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  At exactly 5:12 p.m., the wife of Jesse James Braden dragged him from the Toyota and shot him fatally in the genitals.

  Neighbors were divided on the question of whether Mrs. Braden had been excessive in her reaction. Witnesses agreed that Jesse had been a prodigious sinner and often conducted himself in a manner that invited homicide. The shooting itself was not so much at issue as Mrs. Braden’s selection of anatomical targets. The men in the crowd, sober and otherwise, felt that the mere spilling of an alcoholic beverage—and subsequent insensitive laughter—failed to justify three bullets through the penis. The women of the neighborhood, however, asserted that the decedent got exactly what he deserved—a just punishment for years of piggish whoring, drunken violence and general bad behavior. Jesse James Braden, they said, did not respect his wife or her personal belongings.

  Into this boisterous debate waded Al García at precisely 6:47 p.m. He didn’t want to be there; he wanted to be setting an ambush for a genuine United States congressman—flashing the badge, barking out the Miranda, scaring the piss out of the bastard. He had a gut feeling that the guy would fall apart, start blabbering. García had been looking forward to the moment.

  Instead, the detective stood on a front lawn no different from a million other front lawns, except that the man who had mowed it was lying agape in the bromeliads, with his pecker shot off. The paramedics said Jesse James Braden bled out in three minutes flat. It’s like a fire hose, they said, the way it leaks.

  García hoped to finish the interviews in an hour, since the witnesses concurred on every detail except the precise final utterance of Jesse James Braden—a brief but vituperative tirade. His wife, now safely handcuffed, insisted on showing García the tomato-juice stains on the seat of her car. She demanded that the police photographer get a picture, so that the judge could see what that worthless Jesse had done. When Al García inquired about the murder weapon, Mrs. Braden led him indoors to the kitchen. She had placed the pistol in the refrigerator with her dead husband’s booze.

  The detective’s work proceeded smoothly until Jesse’s grief-stricken brother arrived at the crime scene and opened fire with a 16-gauge shotgun. Francis Scott Braden missed Jesse’s wife by twenty feet, but he grazed a patrolman and blew the rear window out of Al García’s unmarked Caprice. The chaotic interruption meant two hours of extra paperwork for García, who again was reminded how much he hated domestic homicides. It wasn’t detective work—it was purely janitorial.

  García didn’t receive Shad’s message until he was back in the car, rolling on the interstate, the air whipping through the busted window, scattering his police papers. He drove the Caprice as fast as it would go, cursing the Saturday night traffic because he was missing the big show: Erin, dancing up a storm.

  30

  Erin fixed a drink from the mini-bar in the back of the limousine. She wondered about the dream she’d had the night before: making love to a man in an orchard of coconut palms. The man looked vaguely like Al García. In the dream it was daytime, the lemon sun arcing high and scorching. The man was nude but Erin wore a black dress, cut high to the neck. She remembered getting on top, telling the man to hush now, relax. She remembered her knees stinging on the rough bed of dry fronds. In the dream there was music, too; Linda Ronstadt, singing “Carmelita.” It was magical. Erin couldn’t remember coming, but she did recall rolling over, gently pulling the man along as if he weighed no more than a child. He lay his head on her breasts and closed his eyes, and mysteriously he no longer resembled Al García. Now it was someone new, a stranger, but Erin didn’t push him away. She let him rest. In the dream, she was still aroused. A sea breeze whisked through the orchard, and the porcelain sky filled with bright tropical birds—macaws, cockatoos, parrots, cardinals and flamingos. Erin remembered kissing the man’s forehead to wake him, so he could see the flaming colors dip and scatter overhead. The man stirred and murmured in Spanish, but didn’t open his eyes. In the dream, the radiant migration seemed to last all morning. Finally Erin spotted her daughter running barefoot, in and out of the mop-topped trees. Angela was wide-eyed and intent, laughing as she followed the kaleidoscopic train of birds. Erin slipped from beneath the sleeping stranger and ran through the palm orchard after her daughter. In the dream, the bald trunks of the palms stooped and swayed malevolently to obstruct her path. Angie’s laughter grew unfamiliar and distant. Erin remembered stopping, breathless, and turning her face to the sun—the sky was empty, the birds had vanished. She had awakened in a hot sweat.

  Now, in the limousine, the Beefeater’s provided no insight to the dream’s meaning. It did, however, fortify Erin for an evening with David Dilbeck. She was impelled by the certainty that the congressman would escape implication in Jerry Killian’s murder, that he was out of Al García’s reach. The idea of the arrogant old drooler going scot-free was unacceptable, so Erin had made up her mind to destroy him. Dilbeck wouldn’t be harmed, crippled or killed—just destroyed. It seemed the least she could do, and it had to be done alone. Women’s work.

  She finished the martini and began dressing for the congressman. She hooked on a lace bra top and a matching G-string, the one with the red seahorses. Her shoes, too, were candy-apple red. A wine-colored minidress completed the package. Around her neck she hung two long strands of imitation pearls. As Erin dressed, she noticed the Haitian driver, Pierre, watching her in the rearview mirror. Erin stuck her tongue at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked away instantly.

  Erin scooted forward to one of the jump seats. She put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “You speak English?”

  “At times,” he said.

  Erin poured him a cola from the mini-bar. Pierre accepted it graciously.

  “Is there a phone in this car?” she asked.

  The driver nodded at a cellular receiver under the dashboard. Erin turned on the vanity light and opened her purse. She wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Pierre. Without reading it, he placed the note in his breast pocket.

  “That’s a phone number,” she told him. “Things may get strange tonight. Say, at eleven sharp.”

  Pierre said, “It will not be the first time.”

  “I’ll understand if you can’t help me,” Erin told him. “But I need to know now, before I get started.”

  “You overestimate my sense of loyalty.”

  “A job is a job,” Erin said. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your situation.”

  The guard booth of Turnberry Isle came into view. Pierre flashed the headlights and coasted toward the gate. Without turning, he said to Erin, “But a phone call could come from anywhere, couldn’t it?”

  She smiled. “You’re a decent guy, Pierre.”

  “Oui,” he said, touching the brim of his cap.

  Congressman David Lane Dilbeck glistened with excitement, and a light application of petroleum jelly. He put on the Garth Brooks getup, shined his boots, dabbed on some designer cowboy cologne, tweezered the stray hairs out of his nose….

  The dancer had phoned that morning with an intriguing request. A bit frightening, really. Not all men would’ve agreed to it.

  But Dilbeck instantly consented because he felt an incipient carnal connection with the woman. Something was sparking between them, a promise of lust. The first time, she’d acted so tough, all business—hands off, buster, and so forth. But as the night had worn on, Dilbeck had detected a softening of attitude, traces of affection. The signs were subtle, to be sure; she had, after all, mortared his hand with one of her spiked heels.

  Yet even that made sense later, when he took the dancer’s phone call. Perhaps pain was a necessary ingredient of her love. The prospect excited Dilbeck; he felt adventuresome and bold. The congressman had frequently heard of such wild women. Now was his chance to tame one and possess her.

  He arrived at Turnberry shortly after dusk. He brought, in addition to the item Erin requested, two magnums of Korbel champagne, three dozen red roses, a gold bracelet and a
shopping bag of assorted compact discs: Smithereens, Pearl Jam, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Boyz II Men, REM, Wilson Phillips. Dilbeck had no inkling about the nature of the music, nor did he care. He had dispatched an eager young assistant to load up at Peaches, in the hopes that one or more of the selections might prove to be a dancing favorite of Erin’s. If crass gift-giving failed, he would endeavor to dazzle her with gossip from inside the Washington Beltway.

  That first night on the yacht, it had seemed to Dilbeck that Erin was stubbornly unimpressed by his title. Most of the women who slept with him did so mainly because he was a member of the House of Representatives, and therefore he qualified (marginally) as a power fuck. Erin, however, treated him as just another horny rich guy. She displayed no interest in his position or his grossly embellished achievements, and resisted every conversation that might have led to Washington name-dropping. The relationship could not blossom, Dilbeck decided, until the woman was properly enlightened about his importance. In anticipation, he’d been polishing some of his most trusty cocktail-party yarns. Also, for purposes of documentation, he brought photographs.

  Erin came aboard the Sweetheart Deal at about eight-fifteen. Entering the salon, she again felt claustrophobic, incarcerated. “Where’s Frick and Frack?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “The guards.”

  “Grand Bahama,” the congressman said, “with the Rojos.” The sight of the minidress caused another mild spasm beneath the scar of his double-bypass.

  Erin complimented Dilbeck’s country-western outfit. “Dwight Yoakam?” she guessed.

  “Garth Brooks, actually.”

  “Well, it certainly flatters you.” Erin was pleased at how sincere she sounded. The man looked absurd. And what was that peculiar sheen to his skin?

  Dilbeck handed her the gifts. He said, “I brought some pictures, as well.”

  “Of what?” She wasn’t in the mood for porn.

  “Pictures of me,” said the congressman, “on the job.”

  “Really?” said Erin, swallowing a yawn.

  She thanked him politely for the roses and the bracelet, but Dilbeck thought she wore the expression of one who had received such things before, in the course of commerce. She picked through the stack of CDs and rejected all but the Smithereens. As before, she’d brought her own songs for dancing. In honor of Jerry Killian, she again put on ZZ Top.

  The congressman said, with an air of masculine accomplishment: “It took some doing, but I found what you were looking for.”

  Erin squeezed his arm. “Sweetie, I knew you would.”

  Her touch made him shiver pleasantly. For a moment, Dilbeck regarded the arm-squeeze as significant, a preliminary to full body contact. Then he realized that Erin was only using him as a brace, to steady her ascent to the captain’s table. In a flash she was out of the minidress. The pearls remained.

  “What’s the hurry?” Dilbeck said. “I thought we might chat for a while.”

  Erin started dancing. Off came the red bra.

  “Jesus,” murmured the congressman.

  “Sit back, cowboy,” Erin told him. “Enjoy.”

  Malcolm J. Moldowsky approached the docks casually, as if out for an evening stroll. He removed his necktie to look more like a yachtsman.

  Twice he walked past the Sweetheart Deal. There was no sign of the Cuban detective. Moldy boarded quietly. He heard thumping from inside: drums, heavy guitar licks. The congressman’s tastes leaned toward crooners, so Moldowsky knew that David Dilbeck wasn’t alone. The show had begun: Erin Grant was there.

  Moldy congratulated himself for beating García to the yacht. He put his ear to the door, but heard no human noises mixed with the rock music. He took it as an encouraging sign; silence was always preferable to the sounds of a struggle.

  He had his hand on the doorknob when a shadow passed across the deck. Malcolm Moldowsky wheeled to see a man balanced on the transom, backlit by the dock lights. The man rocked from one leg to the other, in time to the muffled back-beat.

  “What do you want?” Moldowsky said. The man hopped down and stepped toward him. “I want my daughter,” he said.

  Moldowsky smiled with forced patience; the man was too young to be the dancer’s father. Moldy said, “There’s been some mistake. Your daughter’s not here.”

  “Then I might as well shoot you,” the man said.

  At the sight of the pistol, Moldowsky raised his hands high. The intruder seemed crazed and displaced. The knees of his jeans were filthy, and his oily blond hair was matted to one side. The eyes were foggy and moist. A golf club was strapped imposingly to a crudely bandaged arm. Moldy figured the man was a hurricane victim, made homeless and insane. They were still out there, addled wanderers, dredging for pieces of scattered lives.

  “She’s not here,” Moldowsky said, “your little girl.”

  Darrell Grant aimed the pistol and squinted one eye. “Say goodnight, Shorty.”

  Moldowsky let out a gasp and covered his face. Expecting to die, his blackening thoughts turned egotistically to the aftermath. Slain on a yacht with a drunken congressman and a stripper—that’s the headline! What photo would they choose to accompany the story? A studio portrait, Moldy hoped, not crime-scene gore. And how would he be described in the press coverage—political consultant? Power broker? Fixer? Jesus, and the quotes. There’d be no shortage of grief-stricken testimonials, all fulsomely insincere. Moldy assumed he would soil himself, dying. What a laugh the cruel bastards would get from that. The dapper Malcolm Moldowsky, pissing in his Perry Ellis.

  In bitter dread, he waited for the flat crack of the gunshot. Nothing happened.

  The problem was Darrell Grant’s unfamiliarity with firearms. He didn’t like guns, never carried one, never even fired one. Now, steadying himself on the deck of the yacht, he couldn’t find the damn trigger. His finger probed intently but was obstructed by a disc of hard plastic. Darrell Grant held the pistol in the light and scrutinized the impenetrable device.

  “Fuck me,” he said.

  It was a lock. Darrell couldn’t believe the rotten luck. That goofy Alberto had to be one of the few citizens in all Dade County with the brains to buy a trigger lock. The advertised purpose of such devices was to prevent dirtbag thieves like Darrell Grant from using a stolen handgun against the innocent citizenry. Darrell, however, suspected that Alberto Alonso harbored other concerns, such as Rita shooting him in his sleep.

  In any event, the locked pistol was about as lethal as a doorstop. Darrell Grant hurled it over the wheelhouse, into the Intracoastal Waterway. “Un-fucking-believable,” he said, with a dry giggle.

  Malcolm Moldowsky peeked through his fingers when he heard the splash. The gun was gone. Why? Moldy didn’t care. The action confirmed his assessment that the intruder was deranged.

  “Out of my way,” Darrell Grant said. He gestured with the blade of the golf club, which protruded from the makeshift splint.

  Moldowsky feigned concern. “You really banged up that arm.

  “Gee, I hadn’t noticed.” Darrell Grant hoisted the jerry-rigged limb and poked Malcolm Moldowsky in the belly. “Double compound fracture,” Darrell said, “but you know what? I had hangnails hurt worse.”

  “Let me drive you to a doctor.”

  Darrell Grant lowered his voice and spoke very slowly, as if giving street directions to a foreign tourist: “Get … the … fuck … out … of … my … way. Por favor?”

  Moldy flattened himself against the cabin door. ZZ Top pounded up and down the bumps of his spine. “I can’t let you in,” he said to the stranger. It was imperative that the public, lunatics included, remain unaware of the congressman’s runaway debauchery.

  “But my daughter,” Darrell said, thickly.

  “I told you, she’s not here. You’ve made a mistake.”

  Darrell’s face broke into a crooked smile. “Hey, I followed her mother, OK? All the way from the tittie bar. And I saw her walk on this boat not fifteen minutes ago. Now some assh
ole midget’s gonna tell me I made a mistake?”

  Beautiful, thought Moldowsky. The stripper’s ex-husband. Tonight of all nights.

  He said, “Let’s go up to the restaurant. I should buy you a drink.”

  “A drink?” Darrell Grant threw back his head and yowled at the stars. “Man, I don’t need a drink. I’m full a drugs, OK? I mean tanked. Best fucking drugs known to mankind!”

  “Fine,” Moldowsky said, tensing.

  “These pills are so damn good,” Darrell said, “I came out here searching for pain. Understand? I’m here to go one-on-one with pain, because I cannot be hurt. It ain’t humanly possible. I had a railroad spike, I’d give it to you this very minute—”

  “Settle down,” Moldy said.

  “—and I’d make you hammer that fucking railroad spike straight into my skull, say about here—” Darrell Grant touched the center of his forehead, “—and you know what? I wouldn’t feel a damn thing, that’s the quality of narcotics I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Please,” Moldowsky said, “keep your voice down.”

  “I never killed a midget before.”

  “Let’s discuss this.”

  “No, sir, you just move your tiny little ass outta the way. I’m here to fetch my daughter.”

  “For the last time,” Moldy said, “she’s not on this boat.”

  Darrell Grant grabbed him by the sleeve. “You’re right about one thing, Shorty. It’s the last fucking time.” He hurled Malcolm Moldowsky to the deck and stepped on his chest.

  Moldy wriggled impotently but did not scream. Ludicrously, he still believed it was possible to avoid a public scene. It wouldn’t do to attract a nosy crowd to the Rojos’ yacht—not with David Dilbeck inside, doing God knows what to a naked dancer. Fearing a repeat of the Eager Beaver debacle, Moldowsky sought to placate the intruder with promises.

  “If you let me up,” he told the crazed ex-husband, “I can help you find your girl.”