“H e’s going to pick us up.”
“Why? Where do I want to go with Styles?”
James looked around, as if to make certain no one was listening. “He said he’s got some information we might find interesting.”
“This guy is a scam artist. He was a crook in school, and I will bet he hasn’t changed.”
“Skip, he needs our help. He said he had a little favor and, if we help him, he’ll help us.”
I didn’t want to go anywhere with Daron Styles. The last time we’d met with him, he’d treated us to breakfast at a Hampton Inn on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. I’d been impressed – eggs cooked to order, bacon, toast, coffee, juice – until I found out he’d stolen a room key and was using it to get free breakfast two or three times a week.
“And I come back at four and get free cocktails. It’s a sweet deal, Skipper.”
First of all, I hate it when people call me Skipper. Skipper sounds like a ten-year-old kid in a sitcom, who is still looking for a best friend. Second of all, his scam to get free food and free booze pissed me off. Maybe because I hadn’t thought of it. Now, I pictured the punk, coming to get us in his big Buick. He wore his hair shaggy, down around his collar and always wore a flowered shirt and cargo shorts. James liked him because he was an entrepreneur. He was the wrong kind of entrepreneur. He sold illegal merchandise and financed his business with scams like the Hampton Inn deal, but, in James’s mind, the guy was a sharp businessman.
I had James get the money out of the truck. I didn’t know where it was in more danger, in the truck where it could be stolen or in the Buick where Styles could get his hands on it. James put it in a small canvas bag and tied it to his belt. Somebody would have to have a pretty sharp knife to take it off.
When the Buick arrived, I knew why James’s favorite con man drove it. The trunk was a mile wide and almost as deep. Jeez, you could pack watches, silver crosses, stolen Coach purses, and a small army in there and still get the trunk closed.
“James. Skipper.” He had a two-day growth, the flowered shirt, and a funny round porkpie hat that made him look like Kid Rock. And he still called me Skipper. “Hop in, boys. I’ve got a brief stop to make at the airport, then we can grab a cup of coffee and talk.”
Styles and James bullshitted each other for twenty minutes, talking about girls and schemes, and generally catching up. I kept quiet and thought about Em being back in town. Twenty minutes later Styles pulled off onto the access road and parked in front of terminal