Palm Beach Nasty Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘b.’ ”
    Now we’re talking, thought Nick.
    “And this Mr. Castronuevo,” said Nick, noticing a guy who looked ready to hop over the bar and mix his own drink, “where’s his money come from?”
    “Sugar,” said Cynthia, “every time you eat something sweet, a nickel goes into his pocket.”
    Nick made a Dewar’s and soda for the guy about ready to jump the bar and another for a customer shooting daggers into his skull. Then he went back to Cynthia.
    “Can I get you another?” he asked, and gave her a smile he practiced in the mirror. “It’s on the house.”
    “Sure, thanks,” she said, all fluttery eyelashes.
    “So tell me about Mr. Jaynes,” Nick said.
    “I’d rather not,” she said, with a frown.
    “Okay . . . then Mr. Robertson or is he off-limits, too?”
    He saw her disappointment. That she wanted him to focus on her instead of some hundred-year-old man.
    “Why are you so interested?” she asked, resting her elbow on the bar.
    “Oh, no reason, just a little hobby of mine.”
    “What is?”
    “The other half . . . how they live.” Nick mopped the bar to her left with a white bar towel.
    “Half? Try like . . . one twentieth of 1 percent?”
    Nick smiled and persisted.
    “Where’s Mr. Robertson’s money come from?”
    “Plastics.”
    Nick knew it was supposed to be a joke, but the reference escaped him.
    “Before your time,” she said. “I really have no clue . . . neither does he probably.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Guy checked into la-la land a couple years back. No clue what day of the week it is.”
    It was a classic light bulb over the head moment for Nick. Smacked him like an ocean wave you never saw coming.
    “So, ah, this Mr. Robertson . . . who takes care of him?” Nick yawned, his casual interest default.
    “Some old guy, I heard,” Cynthia shrugged. “Supposedly he goes through help like . . .”
    You go through Bahama Blasts, Nick thought.
    Another guy, three seats down, was frantically waving his empty glass.
    Nick shot over and made him a drink, then beelined back.
    He was glad Cynthia couldn’t hear his brain whirring, clanking and ca-chunking away.
    “I bet he’s got relatives lined up around the block . . . just waiting,” Nick said.
    “Who?”
    “Mr. Robertson.”
    She took another sip of miracle tongue loosener.
    “Far as I know, he only has one grandson, who he doesn’t even speak to.”
    Nick leaned closer. The woman was a gold mine.
    He flashed to an image of himself in an expensive foreign car driving up a long, crunchy driveway to a red brick Mediterranean.
    Nick looked up at Cynthia and smiled, trying to disguise the rush of excitement washing over him, an idea slowly taking shape in his mind. He imagined rubbing shoulders with the Poinciana patricians. One day breathing the same air that Andres Castronuevo, Spencer Robertson and Ward Jaynes did. He snuck a look at his watch. Two more hours. He wanted to be done for the night. He wanted to go home, be by himself to think. Outline his plan of attack on a yellow lined pad, the way he always did.
    He still had a lot more questions, but he had to go slow. Be patient, he admonished himself.
    “Do you have a girlfriend?” Cynthia asked, getting braver by the sip.
    “No.”
    He started to say he liked older women, but caught himself.
    Cynthia did something with her tongue on the rim of the glass. It reminded him of Janet Schering and was not pretty. He pretended not to notice.
    “So . . . you ever go to the movies?” he asked.
    Cynthia perked up.
    “Yes, I’m a regular at Muvico.” That was the sixteen plex at Citiplace.
    He pictured her. All alone in the middle of the movie theater jamming Milk Duds and popcorn into her mouth.
    “How ’bout we go see something? Thursday maybe?”
    “I’d love that,” Cynthia said and eagerly gave him the address of her condo.
    He knew he better lay off the Spencer Robertson questions for a while. Change his Q & A a little.
    “So let me ask you . . .