Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

Hooker sipped his coffee. “Does it say anything about the driver? Has he been identified?”

I read through the article. “He hasn’t been identified, but they give a reasonably good description of him. It says he was limping and thought to be injured. The car he stole hasn’t been found. At the end, there’s a quote from Spanky where he accuses you of masterminding the entire disaster.”

“Nice. I wish I could mastermind us out of the disaster.”

“I was counting on you to have a clever plan.”

“I’m out of plans. I’m at a dead end.”

“What about beating the crap out of people?”

“Turns out, it doesn’t entirely work. And it’s embarrassing because you’re better at it than I am.”

“Here’s part of the problem. It would be better if Ray had done the actual killing. Eventually, Rodriguez would have ratted Ray out. Unfortunately, there’s no reason for Ray to feel sufficiently threatened to talk to the police about Rodriguez.”

Hooker’s phone rang, and I looked at my watch. It was early in the morning to be getting a phone call.

“’Lo,” Hooker said. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Thanks, but I’ll take care of that myself.” He disconnected and grinned at me. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, darlin’.”

“Now what?”

“That was Ray Huevo. And he sounded…nervous. He wants the chip from the gearshift knob. Said maybe we could work something out. He wanted to fly us down to Miami so we could negotiate in person, but I declined. I didn’t think it was healthy to get on Ray’s private plane.” Hooker tapped a number into his phone. “I need a favor,” he said. “I need a ride to Miami.”

I mentally cracked my knuckles until he disconnected. “Nutsy?”

“Yeah. He said the police are watching the airport in Concord. He suggested we drive to Florence and catch his plane there. No one will think to watch Florence. It’s a three-hour drive, so we should get moving.”

I called Felicia from the road. “We’re coming back to Miami,” I said. “I was wondering if we could stay with you again? And it’s a secret. We don’t want anyone to know we’re there. We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

“Of course you can stay,” Felicia said. “My neighbor’s boy will be so excited to see Hooker again. And my cousin Edward was out of town last time. I have to go buy hats to get signed. I have a list.”

Hooker glanced over at me when I disconnected. “She’s not going to tell anyone, right?”

“Right.”

Two hours out of Concord, Hooker’s phone rang and he did a small grimace when he looked at the readout. It was Skippy. Hooker still had speakerphone mode up.

“Where are you?” Skippy yelled. “Do you know what day this is?”

“Monday?” Hooker answered.

“That’s right. And you need to be driving your car around Manhattan on Wednesday. And by the way, I’m not saying you were responsible, but the body in the motor coach was a nice touch. I understand Dickie messed his pants when he saw it. When they arrest you and you get your one phone call, make sure it’s to me.” And Skippy hung up.

Florence is a nice little town with a nice little airport that has a few commercial hops in the morning. The National Guard uses the airport, and it serves as home base for a few private planes. And once a year, when the races are at Darlington, the airport bustles.

It was close to eleven when Hooker swung into the lot and parked. We unloaded Beans, grabbed our bags of clothes, and walked from the car directly to Nutsy’s Citation. It was the only plane on the runway. It was the same model Hooker owned. I’d called ahead, and they were ready to roll the second we were onboard.

A private plane seems like an outrageous luxury, but the schedule for the top Cup drivers is so insane it’s virtually impossible to manage any other way. There are corporate meet-and-greet sessions, commercial tapings, charity functions, and, of course, the races. Forty races a year at twenty-two different tracks spread across the country. Plus all of those drivers have wives and girlfriends and kids and dogs and proud, insane parents who need visitation time.

Just like Hooker’s plane, Nutsy’s plane carried seven passengers and two pilots. Hooker and I took seats opposite each other. Beans tried to fit in a seat, but couldn’t get comfortable and finally settled himself in the aisle.

A Citation goes up fast. One minute you’re on the runway, and then ZOOOM you’re above the clouds and leveling off. The Citation seat was infinitely more comfortable than Ralph’s pool table. I instantly fell asleep and didn’t wake until we were descending for the approach into Miami. I heard the wheels go down, and I looked out at the red tile roofs and shimmering waterways of south Florida. Odd how the mind works. I was wanted by the police and two hit men and all I could think about was the New York banquet looming in front of me. I needed a manicure. I needed a haircut. I needed a gown. If I couldn’t get back to my apartment, I didn’t even have the right makeup.

We disembarked, and we were a ragtag little family standing in the Signature Aviation lobby, our dog on a leash, and all our worldly possessions in grocery bags plus my one travel bag. Hooker had a decent beard going, and I felt like a street urchin beside him.

I looked across the room to the car-rental counter. “What are the chances they’ll rent us a car?” I asked Hooker.

“Chances are good,” Hooker said. “Nutsy left his credit card in the plane. I just have to bullshit my way around giving them my license.”