The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

“Who else?”

A man and a woman were seated off by themselves at the far corner of the deck. Only their backs were visible to the waitresses. The man looked like a bodybuilder, hugely muscular and tanned, with a bleached-blond ponytail and narrow, dark eyes. The woman was older, muscled, tanned and bleached blonde, too, with close-cropped hair that stood up like spring grass. She wore a G-string bikini and smoked a cigarette, very lady-like, limp-wristed, while with her other hand she stroked the fur of the dog sitting at her feet. The dog had reddish-orange-and-white fur and looked like a cross between a wolf and a fox.

The blonde waitress set down their drinks. Jim Beam, rocks, for him. Vodka, rocks, for her. The man handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

“Thank you, sir,” the waitress said. She stood there, hesitating.

The woman ignored her. She sipped her vodka and said to the man, “What time is he supposed to get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” said the man.

The waitress hovered. Finally, she said, “Excuse me.” The woman glanced up, still stroking her dog. “I’m terribly sorry,” the waitress said, “but it’s against the rules.” She pointed at the dog. The dog looked up at her with an eerily human expression. “No dogs, I’m afraid.”

The woman took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled. “Really?” she said. She was older than she looked from behind, maybe 45, but attractive. The woman smiled down at the dog. “Did you hear that, Hosh? You’re not welcome.” She poured her glass of water into a tin bowl and put it down for the dog.

The waitress shrugged and returned to the service bar as a bald man with a big belly and a goatee walked toward the table. Sunlight glinted off his gold-framed sunglasses, his gold necklaces, his gold bracelets, his gold Rolex. His buttondown shirt was open to the navel, exposing his chest hair. Three beepers were hooked to his white tennis shorts.

“Hello, Sheila,” he said, leaning down to kiss the woman on the cheek. He sat down across from Bobby.

“Hello, Solly,” she said.

“A day late, Solly,” said Bobby.

“I had things to do.”

The dog raised up on his hind legs and put his paws on Sol’s arm. “The Hosh!” Sol said. “How’s my man?” The dog wagged his tail. When the waitress appeared at Sol’s side, the dog sat down quickly, as if to be unobtrusive.

“I’ll have a rumrunner, honey,” Sol said. “And a hamburger.”

“What are you, a fucking tourist?” Bobby said when the waitress had gone.

“Right,” Sheila said. “With three beepers on his hip.”

Bobby leaned across the table and said, “So, what’s the big hurry, Sol, that you bring us out with all the tourists?”

“I thought I’d toss this one to you, Bobby. Some sandblasted types in Miami. I don’t feature dealing with them.” He grinned. “I figure you and the spies have something in common, you know. Men of color and all.”

Bobby smiled. “What’s the product?”

The bald man looked around at the tourists, studying them.

“Oh, Solly,” Sheila said, “you’re so fucking dramatic.”

The waitress came back with the rumrunner and burger and Sol raised his eyebrows for silence. After she left, he said, “Do you mind if we get back to business?” Bobby nodded. Sol leaned toward him. “The spic needs a few pieces, Bobby, maybe a couple hundred. Small stuff, mostly. CZs. AKs. Uzis. They like that foreign shit. He says that he already got his big stuff — SAMs, Stingers — from some raghead in Boca.”

“So why does he need us?” Bobby said.

“Because, fuckhead, he can’t buy the stuff in Miami. He’s a big-fucking-deal exile, on TV all the time, screaming how him and his compatriots are gonna take back their fucking island paradise by force. Building an army, he says, a lot of fat old spies in camouflage out in the Everglades, huffin’ and puffin’ through the fuckin’ swamp, blasting gators with grenade launchers.”

“So why doesn’t he just come up here to get his product?”

“You know how spies are, Bobby. Like guineas in the Bronx. Hate to leave their stoop. Besides, a sandblasted nigger like him in Lauderdale, sniffing around for product, would draw flies. He needs a buyer. Someone knows his way up here, got contacts. Preferably a white man, he says.” Sol grinned evilly and winked at Sheila. “What they call that, honey?”

Sheila looked startled, then smiled. “I think you mean irony.”

“Irony, Bobby! You and him become asshole buddies, talk politics, maybe he can loan you some Stingers so’s you can recapture the fucking Indian reservation. Dinner at his hacienda. Him and his wife, you and Sheila.” Sol took a bite of his hamburger. “Know any Spanish?”

Sheila stubbed out her cigarette and looked for the waitress, to order another drink. When she turned back, Sol was sneaking a piece of hamburger to Hoshi.

“Solly! I told you not to feed him that shit.”

“He’s a dog, for Christ’s sake. He eats meat.”