The young detective didn’t think again of the murdered check-bouncing mobile-home salesman until two days later, when the police department got a call from an agitated woman claiming to be the victim’s wife.
Avila phoned the Gentlemen’s Choice escort service and asked for Morganna. She got on the line and said, “I haven’t used that name in six months. It’s Jasmine now.”
“OK. Jasmine.”
“Do I know you, honey?”
Avila reminded her of their torrid drunken night at the motel on West Flagler Street.
“Gee,” she said, “that narrows it down to about ninety guys.”
“You had a friend. Daphne, Diane, something like that. Redhead with a tattoo on her left tit.”
Jasmine said, “What kinda tattoo?”
“I think it was a balloon or something.”
“Don’t ring a bell.”
Avila said, “The guy you were with, you’d definitely remember. Scary dude with a seriously fucked-up face.”
“Little Pepe that got burned?”
“No, it wasn’t Pepe with the burns. Man’s name was Snapper. His jaws stuck out all gross and crooked. You remember. It was a party before he went upstate.”
“Nope, still no bell,” said Jasmine. “What’re you doing tonight, sweetheart? You need a date?”
What a cold shitty world, thought Avila. There was no such thing as a friendly favor anymore; everybody had their greedy paws out.
“Meet me at Cisco’s,” he told her tersely. “Nine o’clock at the bar.”
“That’s my boy.”
“You still a blonde?”
“If you want.”
Avila arrived twenty minutes late; he had taken a long hot shower following another furtive raid on the buried Tupperware stash. The stitches in his groin still stung from the soaking.
Jasmine sat at the bar, sipping Perrier from the bottle. She wore a subtle scarlet miniskirt and an alarming \ Carol Channing-style wig. Her perfume smelled like a fruit stand. Avila sat down carefully and ordered a beer. He folded a hundred-dollar bill into Jasmine’s empty hand.
She siriiled. “I do remember you now.”
“What about Snapper?”
“You’re a squeaker.”
“Como?”
“You squeak when you fuck. Like a happy little hamster.”
Avila flushed, and lunged for his beer.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Jasmine said. She took his left wrist and examined the beads of his santeria bracelet. “I remember this, too. Some sorta voodoo.”
Avila pulled away. “Has Daphne heard from Snapper lately?”
“It’s not Daphne anymore. It’s Bridget.” Jasmine dug a pack of Marlboros out of her purse. “Matter of fact, she spent the hurricane with him. Drunk as a skunk at some motel up in Broward.”
Avila made no move to light her cigaret. He said, “When’s the last time she saw him?”
“Just yesterday.”
“Yesterday!”
It was too good to be true! Thank you, mighty Change! Avila was awestruck and humbled.
Jasmine said, “That Snapper calls all the time, ever since he got out of Sumter. She’s put her meathooks in that boy. By the way, her tattoo-it’s not a balloon, it’s a lollipop.” Jasmine laughed. “But you were on the money about which tit.”
“So where’s Snapper?”
“Sugar, how should I know? He’s Daphne’s trick.”
“You mean Bridget.”
Jasmine bowed. “Touche,” she said, good-naturedly.
Avila produced another hundred-dollar bill. He put it flat on the bar, beneath the Perrier bottle. “Is he at a motel?” he asked.
“A house, I think.”
“Where?”
“I gotta ask her,” Jasmine said.
“You need a quarter for the phone?”
“She’s working tonight. Give me your number.”
Avila wrote it in the margin of the damp C-note. Jasmine put it in her purse.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“I’m not.” /
“What’s the matter?” She gave his knee a squeeze. “Oh, I know. I know why you’re pissed.”
“You don’t know a damn thing.”
“Yes I do. You’re mad ’cause of what I said about the way you are in bed.”
Avila shot to his feet and called for the check. Jasmine tugged him back to the barstool. Pressing her chest against his arm, she whispered, “Hey, it’s all right. I thought it was cute.”
“I don’t squeak,” Avila said coldly.
“You’re right,” said Jasmine. “You’re absolutely right. Come on, honey, couldn’t you go for a steak?”
Edie Marsh and Snapper had gotten into a nasty argument over the call girl. Edie had said it was no time for screwing-they needed to practice their husband-and-wife routine for when Fred Dove’s boss showed up. Snapper had told her to lighten up or shut her trap. Watching the panel of saucy prostitutes on Oprah had made him think about licking the former Daphne’s lollipop.