a third split.”

I shook my head. No third splits! Maybe down the road. And I was certain I’d never said a word to Angel.

“Anyway, he asked, and seemed disappointed when I said no. By the way, where are we taking this stuff?” James raised his frosted glass and took a long swallow.

“She’s rented a small storage facility.” Em had all the information. “Once it’s in there, she can quit paying on it, and the owners of the facility will eventually haul it away or sell it. Apparently people do it all the time.”

“Pretty sneaky.” James seemed pleased with the scam. Make it a little shady and he was there.

A pretty blond waitress walked by and smiled. “Hi, James. Busy this weekend? I’m off.” She stopped and brushed the hair off his forehead.

“It’s tempting. Let me get back to you. I may have to work.”

“Saturday night? After Cap’n Crab closes?”

“I’ve got a second job.”

She frowned.

“Got to make a little more money so I can take you down to Miami and have a proper date.”

She smiled. “Proper. I’ll hold you to that.” She moved on, looking back over her shoulder, giving him a wink.

Em had that disgusted look on her face. She couldn’t see the charm. Given the time and the desire, James could win her over. I would bet he could get her into bed. He just has this winning way about him. However, I wasn’t about to give him the time or encourage his desire.

“Can I see the truck?”

“Out in the parking lot.” James kept his eyes on the blond’s cute rear end as she disappeared into the kitchen.

I took a final swallow of my Amber Bock and we got up from the bar. Em left half a glass. She always does. I was paying, and Amber Bock isn’t the cheapest beer that they serve.

The sun was cooking the parking lot, the heat radiating from the black asphalt. Our truck sat at the back of the lot, shining in the bright sunlight. James had insisted on a truck wash. I told him that the cleanliness of our truck didn’t mean anything to the lady off of Indian Creek Village, but he insisted that a clean truck showed a serious attitude about the business. I agreed with him, until I found I had to pay half the cost of the wash. Eight bucks. From now on, it was half-and-half on the expenses, and only a third of the profits until he’d made the $12,000 back.

“I got a glimpse of it at your apartment the other day,” Emily said. “What’s inside?” She started to open the cab.

“No. Let me show you where the money is made first.” James pulled on the rear heavy metal latch and slowly pushed up the sliding back door.

“Well,” she let her eyes wander over the interior, “it’s the back end of a truck.”

James scowled. The future was not something to make light of.

Plywood panels lined the walls and the floor. Hooks had been screwed into the left wall and a shelf was mounted on the right. It was an amateur job all the way around, but it seemed to fit us perfectly. We were two of the biggest amateurs in the business.

“Now the cab.” James walked around to the front and opened the driver’s door. Two cloth seats, an automatic transmission, and an add-on CD player. Nothing fancy. James beamed. “Then there’s this little storage area.” He pulled down the passenger seat and there was a concealed door behind the seat. James hoisted himself into the cab, opened the door, and stepped into the storage area. “See? There’s a false wall in the truck, and we can put our personal stuff back here.” He stuck his head out. “Room for three people.”

“So, if you get thrown out of your apartment you’ve got a place to stay?”

He stared at Emily and stepped down from the truck.

“Have you ever tried to back it up?” she asked.

I studied her for a moment. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“No rearview mirror. You’ve got to use side mirrors.”

James looked into the driver’s side mirror and ran his hand through his sandy brown hair. “How hard can that be?”

“It takes some getting used to.”

“And how do you know?” She came off like an expert, this girl who drove a drop-top Thunderbird.

“Skip, I worked for Daddy a lot of summers. I’ve driven about every kind of truck imaginable. Trucks with eight forward and four reverse gears. Trucks that hauled lumber and all types of building materials. And I’ve driven plenty of trucks with side mirrors. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

I’m sure my eyes widened a little. I saw a look of awe on James’s face. I had a new admiration for Em. She was full of little surprises.

“Maybe we should make her a partner?” I couldn’t believe James said it. He’d only had one beer.

“James, I would never partner with you on anything. Never. Not if you were the last job in the world.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Pretty girl like you might attract a lot of customers. Of course your attitude would turn ’em off.”

She gave him the finger.

“I’ll call you and let you know when,” I said.

Em got into her ’Bird and drove off, a slight squeal to the tires when she hit the open road.

“Let’s go up to Pep Boys and get a quart of oil. It seems to drink a little of that. Fifteen hundred dollars, pardner. So if we could do fifteen a day—”

“James, the girl in there—”

“Nancy. Part-time. Once in a while.”

“I never met her before.”

“You and me, Skip. We’re not cut out to be in long-term romances. At least not right now. Hell, we’ve got tomorrow to think about.” He reached up and raked his hair down, giving me a wide-eyed stare. “Dude, we are sucky boyfriends.”

“Ashton Kutcher,
Dude, Where’s My Car
?”

“Wow. One try. You got it.”

“Man, you are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

CHAPTER SIX

I
F YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE HOMES in the North Bay Road area, get on the Internet and find the Coldwell Banker Web site. They usually have some pictures of these $25,000,000 mansions. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like Jackie Fuentes’s house.

Emily led the way in her T-Bird past the North Bay Road mansions, past their heavy stone walls covered in ivy and bougainvillea, where we could catch glimpses through wrought iron gates of palatial estates of pink, yellow, and aqua stucco. Parked in circular driveways we could see gray Hummers and mint green Astin Martins, race yellow Porches and silver Volvos, like modern sculptures adding to the landscape of these waterfront properties. We stopped at the gate on La Gorce Circle and each of us had to show a photo ID. The uniformed guy came out and made us open the back of the truck. I don’t know what he thought he’d find, but he spent a good thirty seconds gazing at the empty bed. Then we drove down the pine-lined winding road, finally pulling in the service entrance at the rear of the sprawling home. Sprawling means probably 20,000 square feet. The house featured an eight-car garage and a pair of tennis courts immediately to its right.

“Come on around to the front. You won’t believe this.” Em grabbed my hand and James followed close behind.

We got to the far corner and she said, “Close your eyes.” I did, and she tugged me out front.

When I opened them, there was a long, deep blue, glistening pool of water that seemed to stretch out forever. The pool was lined with palm trees stretched out perfectly down the length of each side. A marble-tiled patio led up to the house where the porch was supported by eight massive pillars that appeared to be made from the same marble as the patio. Streaks of purple, green, and earth tones meandered in a swirling pattern through the elegantly shaped structure.

Four glass-topped tables sat on the porch, each with a pitcher and glasses as if a lemonade party were about to begin.

“Jesus.” I looked up and up at the towering home. Two and three stories high and about ten miles wide. I exaggerate, but at least ten different roof levels looked over the pool. There were angles upon more angles and orange-tiled rooflines that went every which way. I remembered our home, with the one angle where the garage met the house. Flashing was laid under the tiles so the water would run down into the gutter, but it leaked every time it rained, no matter how much caulking Dad put on it. If the angles on Jackie Fuentes’s house leaked the mansion would flood.

The white stucco gleamed, and through wide-open windows gauze curtains fluttered in a mild breeze.

“Come on, you’ve got to see this waterfront.” Emily took my hand again and pulled me down to the pool and beyond. I glanced over my shoulder and James was following along behind, looking in every direction, obviously as impressed as I was.

Fifty yards farther we were at the water’s edge. A sand beach that seemed to run forever stretched out on either side. Blue-green water lapped at the shore, and the soft sand felt so fluid under my feet I was tempted to take off my canvas Sebago shoes and run barefoot as far as I could. The three of us stood there, two of us simply awestruck by the view. No one said a word for sixty seconds. Finally, James opened his mouth.

“Dude.”

I know, on the surface it’s not the most expressive term, but it summed it up for the moment. Its deeper meaning was, “Have you ever seen anything this impressive in your life—other than that unbelievable house up there?”

That’s what’s nice about “Dude.” It’s just one word, but it conveys a whole lot more than just one word

“Hey, you guys.”

We turned around and there was this gorgeous little brunette, maybe five feet tall, in a black bikini bathing suit. She had a grin that almost stopped my looking any farther, but that would have been a shame because the rest was awesome.

Jackie Fuentes was put together like a
Playboy
model. Ample-sized breasts, the halter top barely covering her nipples, and a narrow waist with a diamond stud in the belly button. The thong that hugged her crotch let every feature show through. I’d never seen a woman who was completely shaved. There was no doubt about this one.

“Dude,” I said. I looked at James. He didn’t say anything this time.

“James, Skip, this is Jackie. Put your tongues back in your mouths.” Em gave us a stare.

Jackie Fuentes laughed. “Thank you so much for coming. I will be so glad when his things are out of the house.” She motioned to the mansion. “Follow me and I’ll show you where everything is.”

We would have followed her anywhere. So this was what trophy wives looked like. I couldn’t begin to imagine how beautiful and sexy the blond he’d left her for was. Em is one good-looking woman, but Jackie Fuentes was unbelievable. Maybe a little Latin and Italian and just plain gorgeous thrown in together.

Her cute, almost-naked butt led the way back to the house. She picked up a short robe from a chair by the pool and threw it around her shoulders. An attempt at decency, but the indecent part was already burned into my mind.

She opened the door and walked into the foyer. Marble tile continued from the porch and a huge living area spread out in all directions. I glanced up and saw the largest chandelier I’d ever seen in my life, even in a picture. Shining brass and hundreds of bulbs in a free-form fixture cast shadows below.

She escorted us down a wide hallway, carpeted like an expensive hotel. All right, the only expensive hotel I’d ever stayed in was when our high school swim team went up to Gainsville and I beat Fred Rea in the 100-meter breaststroke. But that was a pretty fancy hotel and this carpet reminded me of it.

“That’s the theater there.” We passed a room with five rows of seats and a large screen mounted on the wall. “And over there
was
,” she said the word in a chilly tone of voice, “his weight room. I hope you guys are up to moving his weights.”