Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

I was about to order more coffee when Hooker showed up. He sauntered across the room and slouched into the seat next to me. “What’s her problem?” he asked.

“Four martinis. Maybe five. I lost count. How’d you get here? I have the car in valet parking.”

“Took a cab.” Hooker turned his attention to me, grinning. “Darlin’, you’re snockered.”

“What gave me away?”

“For starters, you’ve got your hand on my leg.”

I looked down. Sure enough, my hand was on his leg. “I don’t know how that happened. Don’t get any ideas,” I told him.

“Too late. I have lots of ideas.”

“I hope one of those ideas is about getting Suzanne back to her room.”

Hooker ate a cold onion ring. “Why can’t we just leave her here?”

“We can’t do that. She’d be a spectacle.”

“And?”

“I like her. We’ve sort of bonded.”

“Have you tried waking her?” he asked.

“Yeah. She’s out for the count.”

“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

A couple minutes later Hooker returned with a wheelchair.

“That’s genius,” I told him.

“Sometimes this is the only way I can get my team back to their rooms at night. The luggage cart works good, too.”

We got Suzanne into the wheelchair, placed her jacket and the doggie bag on her lap, and Hooker started rolling her toward the door. I followed behind Hooker, took a misstep, and crashed into an empty table. I grabbed at the white linen cloth in an effort to find my balance and took the entire table setting down to the floor with me. Cups, saucers, plates, silverware, napkins, and the little flower vase all slid off the table with the cloth. I was on my back, spread-eagled with the cloth and the crockery around me, and Hooker’s face swam into view.

“Are you okay?” Hooker asked.

“I’m having a hard time focusing. I have the whirlies. You aren’t laughing at me, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I look silly.”

“Yeah,” Hooker said, a smile in his voice. “But I don’t mind. I like when you’re on your back.”

He reached down and scooped me up, setting me on my feet, holding me close to him, picking smashed crockery out of my hair. I could hear waiters scrambling around, setting things right. “Is she all right?” the waiters were asking. “Is there anything we can do? Does she need a doctor?”

“Just lost her balance,” Hooker said, positioning me behind the wheelchair, my hands on the handles. “Inner-ear problem. Ménière’s disease. Can’t let her drive. Very sad case.” He had his hand on my back. “Just push the wheelchair, darlin’. We need to take the nice sleepy lady back to her room.”

Hooker scrounged in Suzanne’s bag when we got to the elevator and found her room key still in the envelope marked with her room number. He maneuvered us into the elevator, pushed the button, herded us out at the appropriate floor, and walked us down the hall to Suzanne’s suite.

The suite looked out at the ocean. The décor was South Beach modern, Loews style. Pale pastel fabrics and light woods. Gauzy curtains at the balcony window. Her luggage was in the middle of the living room, still unpacked.

I hung the doggie bag on my shoulder, and Hooker pulled the widow Huevo out of the wheelchair and flopped her onto the bed.

“Mission accomplished,” Hooker said. “Hop into the wheelchair, and I’ll push you out of here.”