Someone's Watching (5 page)

She wrote “Call Robbie” and her cell phone number on the flyers and ran off three hundred copies of each. She hoped the detective was right—that Kate and her friend were simply being a couple of irresponsible teenagers. But Robbie also knew they were more likely to find Kate quickly if Robbie did her part.

Robbie walked up and down Ocean Drive, Collins Avenue, Lincoln Road, and Washington Avenue, posting the flyers in every restaurant, every store, outside every club, that was willing to take them. Most of the people she spoke to said no when she asked if they recognized Kate or Joanne, but they let her leave the flyers behind.

By late Monday afternoon, Robbie was tired, hot, discouraged. But she had to get to work. She went home, showered, changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans, then pedaled across town for her bartending shift at The Garage.

The traffic swelled with housewives running errands and grocery shopping. The west side of Miami Beach was mostly a residential neighborhood, with few tourists. It was unlikely that her sister would have come here, but Robbie still looked closely at each young woman with long dark hair.

The Garage was located just off West Avenue in an industrial neighborhood of one- and two-story concrete block auto repair and car painting shops.

Just outside the lounge, Robbie chained and bar-locked her bike to a post and took her satchel filled with flyers of Kate and Joanne out of the basket. She propped open the front door of the lounge to let some of last night’s carcinogens clear out. The main bar area was dim and thick with the lingering smell of smoke, perfume, and spilled alcohol. Although the trash and cigarette butts had been cleared away, the room had the sad feel of a basement rec room after a party. The sofas and chairs were actually bench and bucket seats from cars modified to stand firmly on the unfinished concrete floor. They were arranged in groupings or pushed against the walls beneath blown-up photos of junkyards, crashed cars, and auto repair bays. In the center of the room was a worn billiard table, chalk dust suspended above it in the diffused sunlight that leaked in from the windows and open door.

Robbie arranged small stacks of “Missing” flyers on scratched tables and on the bar. On good nights, the lounge attracted several hundred people. Maybe someone would recognize Kate or Joanne.

She went into the office and turned on the music—hip-hop and indie rock—then grabbed some lemons and limes from the kitchen. She settled herself on a stool behind the curved bar with its varnished dark wood, glasses sparkling above it, and began cutting the limes.

“How’s it goin’?” Robbie’s boss asked, coming in from the back with a case of beer. He put the case down and gave Robbie a kiss on the cheek. Leonard was a cranky, fifty-something man who liked muscle tees that showed off his thick arms, and unfortunately, his beer belly. He wore his white hair short and a single diamond stud in his left ear.

“Why are you carrying that?” she asked.

“The new barback called in sick and I sure as shit don’t want you lugging a thirty-six pound weight.”

“I can handle it.”

“Maybe, but weren’t you the one who told me to try to avoid potential worker’s comp claims?”

“Well, good. I like it when you’re cost conscious. And by the way, I was looking into the lounge’s health insurance coverage and I found a couple of options for you that are cheaper with better coverage.”

Leonard grinned.

“What’s so funny?”

“Last week you were telling me how to control beverage costs. The week before that how to manage inventory. Are you sure you don’t want to take over a manager shift?”

“I like bartending.”

“Right. You can still tend bar, but you’d be so great managing.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need the title. I’m happy to do it this way.”

“I get it. No commitments.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No you didn’t say it.”

Robbie didn’t like the sarcastic edge to his remark, but let it pass.

Leonard picked up one of the flyers on the bar. “What’s this?”

“They’re a couple of girls from back home. They’re missing.”

“It says Deland,” Leonard said. “I thought you were from Boston.”

“Deland before Boston.”

The door to the bar opened. It was Ben, one of Jeremy’s friends. Robbie checked behind him, but no one else came in.

“A celebratory rum and coke, Robbie,” Ben said, approaching
the bar with a big smile. He held up his fist, punching it against hers. He’d shaved his head since the last time she saw him. “You’re looking at a free man.”

“Free from what?”

“The chains of oppression,” Ben said. “I quit my job.”

“Really?” she said, turning to fix his drink. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He grinned at Leonard. “Become a bartender maybe?”

“Right,” Leonard said. “From investment banker to bartender. That’s moving up in the world.”

Robbie put the rum and coke down in front of Ben. “Congratulations. This one’s on me.”

“Hell no,” said Ben. “Tonight, I’m buying you guys a drink.”

Leonard went to pour himself a Scotch.

“Thank you, Ben,” Robbie said, “but I’m sticking to water tonight.”

“Cute little Robbie,” he said. “We’ve missed you.”

Her throat tightened up. She wondered who “we” referred to. She used to hang out with Jeremy and his friends all the time and it had meant a lot to her.

When Robbie was growing up, her mom was often sick and Robbie had chosen to be with her when she could, rather than go out with school friends. Robbie hadn’t known how nice it was to be part of a group.

“So, what’s up?” Ben said, taking a sip of his drink. “Still dating that asshole?”

“Brett’s not an asshole,” Robbie said.

“Come on, Robbie. I don’t get what you see in Mr. Trendsetter with his designer wardrobe.”

Leonard brought his Scotch over and touched his glass against Ben’s as an unfamiliar customer came into the bar. The man stood
just inside the doorway, blinking his eyes to adjust from the outside light to dimness. He looked like a boater in a loose sweatshirt, khakis, Docksiders, and a billed cap that read Bud N’ Mary’s, a marina down in the Keys.

“So what do you think?” Ben asked Leonard as the man approached the bar. “Can you use someone else with an advanced degree? Robbie looks pretty happy and she was once a hard-ass, miserable CPA.”

“I was never a hard-ass,” Robbie said.

Mr. Bud N’ Mary hesitated as though deciding where to sit.

“Fine,” Ben said. “Then former tight-ass, boring CPA.”

“I was never boring.”

“But tight-assed, am I right?”

“Maybe a little.”

“And now look at her,” Ben said. “Tending bar at one of the hottest bars in the world. That’s what I aspire to.”

“Unfortunately, Ben,” Leonard said, “you don’t have her looks. Or charm.”

Mr. Bud N’ Mary sat down at the far end of the bar away from Leonard and Ben.

“Thanks for the compliments, guys, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have a real customer.”

Robbie put a napkin down on the polished wood in front of the man. “What can I get you?”

“A Heineken.”

Robbie returned with the beer and set it in front of him. “Five dollars, please, or you can give me a credit card and I’ll run a tab.”

He put a twenty down. He was probably in his mid- to late-thirties, average build, average everything. Brown eyes, tired face. He had a five o’clock shadow and a pink nose and forehead, as though from too much recent sun, and wore black, industrial-framed glasses. The lenses were dirty with what looked like sea spray.

She lingered to see if he wanted to chat. “Are you from around here?” she asked, leaving his change on the bar.

“Not exactly. I’ve got my boat docked at the Miami Beach Marina.” He turned to point south, then pulled his arm back, as though embarrassed. His shyness reminded her of someone. Her father.

“Long walk from there to here,” she said.

“Not so bad. I like walking.”

He sipped his beer, glancing over at her from time to time, trying not to be obvious. Lots of guys tried to pick her up and Robbie had learned the art of being friendly without giving off the “available” vibes. She put a dish of salty snacks in front of him.

“So you live on the boat?” she asked.

“I wish.” He reached into the snack dish. No wedding ring, black hairs on the back of his fingers, and something odd. His fingernails were perfect, as though they’d been manicured. “I try to get down to South Beach as often as I can. It’s never as often as I’d like.”

She sensed he was lonely. Her father had seemed lonely, too. She wondered that he hadn’t called her or come by since yesterday.

Leonard was still talking to Ben at the other end of the bar. She checked Ben’s drink—half full.

“What kind of boat?” she asked.

“A little guy. Twenty-six foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. Perfect for fishing and small enough for me to handle alone. I’ve named her
Aimless
.” He grinned and his face was transformed. No longer nondescript, but almost handsome and something else. She’d have to say charismatic.

“I just took her down to the Keys for a few days. I was supposed to head back home, but I decided there’s plenty of time to get back into the rat race. Let me enjoy myself for a change.”

“I know what you mean,” Robbie said.

He sucked in his lower lip like a nervous kid. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Robbie. And you are?”

He hesitated. “Puck.”

“Puck? Like Shakespeare’s?”

“I don’t look much like a clever, mischievous elf, do I?”

“Not quite.”

“Got the nickname in high school. I had the role in the play.” He folded his hands and looked down at them. “If you’re interested, I could take you out sometime. On the boat, I mean.”

“Yo, Robbie,” Ben called. He tapped on his glass.

She went to make him another.

“He’s a little old for you,” Ben said. “But a definite improvement over Brett Bragger.”

“Here’s your drink,” Robbie said. “And thanks for the unsolicited advice.” She wiped down the bar.

“That doesn’t look so tough,” Ben said to Leonard. “I’d be a great bartender.”

Robbie half listened to Ben and Leonard. She was reluctant to return to Puck with the invitation to go out on his boat open, but maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. She glanced over. He had finished his beer and was twisting a paper napkin into tiny white worms.

“Another?” she said, returning to Puck and picking up his empty.

He pushed his heavy glasses up on his nose. “I made things awkward for you.”

“No. Of course not.”

“I didn’t mean to come across like I was trying to pick you up.”

“Not a problem. Can I get you another Heineken?”

“Sure.”

She flicked off the cap and set the bottle on the bar in front of him. His elbow was resting on the flyer of Robbie’s sister.

Puck took a pull of his beer. “So you’re a CPA?”

“Excuse me?”

“I overheard you talking when I came in.”

“Was,” she said. “I used to work in public accounting.”

“What made you decide to get out?”

She didn’t really want to get into the whole story. “It bothers me that it’s no longer possible for the average person to know who he can trust and who he can’t. And while there are plenty of honest CPAs out there, I prefer being my own person and not part of some group that occasionally has questionable practices.”

“It’s not just CPAs who lie and cheat. Lawyers, businessmen, financial advisors. No one’s immune to greed or corruption.”

She was surprised by the conviction in his voice. “What do you do for a living, Puck?”

He cradled his beer bottle and stared at it.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

The bill of his cap shadowed his eyes. “I guess I try to make the world a little better in my own way.”

The door opened and a small crowd pushed into the bar.

“Excuse me,” Robbie said, and went to her new customers.

By midnight, Robbie was working nonstop, fixing drinks, ringing up the charges. Occasionally Puck would order another beer, but she didn’t have time to talk to him.

At two in the morning, the lounge was in full swing, but Robbie’s shift was over. She said goodnight to the other bartender who’d come in to relieve her, and headed outside to her bicycle.

Zelda, a skinny, homeless woman who slept on a bench outside the bar, shuffled up to Robbie. “There’s a creep watching the bar,” she said. Zelda was wearing torn black leggings and what appeared to be a cut-down graduation gown. On her hands were fingerless black gloves. Her nails were long and painted a glittery scarlet. “Keeps going to the window and checking inside. Been here all night.”

“Oh yeah?” Robbie said, not really paying attention. Zelda was always giving Robbie a report, hoping for food or money.

“Then he goes and sits in his car. Black. Tinted windows.” Zelda looked up and down the street. “Don’t know where he went to.”

“Well, thanks for keeping a lookout.”

“I made sure no one stole your bike,” Zelda said.

“I appreciate it.” Robbie reached into her satchel.

“Is she bothering you?” Puck called out as he approached from the doorway of the bar.

“Not at all. She watches my bike.” Robbie handed Zelda a couple of energy bars.

“It’s been six hundred and forty-three days,” Zelda said. “Not one little sip.”

“Good for you, Zelda.”

“Damn right, good for me.” She took the bars, tore the packaging off one of them, and went back to her bench.

“Is it safe for you to go home on that?” Puck asked.

“On my bike? Sure. I do it all the time.” Robbie smiled. “What about you? Is it safe for you to walk these mean South Beach streets all the way back to your boat?”

He tipped his cap and gave her a half smile.

“Well, goodnight then,” she said, and pedaled away.

There was very little traffic, but she kept to the side streets so she wouldn’t get hit by some speeding drunken driver. She had a heightened awareness of her surroundings. The streets were dark. No people out. But there wouldn’t be. Most people were asleep at two a.m.