Free The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey Page B

screwing-over, and I just have him sprain his ankle falling in the moat?”
    “Or that.”
    Pedro finished taking notes on a Pretzel Depot napkin. “Gee, thanks.”
    “Can I ask a favor?” said Ford.
    “Go for it.”
    “You mentioned part-time positions. Plural. You think maybe my friend Mark…”
    “I knew you were going to ask that,” said Pedro, folding the napkin and sliding it into his pocket. “Oh, why not? You helped me with my script.”
     
     
    Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties sat in row 34. Most of the other passengers were asleep. The jet was over water.
    An arm reached up and clicked on a reading light. The men stared again at a long-range surveillance photo of two young men with no forwarding address from Ohio.
    “Where could they have gone?”
     
     
     

6
     
FORT LAUDERDALE
     
     
    Three retirees sported guayaberas and super moods as they bopped jauntily up the sidewalk. The trio crossed Las Olas at the light and turned in a doorway. The bar had all its windows open to the bright Atlantic Ocean on the other side of A1A.
    The Elbo Room.
    It was barely after noon on a Tuesday, so all the stools were available except the one under another old-timer with a thick crop of white hair and a barber shirt.
    The guys headed his way with broad smiles. “Roy!”
    Roy. The Pawn King. Ran a Collins Avenue shop back in the day, the most dependable fence on the beach. Now he cut hair at the Deauville. Except the scene at that end of the strip had long since dried up and there were no customers. Roy didn’t mind. He spent his shifts sitting in one of the barber chairs, reading the
Herald
beneath faded photos of the celebrities getting trims fifty years ago. Or, like today, when he got a call from the old gang and closed up early for a little side action.
    Roy hopped off his stool with his own smile and they all hugged. “Sergio! Chi-Chi! Coltrane! Great to see you! Been too long!”
    “Roy! You look great!”
    “Thanks.” He sat back down. “But why’d you have us meet up here? It’s more of a drive.”
    “Ask Mr. Movie History.”
    “Sergio…” Roy nodded. “Should have known.”
    Sergio swiveled on his stool, lost in time. “The good ol’ Elbo Room, established 1938.”
    “It’s changed too much,” said Roy.
    “Not for me,” said Sergio. “It’s the spirit that counts. Can you feel it?”
    Chi-Chi leaned to Roy. “He had an espresso.”
    “When I close my eyes, I’m right back in that movie.” Sergio pointed at the old publicity photos on the north wall. “Instead of Hollywood, they held the premiere at the landmark Gateway Theater up on Sunrise. Made the newsreels.”
    The bartender came over. “What’ll it be, fellas?”
    Sergio pointed toward a corner. “Isn’t that where the Basil Demetomos Dialectic Jazz Quintet played?”
    “We don’t have jazz here. Just rock.”
    “No, in the movie.
Where the Boys Are
.”
    “Movie?”
    “Paula Prentiss, George Hamilton. Travis McGee’s marina was in the aerial shot over the opening credits. Just got finished studying the anniversary DVD. In the subtitles, they misspelled the Elbo Room through the whole damn thing. Added a
w.
Bet that burns your ass with all your obvious pride working here.”
    “You been drinking?”
    “No,” said Chi-Chi. “But we need to start. Round of Jack, neat.”
    “You got it.”
    Roy looked around. “Who’s missing? Where’s Moondog?”
    Chi-Chi removed his toothpick and shook his head. “Two months ago.”
    “Didn’t hear,” said Roy.
    “It was quick,” said Coltrane. “Nobody expected.”
    “What’s happening to us?” said Roy. “We used to run this place.”
    “Time,” said Chi-Chi. “The old guard’s almost all gone. First Greek Tommy, then Mort the Undertaker, now Moondog. Soon, no one will be left to tell these kids how it was.”
    “To happier topics,” said Roy. “You mentioned on the phone about some swag?”
    Chi-Chi placed a shaving bag on the bar. “Good