Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(18)

“Be good . . . for Mom.” Then, turning to his wife, he gave her a long kiss, “Have a great time, Jess.”

“Who’s that, Mommy?” Toby interrupted, pointing at a woman getting out of one of the Town Cars. She was in her early sixties, with heavy makeup, a golden tan, and wearing a red designer pantsuit. An aide unloaded several matching Valextra leather suitcases and carried a tiny Yorkshire terrier. “Is she a movie star?” asked the six-year-old boy.

Noah was staring, too. “Is she a princess?”

“Congresswoman,” Judd said. “You remember the big white building shaped like a snow cone? She works there.”

Jessica nudged Judd in the ribs. “Is that Adelman-Zamora?”

“Yep. Brenda Adelman-Zamora. House intel committee chair.”

“I’ve seen her on TV.”

“Maybe she’s on your flight,” Judd offered, raising his eyebrows.

Jessica scowled and then gave him another kiss.

“Don’t do any work when you’re down in Florida, Jess. Just try to enjoy yourself. Try to relax.”

“That’s the idea,” she said.

“I got you this,” he said, handing her a dog-eared copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.

“Awww,” she purred. “You remembered.”

“I know it was your favorite.” Judd shrugged.

“It is,” she said, touching her chest. “I still don’t know how mine got lost when we moved from Massachusetts.”

“I thought it might help you forget about work. You know, for the beach.”

She accepted the gift and slid it into her handbag, already stuffed with children’s books and small baggies of corn snacks and pretzels. “Enjoy the quiet while we’re away.” Then she paused for a moment. “Scratch that.” Jessica leaned forward and whispered, “Kick some ass.”





13.


MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS

WEDNESDAY, 7:23 A.M.

A soft pink glow on the horizon hinted at the imminent sunrise. The predawn water was calm, barely a hint of a cool breeze off the Caribbean Sea. The only sounds were seagulls and a gentle sloshing of waves against the pier at the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard.

“Motherf*cker!” bellowed Alejandro Cabrera, bear-hugging a thin man with sunken cheeks, long greasy black hair, and skin that was dark from a mix of sun and motor oil. He was wearing flip-flops and a dirty T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing tattoos on both arms. “Que bolá, asere? You’re so skinny! Don’t you eat down here? You’re wasting away!”

“You’re gordo, asere,” said the man.

They hugged again and slapped each other aggressively on the back.

“We all good?” Alejandro asked.

The beach bum nodded.

“You staying out of trouble, brother?”

“Doing my best to stay off the grid and outta trouble,” the man replied.

The two men fist-bumped and then turned to face the others.

“Boys, this is Ricky. We go way back,” Alejandro said. “Ricky, you know Brink already. And this is Craw and Deuce.” The men all exchanged firm handshakes and head nods. “These are all guys from the neighborhood up north.”

Then with a dramatic flourish, Alejandro opened his arms wide and announced, “And this is The Big Pig.”

“It’s fabulous, Al,” Dennis said, gawking at the sparkling-white sportfishing boat docked beside them. “But what’s with the pink stripe?”

“Fuck you, Deuce!” Al said. “You don’t know style when you see it.”

“Florida, baby,” Crawford said.

“Fuck you, too.”

“She’s impressive,” Crawford said, running his hand along the bow of the boat. “What can she do? Thirty, thirty-five knots?”

“Forty-two,” Ricky said. “She’s fully loaded.”

“How’s that possible?” Crawford asked.

“Custom-built,” Brinkley explained. “Alejandro made some modifications to the standard engine package.”

“Ricky juiced it for me,” Alejandro said, his face again beaming with pride.

“The Big Pig flies,” Ricky said, hands on his hips. “But if you boys want to catch some marlin today, you need to get going. Vamanos.”

Ricky started unloading cases from a huge red Ford pickup truck on oversized tires.

Al whistled. “When’d you get this?”

“New F-150 Raptor SuperCrew. A 6.2-liter V-8 under the hood.” Ricky strained with the weight of a large steel case, his muscles flexing and showing off his tattoos. “And las chicas, they love it.”

“I’ll bet.” Al raised his eyebrows. “It’s f*cking beautiful, asere.”

“Geez, Al,” Dennis said. “A private plane, this fishing boat, monster trucks. What the heck is going on down here?”

“What can I say? We Latinos are lovers. And we love the toys. Same goes for the brothers. Isn’t that right, Craw?”

“Am I your only black friend?” Crawford joked.

“Nah. We Cubans are all black. Don’t you know that—”

“I don’t want to interrupt your discourse on contemporary race relations,” Brinkley interrupted. “But we’ve got marlin to catch. Can we get the boat loaded, gentlemen?”