Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“Do you know who killed him?”

“No. Unfortunately. I’d send him a fruit basket. And then I’d beat the crap out of him for robbing me of the pleasure of seeing Oscar die in front of me.” She looked around for a menu. “I’m starved. We should order something to eat. French fries. I haven’t had a French fry since 1986.”

“Wasn’t Oscar Huevo Mexican? You don’t look Mexican.”

“I’m from Detroit. I met Oscar in Vegas back when Vegas was Vegas. I was a showgirl.”

I reached for my margarita and was shocked to find it was empty.

“Hey!” Suzanne yelled to a passing waiter. “Another margarita and bring me more martinis, and we want French fries and onion rings and macaroni and cheese.”

“I’m not really a two-drink person,” I said to Suzanne.

Suzanne made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just fruit juice.”

I licked a few grains of leftover salt from the rim of my glass. “Are you here for the funeral?”

“No. The funeral will be held in Mexico next week. They haven’t released the body yet. I came to harass Ray. He’s sitting out there in that yacht like he owns it.”

“He doesn’t own it?”

“Huevo Enterprises owns it. Oscar was Huevo Enterprises, and when the estate is settled, that boat will belong to my two sons.”

“How old are your sons? They must be in shock over this.”

“They’re both in college, and they’re dealing with it.”

“Let me guess. You’re here to guarantee no one screws your kids out of their inheritance.”

“Ray is slime. I wanted to make sure the yacht didn’t mysteriously disappear. I want to make sure nothing disappears.”

Th

e food was delivered, along with the drinks. Suzanne polished off the third martini and dug into the onion rings. Her right eye was drooped half closed. I was trying not to stare, but it was a complete car crash.

“What?” she asked.

“Uh, nothing.”

“It’s my eye, isn’t it? It’s drooping, right? Goddamn freaking Botox. Can’t even get hammered without something going all to hell.”

“Maybe you need a patch. Like a pirate.”

Suzanne stopped eating and drinking and gaped at me. She burst out laughing, and the laughter rocketed around the patio. It was deep and straight from her belly and gave an insight into a happier, less angry, less Botoxed Suzanne.

“Oh jeez,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “Is my mascara running?”

It was hard for me to tell if her mascara was running, because somehow I’d managed to slurp up the second margarita, and Suzanne had gotten extremely fuzzy.

“This is sort of embarrassing,” I said, “but I seem to be drunk, and you’re a big blurry blob. Nothing personal.”

“S’all right,” she said. “You’re blobby, too. Doncha love when that happens?” She ate some fries. She ate some more onion rings. And then she slumped in her seat and fell asleep.

I dialed Hooker.

“I’ve got a problem,” I told him. “I’m at the patio restaurant at Loews, and I’m too drunk to move. And even worse, I’m with Suzanne Huevo, and she’s passed out. I was hoping you could ride your white horse over here and rescue me.”

I ate the macaroni and cheese, finished off the French fries, and drank a pot of coffee. People came and went in the restaurant and pool area, and Suzanne and Itsy Poo peacefully snoozed.