said, throwing Squirrel under the bus.
“Well she didn’t untie herself,” Squirrel said. “I’ll tell you that.”
He had a point. That crazy-ass redneck knew how to tie a knot. For sure.
Zeller said, “It was Harry Levin.”
“How’d he know where she was at?” Dink said, gaze holding on the German.
“He had a gun,” Zeller said.
“So’d you, I thought,” Dink said.
“Whyn’t you take it from him?” Squirrel said to Zeller.
“ ‘Cause he ain’t Superman. What’s next on the agenda, mein Herr?” Dink said, looking at Zeller. “I think maybe you should fill us in. Looks like you’re in over your head, might could use some help.”
When he was within ten meters of the beach Hess turned off the engine and coasted to shore. The bottom hit sand in shallow water and the boat came to a stop. Hess stepped into the ocean halfway to his knees, dislodged the dinghy, and let the current take it back out to sea. Farther out, the Hatteras looked like it was drifting with the tide.
He was on a private beach, deserted in the early evening. Hess walked toward South Ocean Boulevard, wet espadrilles and trouser cuffs getting caked with sand. There was a huge Mediterranean villa straight ahead on the other side of the road, and to his right a beach house that matched the villa’s Italian shade of umber.
Hess had Brank’s watch, wallet, credit cards and $1,500 in cash. He also had Brank’s Smith & Wesson .38. The sun was fading, casting streaks of red behind the oceanfront estates as he walked the beach side of the road, saw the sign for Via Bellania and knew he was only a couple miles south of Worth Avenue.
He kept going, walked with purpose, arriving at Gulfstream Road at 6:40 p.m., and entered a seafood restaurant, went through the bar and dining room to the telephone that was in a hall leading to the restrooms. Hess opened the Yellow Pages, selected a taxi service, phoned and asked to be picked up at Charley’s Seafood. It would be fifteen minutes, so Hess found a seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Macallan’s neat.
“You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.
“What do you do?”
Hess studied her, a plain-looking brunette without a lot to work with, and yet, there was something appealing about her.
“I produce erotic films,” Hess said.
“So you’re not in front of the camera, you’re behind it,” she said, picking up her martini glass, taking her time before bringing it to her mouth, sipping the drink. “Dirty movies, huh?”
“I prefer to think of it as art.”
“Of course.” She speared an olive with a plastic sword and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.
“What are some of your movies?”
“Have you seen Twat’s Up, Doc?
“No, but I’ve heard of it.” She shook her head and smiled. “You did that?”
“Largest-grossing erotic film of all time,” Hess said.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sure don’t look like the type.”
“Public perception is it’s a sleazy business.”
“Exactly, and you don’t look sleazy.”
She had good teeth and skin, and an outgoing personality. Late thirties, maybe forty.
“What’s another one?”
“Deep Six. It was my ex, Denise’s, film debut.”
“Your ex was a porn star?”
Hess nodded, picked up his drink and took a sip.
“What’s that like? I mean watching her doing it with all those studs.”
“Why do you think I’m divorced?”
A valet in a red vest came in the bar and said something to the bartender. “Somebody call a cab?” the bartender said, heavy New York accent.
Hess drank his single malt in a couple swallows, put the glass down on the bar top, and a $20 bill next to it. “I have to go,” he said to the brunette.
“I’ll give
“Well she didn’t untie herself,” Squirrel said. “I’ll tell you that.”
He had a point. That crazy-ass redneck knew how to tie a knot. For sure.
Zeller said, “It was Harry Levin.”
“How’d he know where she was at?” Dink said, gaze holding on the German.
“He had a gun,” Zeller said.
“So’d you, I thought,” Dink said.
“Whyn’t you take it from him?” Squirrel said to Zeller.
“ ‘Cause he ain’t Superman. What’s next on the agenda, mein Herr?” Dink said, looking at Zeller. “I think maybe you should fill us in. Looks like you’re in over your head, might could use some help.”
When he was within ten meters of the beach Hess turned off the engine and coasted to shore. The bottom hit sand in shallow water and the boat came to a stop. Hess stepped into the ocean halfway to his knees, dislodged the dinghy, and let the current take it back out to sea. Farther out, the Hatteras looked like it was drifting with the tide.
He was on a private beach, deserted in the early evening. Hess walked toward South Ocean Boulevard, wet espadrilles and trouser cuffs getting caked with sand. There was a huge Mediterranean villa straight ahead on the other side of the road, and to his right a beach house that matched the villa’s Italian shade of umber.
Hess had Brank’s watch, wallet, credit cards and $1,500 in cash. He also had Brank’s Smith & Wesson .38. The sun was fading, casting streaks of red behind the oceanfront estates as he walked the beach side of the road, saw the sign for Via Bellania and knew he was only a couple miles south of Worth Avenue.
He kept going, walked with purpose, arriving at Gulfstream Road at 6:40 p.m., and entered a seafood restaurant, went through the bar and dining room to the telephone that was in a hall leading to the restrooms. Hess opened the Yellow Pages, selected a taxi service, phoned and asked to be picked up at Charley’s Seafood. It would be fifteen minutes, so Hess found a seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Macallan’s neat.
“You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.
“What do you do?”
Hess studied her, a plain-looking brunette without a lot to work with, and yet, there was something appealing about her.
“I produce erotic films,” Hess said.
“So you’re not in front of the camera, you’re behind it,” she said, picking up her martini glass, taking her time before bringing it to her mouth, sipping the drink. “Dirty movies, huh?”
“I prefer to think of it as art.”
“Of course.” She speared an olive with a plastic sword and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.
“What are some of your movies?”
“Have you seen Twat’s Up, Doc?
“No, but I’ve heard of it.” She shook her head and smiled. “You did that?”
“Largest-grossing erotic film of all time,” Hess said.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sure don’t look like the type.”
“Public perception is it’s a sleazy business.”
“Exactly, and you don’t look sleazy.”
She had good teeth and skin, and an outgoing personality. Late thirties, maybe forty.
“What’s another one?”
“Deep Six. It was my ex, Denise’s, film debut.”
“Your ex was a porn star?”
Hess nodded, picked up his drink and took a sip.
“What’s that like? I mean watching her doing it with all those studs.”
“Why do you think I’m divorced?”
A valet in a red vest came in the bar and said something to the bartender. “Somebody call a cab?” the bartender said, heavy New York accent.
Hess drank his single malt in a couple swallows, put the glass down on the bar top, and a $20 bill next to it. “I have to go,” he said to the brunette.
“I’ll give
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