Page 28 of The Worst Best Man
Frankie slapped a hand on his leg. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“He’d make more cash kidnapping someone than just driving a tourist around, right?”
“Presumably.”
Frankie leaned between the front seats. “Antonio, where would Papi go if he had some real cash? Where would he celebrate?”
Chapter Twelve
Big Chuck’s Groceries, Fish, Lotto, and Rum Shop was a ramshackle abode perched atop a steep hill with what was probably a breathtaking view of the Caribbean. However, seeing as how it was pitch dark and there were no street lights, Frankie could only assume the view was beautiful.
“I have to pee,” she announced. “You two look for Papi, and I’ll meet you in the bar.”
Frankie found the tiny bathroom crammed in between shelves of canned goods and bags of cookies and chips. The whole place smelled like fried fish sandwiches. And when her stomach growled, she remembered how much of her dinner she’d left on her plate back at Uncle George’s. A lifetime ago, when all she had to worry about was Aiden’s hand on her leg. She wondered if Cressida had devoured Hot Surfer Guy.
Leaving the bathroom, she stopped and ordered four fish sandwiches and a round of Cokes to go. Holding the greasy paper bag, she went in search of Aiden and Antonio. She found them in a conference with Aiden staring at his phone in a dark corner of the nearly lightless bar. It was a ramshackle shed held together with sheet metal, wood, and prayers. The floor was dirt. The bar was greasy. And there were only a handful of wooden stools for seating.
“What’s going on? Is he here?” Frankie asked.
Antonio pointed to a man holding court at the center of the bar. Dirty red hat? Check. Glinting gold tooth? Oh, hell yeah.
“What are we doing over here when he’s right there?” she hissed, pointing wildly.
“He’s not interested in talking,” Aiden said succinctly. Clearly he was pissed. The tic in his stupid perfect jaw was working overtime.
“Yeah, he told Mr. Money Bags here toleff he.”
“Translation?”
“Leave him alone,” Antonio supplied.
“We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Aiden said, dialing the phone.
“What’s the hard way?”
“I’m hiring some private security who won’t ask too many questions about why we need this asshole to talk.”
“Private security? Are you going all Blackwater right now?” Frankie hissed.
“Let me handle this,” Aiden insisted. “We’re not leaving without answers.” He turned and walked out of the bar.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.Frankie watched Papi, the big man with his circle of friends, buying rounds, telling stories.
She shoved the bag of fish sandwiches at Antonio. “Hold these, don’t eat mine, and go find Aiden. I’ll meet you outside in a minute,” she ordered. She sidled up to Papi and his gang. They made way for her, eagerly parting like the sea for Moses.
“Papi, Papi, Papi, you’re a hard man to find.” He was in his late sixties, she guessed, by the fuzzy gray hair under the hat and the softly wrinkled skin around his eyes. He had dark dots on both cheekbones, grizzly stubble on his weak jaw.
“Hey, Mami. What can ol’ Papi do for you. Bradley, a drink for my lady friend.”
Frankie took the vacated bar stool next to him and picked up the rum the bartender poured for her.
“Papi, you took my friend. You can tell me where he is.”
Papi laughed, and after a second, the rest of his friends joined in. “I already tol’ your friend. I don’ want his money. I don’ need his money. You get me?”
“If you don’t want money, what do you want?” Frankie said, lowering her voice to a flirtatious purr.
