Act of Betrayal Read Free Page B

by the way,” she added wistfully.
    â€œIf you can’t trust him, it’s better to know now.”
    A waiter interrupted, taking our order for another margarita and a glass of wine for me.
    â€œI know, I know.” She sighed. “You’re right. But that man sure charged my batteries.”
    â€œYou knew he had a rep as a lady-killer.”
    â€œYeah, but sometimes they meet the right woman and settle down. Look at Hugh Hefner.” Her eyes were hopeful.
    â€œMaybe,” I said, “when he’s sixty-two and has had a stroke.”
    She plucked her icy drink off the waiter’s tray, took a large gulp, sniffed, and changed the subject. “Damn shame about poor Alex. Bombs are the worst, worse than snakes in the garbage. Hope all that Cuban crap ain’t starting up again. I had a weird dream the other night. I woke up and everybody in Miami was named Raul.”
    â€œThat was no dream,” I said flatly. “It’s true.”
    She laughed like the old resilient Lottie.
    â€œWhatcha hear from McDonald?”
    â€œGot a letter from Louisville the other day.” I paused to sip my wine. “Nothing that would curl your toes. I think he’s afraid to put anything in writing.”
    My main man, Miami Homicide Lieutenant Kendall McDonald, was furthering his education at the Southern Police Institute for four months, a major career break for a man with his ambition. Our off-and-on romance, periled mostly by career clash, seemed on at the moment. We were muy simpáticos , a thousand miles apart.
    â€œHe said I should feel free to date others while he was gone,” I added.
    â€œEither he’s cocksure of himself or he wants to cut a swath without guilt among the Kentucky belles.”
    â€œThank you very much. I thought I came here to cheer you up, but now I’m depressed.” I checked my watch. “I can’t really stay. I’ve got an early start tomorrow, and so do you. Can you drive?” I asked, as she emptied her glass. “How many of those have you put away?”
    â€œI’m okay. If a cop stops me, I hope he’s husky and handsome.”
    We walked out into the starry night together. The late scene on South Beach was just getting under way, a Felliniesque sideshow of disturbed youth, drag queens, and go-go dwarfs, the unconcerned targets of a black-bearded, wild-eyed, Bible-clutching street preacher. He stood on a bus bench, legs apart, arms raised, railing to the open sky that God would soon destroy us all for our decadence.

2
    I drove home, fed Bitsy and Billy Boots, then walked the dog around the block through the soft, moist summer air. Billy Boots meowed at us from the lighted front window of my apartment as we rounded the corner. Helen Goldstein, my landlady, cracked her jalousie window to call a greeting. Light and shadow flickered behind her in the darkened living room. She and her husband must have been watching TV from their twin recliners. “You won’t forget your promise, Britt, will you?”
    â€œHave I ever?” I sang back.
    â€œWe knew we could count on you. Good night.”
    I smiled and waved as she cranked the window shut. What promise? I tried to recall our recent conversations. At eighty, that good woman’s memory was sharper than mine. Hell, I thought, whatever she wants, she’s got it. Her homemade chicken soup and chocolate chip cookies had sustained me through more than one crisis.
    Channel-surfing through late newscasts confirmed that every competitor in town had shot better bombing footage than WTOP-TV, the scene of the tragedy.
    Trying to sleep, I wondered what went through Alex’s mind the moment his world exploded. Did he have the time, even a split second, to think?
    Did he know he was a dead man?
    My alarm interrupted dark dreams before dawn. I slipped out of my apartment into shadow and trotted two blocks of deserted streets under a damp and streaky sky to where