in a leather micro-skirt,” she said.
“Nope. Flying solo.”
“Hard to believe.”
“I’ll even buy you a drink,” Spalding said, “because I’m celebrating.”
“Life in general?”
“A new job. Tomorrow I start at Casa Bellicosa. The pay sucks, but at least I don’t have to leave the country.”
There’d been an issue with his work visa—a minor traffic stop, during which police spied a half-smoked joint in a cup holder.
Spalding said, “My manager here tried to get the problem smoothed over, but no luck. Then one of the Ukrainian dishwashers told me that if you get hired at the President’s club, magic things happen to your immigration status. And that, Lady Tarzan, is exactly how it went down. Apparently they’re desperate for fair-skinned foreigners who speak perfect English. No tats allowed, however. They actually did a full-body check.”
“With that visual seared in my mind,” said Angie, “I’ll take a Bombay-and-tonic. Two limes.”
“I’m down for that. Tell me about your day in the fearsome suburban jungles.”
“The highlight? I interacted like a responsible citizen with the United States Secret Service.”
“Stop right there,” Spalding said. “That word ‘interact’—if you were trying to pick me up right now, I’d think you were a total nerd and walk away. We’ve had this chat before, Angie. If you’re going to tell a story to a hot guy, tell it in a way that brings him to the edge of his seat. Or the edge of…whatever.”
The waiter arrived with Angie’s drink. She squeezed the limes, tasted the gin and said, “Okay, how’s this: I spent the afternoon hanging with the Secret Service…?”
Spalding laughed. “Much better!”
“They gave me a large dead python to transport. Eighteen-footer.”
He grimaced. “Again, let’s hit the pause button. You know I’m not a snake person.”
“I can’t talk about it, anyway,” Angie said in a fake whisper. “This case reaches to the highest levels of government.”
Spalding raised his eyebrows. “Now that’s a pretty tasty line.”
“Seriously. I’ve been warned not to discuss it.”
“With bold men at bars?”
“With anybody, anywhere.”
“Bullshit. You can trust me.” Spalding gave her a scheming wink. “By the way, the Secret Service? That’s who cleared me for the server job at the presidential Casa. Fingerprints, photos, birth certificate, heavy-duty background.”
“They didn’t care about the pot bust?” Angie asked.
“Seriously? A hundred bucks says the First Lady vapes like a fiend.”
“I were her, I’d go straight for the needle.”
“Christ, I’m starved,” said Spalding, flipping open the menu. “But first, let me respond to your ‘rich micro-skirt’ comment. I ever meet the right girl, I won’t give a shit if she’s dead broke and dressed like she works in the opal mines.”
Angie smiled. “Does that mean I’ve got a chance?”
“With me? Probably not. However, as your social coach, I’m just saying all guys aren’t dying for long legs and old money. Somewhere out there waiting for you is a cool, emotionally mature, sexually adventurous reptile freak. Meanwhile I’m ordering the swordfish and starting with stuffed mushrooms. Are you in, or out?”
Driving home after dinner, Angie found herself facing a river of brake lights on I-95. She darted off the ramp at Southern, crossed back to the island and turned south on A1A. It appeared to be a smart move; traffic was light. Angie rolled down her windows—she loved the sound of the ocean breakers, the taste of salt on the breeze. Offshore were the lights of a long ship, probably an oil tanker headed for Port Everglades. She wished she could afford a waterfront apartment; waking up to the sight of the Atlantic would add at least ten years to her life.
Soon she spotted a cluster of police lights ahead, and the cars in front of her began to slow. She assumed it was a DUI checkpoint, and felt clever to have stopped at one drink. Getting closer, though, she saw it was a full-blown crime scene at a flood-lit construction site near the Par-3 golf course. As her truck crawled past the commotion, Angie counted six cop cars (four marked, two unmarked), an ambulance, three TV satellite vans, and a long black SUV from the medical examiner’s office.
Behind the fluttering yellow tape trudged two burly workers caked with concrete dust. Their faces pulsed in red and blue as they walked past the squad cars. Angie noticed that each of the men was lugging a demolition jackhammer.
“Bad gig,” she said to herself.
Then she drove home to catch the news on TV.
* * *
—
Early the next morning, the police chief met with the Cornbrights to deliver the sad news: Kiki Pew’s