cockroach—we euphemistically call them palmetto bugs—was flat on its back, its legs wiggling helplessly. Nearby, a green lizard—call him Mr. Gecko—watched, deciding what part to eat first. Hey, it’s not my fault. Or Granny’s. We keep a clean house. It’s just summer in Miami.
At 6:00 a.m., wearing my Penn State boxers—tasteful little Nittany Lions on a blue background—and nothing else, I picked up the Miami Herald from under the jacaranda tree in the driveway. I intended to skim the paper and have one cup of coffee before meeting Detective Barrios.
It was already hot and humid enough to give a guy jock itch. By the time I got back to my front door, several mosquitoes had dive-bombed my ankles for breakfast.
The Herald ’s lead story reported that the pink flamingos at Hialeah Park had begun laying eggs again. This may not seem like front-page news, but the flamingos had gone five years without sex before a recent orgy. This gave me hope.
Thirty minutes later, I was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt from the Quarterdeck Lounge, a favorite watering hole and fish joint. Twenty minutes after that, I was aiming my old Caddy across the MacArthur Causeway toward Miami Beach. The car is a cream-colored 1984 Biarritz Eldorado with red velour upholstery and a personalized license plate: “JUSTICE?” Yeah, I think it’s a good question.
In its day, the car would have been considered a pimpmobile, but it was actually owned by Strings Hendricks, a Key West piano tuner and occasional marijuana smuggler. I walked him out of criminal court because of a faulty search, and the car was my fee. I saw no reason to upgrade to a Lexus or Mercedes or any of the other showy wheels my fellow trial lawyers seem to favor.
Traffic was its usual mess on Dixie Highway. It hadn’t started raining yet. Of course, at 3:17 p.m., give or take ten minutes, it would pour. It does nearly every day in the summer.
Once on the causeway, I passed the mansions of Palm and Star Islands on my left and admired the gleaming cruise ships lined up in Government Cut to my right. The ships were poised for their Friday departures to the Caribbean. Fun-filled, prepackaged, all-you-can-eat floating hotels, complete with evening entertainment from bands and comedians too lame to make it in Vegas.
Detective Barrios had told me to meet him at a Cuban café on Sixth Street between Meridian and Washington on South Beach. He didn’t want me in the city cop shop. Maybe he was afraid I would spread my defense lawyer cooties. Or maybe he was just more comfortable not having his colleagues see him consorting with the enemy.
Of course, I’d get to question him under oath, both at a pretrial deposition and at trial. But then, he’d have the state attorney protecting him from my insidiously clever questions, which usually start: “Then what happened?”
Barrios and I had a decent relationship both before and after I’d been wrongfully accused of killing Pamela Baylins, a serial seductress and looter of my trust accounts. This was something I intended to teach Solomon. Make friends with cops, or at least try not to give them the burning desire to shoot you in the kneecap.
Solomon. So damn brash. So much like my earlier self.
I found Barrios sitting at a two-person table in a corner of the café drinking an espresso and nibbling a guava pastelito. His back was to the wall so he could see all the patrons enter and, if necessary, plug anyone who jumped the café con leche line. He was a burly man nearing retirement age, with suntanned, muscular arms poking out of an orange polo shirt. His shaved head looked as if it had been stained a dark walnut. I eased into the chair facing him and ordered an American coffee.
“ Que pasa , George? Why’d you drag me over here?”
“In my opinion, we both want the same thing.”
“Justice in an imperfect world. Not to mention the love of a fine woman.”
“We both want to find Nadia Delova.”
“Ah,
At 6:00 a.m., wearing my Penn State boxers—tasteful little Nittany Lions on a blue background—and nothing else, I picked up the Miami Herald from under the jacaranda tree in the driveway. I intended to skim the paper and have one cup of coffee before meeting Detective Barrios.
It was already hot and humid enough to give a guy jock itch. By the time I got back to my front door, several mosquitoes had dive-bombed my ankles for breakfast.
The Herald ’s lead story reported that the pink flamingos at Hialeah Park had begun laying eggs again. This may not seem like front-page news, but the flamingos had gone five years without sex before a recent orgy. This gave me hope.
Thirty minutes later, I was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt from the Quarterdeck Lounge, a favorite watering hole and fish joint. Twenty minutes after that, I was aiming my old Caddy across the MacArthur Causeway toward Miami Beach. The car is a cream-colored 1984 Biarritz Eldorado with red velour upholstery and a personalized license plate: “JUSTICE?” Yeah, I think it’s a good question.
In its day, the car would have been considered a pimpmobile, but it was actually owned by Strings Hendricks, a Key West piano tuner and occasional marijuana smuggler. I walked him out of criminal court because of a faulty search, and the car was my fee. I saw no reason to upgrade to a Lexus or Mercedes or any of the other showy wheels my fellow trial lawyers seem to favor.
Traffic was its usual mess on Dixie Highway. It hadn’t started raining yet. Of course, at 3:17 p.m., give or take ten minutes, it would pour. It does nearly every day in the summer.
Once on the causeway, I passed the mansions of Palm and Star Islands on my left and admired the gleaming cruise ships lined up in Government Cut to my right. The ships were poised for their Friday departures to the Caribbean. Fun-filled, prepackaged, all-you-can-eat floating hotels, complete with evening entertainment from bands and comedians too lame to make it in Vegas.
Detective Barrios had told me to meet him at a Cuban café on Sixth Street between Meridian and Washington on South Beach. He didn’t want me in the city cop shop. Maybe he was afraid I would spread my defense lawyer cooties. Or maybe he was just more comfortable not having his colleagues see him consorting with the enemy.
Of course, I’d get to question him under oath, both at a pretrial deposition and at trial. But then, he’d have the state attorney protecting him from my insidiously clever questions, which usually start: “Then what happened?”
Barrios and I had a decent relationship both before and after I’d been wrongfully accused of killing Pamela Baylins, a serial seductress and looter of my trust accounts. This was something I intended to teach Solomon. Make friends with cops, or at least try not to give them the burning desire to shoot you in the kneecap.
Solomon. So damn brash. So much like my earlier self.
I found Barrios sitting at a two-person table in a corner of the café drinking an espresso and nibbling a guava pastelito. His back was to the wall so he could see all the patrons enter and, if necessary, plug anyone who jumped the café con leche line. He was a burly man nearing retirement age, with suntanned, muscular arms poking out of an orange polo shirt. His shaved head looked as if it had been stained a dark walnut. I eased into the chair facing him and ordered an American coffee.
“ Que pasa , George? Why’d you drag me over here?”
“In my opinion, we both want the same thing.”
“Justice in an imperfect world. Not to mention the love of a fine woman.”
“We both want to find Nadia Delova.”
“Ah,
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