Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,90
“Jeez, Ally, you look like a movie star.”
“Keep talkin’ like that and it could get you somewhere,” Rae said, as she slid into the booth.
Virgil ordered beers for the three of them and Rae leaned across the table and asked, quietly, “I don’t suppose Richard could get us couple of eight-balls?”
“He maybe could,” Roy said, dropping his voice. “You guys sell your house or something?”
“Nope. Sold some wheels, though.”
“Let me make a call.”
* * *
Roy made his call and the three of them were drinking beer when a guy in a flannel shirt too warm for the night sidled through the door and up to the bar and ordered a beer.
The conversation rolled along and the guy at the bar glanced at them from time to time, seriously uninterested in them, way too uninterested in them, and Rae nudged Virgil with an elbow and Virgil nodded. Richard showed up and slid in next to Roy, leaned across the table, mentioned a price, and said, “Two eight-balls.”
Virgil glanced around the place, pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket, made a big deal of hiding it and secretly counting it out, folded the cash in tight thirds and passed it across the table. Richard said, “Skinx.” He reached out to shake hands and left the eights-balls in Virgil’s palm.
Virgil said, “Party time,” and Rae said to Virgil, “Give him a couple more bills. Birthday gift for Roy.”
Roy said, “Thanks again.” And to Richard, “I’ll take it in weed.”
They sat and talked through two more beers; between the first and second, the flannel shirt guy finished his beer and left. When Virgil and Rae left, Rae stepped close to Virgil as they went through the door and asked, “You think he was smart enough to know a drug deal when he saw one?”
Virgil looked up the street: the red Jeep was gone.
“I believe he was. We’ve sold ourselves solid. At least for a while.”
* * *
The next morning, with a fat envelope of cash, they headed south to the Bal Harbour Shops. An FBI countersurveillance team tracked them and saw no one watching. Once inside the shopping mall, Rae hit a series of stores selling Italian shoes, pulling chunks of cash from her purse, collecting shopping bags from high-priced brands.
Virgil bought expensive shorts and boating shoes, and loose long-sleeved shirts with sleeves that could be rolled up; he found a men’s room, stepped into a toilet booth and changed. He threw his old shorts and T-shirt into the trash and when he emerged from the men’s room, Rae said, “My, my. You look like you own a banana plantation. Except for the sunglasses. The sunglasses look like they came from a Dollar Store sales bin.”
“I need some blades,” Virgil said, and they found some, with opaque gold lenses that wrapped nearly around to his ears.
Virgil shopped and enjoyed watching Rae shop, and watched for watchers, spotting no one. Lucas called and said, “You’re clean. We’re right across Collins Avenue at the St. Regis.”
“See you in ten minutes. Maybe . . . twenty. Rae’s found a La Perla lingerie shop.”
“Ah, Jesus, we’ve got everybody here waiting . . .”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman yanked out of La Perla . . .”
* * *
Virgil finally extracted Rae from La Perla and they crossed Collins Avenue to the hotel, took the elevator up to an ocean-view room, and found it populated with Weaver and three more FBI agents, plus Lucas and Andres Devlin. Devlin gave Rae a hug and said, “I’ve been told about La Perla, if you’re modeling . . .”
“In your dreams,” Rae said, but she liked the hug.
Lucas to Virgil: “You’ve finally perfected your dirtbag look. The earrings are amazing; the sunglasses are even better.”
“Happy you approve,” Virgil said, taking off the glasses. “Where are we on this thing and why are we all in this room?”
Weaver, with a cell phone in his hand: “They’re moving the heroin off the boat. They’ve got one of those aluminum pull carts, they put all eleven heroin cans in the cart and covered it with a tarp and garbage bags. They’re pulling it up to the parking lot right now. We’re all over them.”
“What’s the plan for that?” Rae asked.
“We believe they’ll transport it up to New Jersey in a hearse . . . We’re not sure about the details, but we’re sure about the hearse. We think they paid some guy to have his mother taken to a funeral home and embalmed