Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“How they going to know what to do with him?” Felicia asked. “Maybe no one recognize Mr. Dead Guy.”

I went to my bag and returned with a black Magic Marker and wrote OSCAR HUEVO in big letters on the top of Huevo’s head. We all got back into the SUV, Hooker cranked the motor over, and Beans started barking. He was doing his bird-dog impersonation, his attention riveted on Huevo.

“What’s wrong with him?” Rosa asked. “Maybe he thinks we leave his chew toy behind?”

And then we saw it. The dog. It was a big scruffy mutt, and it was creeping in on Huevo. Huevo was a dog magnet.

“This won’t work,” Felicia said. “God won’t like it if Mr. Dead Guy turns into dog food.”

We got out of the SUV, picked Huevo up, and put him back into the passenger seat, next to Hooker.

“Now what?” Hooker asked. “Does God have a plan B?”

“Go back to the parking lot,” I told him. “We’ll just put Huevo on top of a car. The dog won’t be able to reach him there.”

“What about cats?” Felicia asked. “Suppose some kitties find Mr. Dead Guy?”

I cut a death glare at Felicia. “God’s just going to have to deal with it.”

“Yeah,” Rosa said, “if it’s all so big-deal important to God, let him keep the cats away.”

We returned to the lot and slowly drove around. Hooker stopped at the end of the second line of parked cars. He was looking at one of the cars and grinning. “This is the car,” he said.

I looked past Hooker. It was Spanky’s gift car from Huevo. It was a brand-new, shiny red Avalanche LTZ sport utility truck. The vanity license plate read DICK69. Most likely sounded good on paper.

“What’s Spanky’s truck doing here?” I asked.

“Huevo probably invited him to spend a couple days on the boat,” Hooker said.

We hauled Huevo out of our SUV and put him into the back of Spanky’s truck. We sat him with his knees tucked up, facing the road behind him, looking like he was waiting to go for a ride.

“There’s something funny about the dead guy,” Rosa said. “From this angle, I could swear he got a stiffy.”

“Have some respect,” Felicia said. “You’re not supposed to look there.”

“I can’t help it. It’s right in front of me. He got a big boner.”

“Maybe it’s just rigor mortis,” Felicia said.

Hooker and Gobbles went over and took a look.

“Died in the saddle, all right,” Hooker said. “I hope I don’t go blind from seeing this.”

Felicia made the sign of the cross, twice.

A half hour later we were back in Little Havana. We dropped Rosa off, Hooker hung a right at the next cross street, drove one block, and pulled to the curb in front of Felicia’s house. It was a two-story stucco deal, crammed into a block of identical two-story stucco deals. Hard to tell the color in the dark, but peach was a good guess. No yard. Broad sidewalk. Busy street.

“Where are you going now?” Felicia asked Hooker. “Are you going back to your condo or your boat?”

“Sold them both. Didn’t get enough chances to enjoy them here in Miami. We’ll check into one of the hotels on Brickell.”

“You don’t need to do that. You can stay with me tonight. I’ve got extra room. And everybody would like to meet you in the morning. My grandson is here. He’s a big fan. Just pull around to the alley in the back where you can park.”

Minutes later, Gobbles was tucked into a bunk bed above Felicia’s grandson, and we were standing in a bedroom that was charming but roughly the size of a double-wide bathtub. It contained a chair and a twin bed…and now two adults and a Saint Bernard. The curtains on the single window were mint green and matched the comforter on the bed. A crucifix hung on the wall over the headboard. We had the door closed, and we were whispering so our voices didn’t carry through the house.

“This isn’t going to work!” I said to Hooker.

Hooker kicked his shoes off and tested the bed. “I think it’ll work just fine.”