Free Mama Does Time: A Mace Bauer Mystery by Deborah Sharp

heart skipped a beat. Is she okay?
     
Shes fine, so far as I know.
     
I let out my breath.
     
But me and her arent, Sal said. I tried to see her today at the jail, and she refused my visit. Thats why you and me need to talk. Tawk. I dont think she loves me anymore.
     
I felt like Robert De Niros shrink in the movie Analyze This .
     
Then maybe you should have been truthful with her upfront, I said. Why didnt you tell us last night at the police department you had ties to Jim Albert? Or, should I say, Jimmy the Weasel?
     
Pause. How do you know about that?
     
Detective Martinez told me. And Im betting he told Mama, too. Thats probably the reason she wont see you. She cant abide a liar. Martinez is very interested in how youre involved with a New York gangster, who then turns up dead in the roomy trunk of your girlfriends car. And, frankly Mr. Provenza, Im interested in that question, too.
     
There was silence on his end of the phone. I could hear him taking raspy breaths. Sal really should give up smoking.
     
Im sorry, Mace, he finally said. I cant go into all of that. Especially not on the phone. Im out at the golf course, just finishing up eighteen holes. I played like crap. All I could think about is your mother. Mudder . Would you consider swinging by here on your way home?
     
The golf course, the centerpiece of a posh new development along a canal off Lake Okeechobee, wasnt on my way home. I live north; the new course is south. But Sal seemed to be a key to Martinezs case against Mama. I wanted to find out why.
     
Please, Mace? There are some things I wanna tell ya, face ta face. The harder Sal pleaded, the more his boyhood in the Bronx seeped into his speech.
     
I finally agreed to meet him at the golf course, which is out in the middle of nowhere, ten miles past the last trailer park in the Himmarshee city limits. He told me hed wait at the snack bar, next to the pro shop.
     
When I got there, it was dark. Two floodlights illuminated the ornate pillars marking the entrance to the community. Himmarshee Haven , they said in cursive script. Luxurious Country Living . Talk about your oxymorons. Most of the country lives I know have very little luxury.
     
The Jeep bounced over a series of speed bumps as I made my way past Victorian-style homes with gingerbread trim and two-car garages. Most driveways featured golf carts parked behind white picket fences. Not a single double-wide trailer or swamp buggy in sight.
     
I parked in the golf courses nearly deserted lot. There was no sign of Big Sals big car, but I decided to go inside anyway. I killed some time looking over the merchandise in the pro shop. Not that I play golf. But Marty does. I bought her a three-pack of those little ankle socks with the pom-pom that sticks out above the back of her golf shoes. The pom-poms were pink, mint green, and baby blue. Marty loves pastels.
     
As I handed over my credit card, I asked the college-aged kid at the register whether hed seen a gargantuan golfer with a heavy New York accent.
     
Sure, Big Sal. The kid sucked on a breath mint. I could smell cinnamon clear across the counter. He was in here about thirty, forty minutes ago. Then he got a call on his cell phone and high-tailed it outside. I heard the tires on his Cadillac squealing as he pulled out of the lot. Guess he was in a hurry to get somewhere.
     
He pushed my receipt toward me across the glass display case, which held dimpled golf balls and leather gloves. Sign that, would you? And Ill need to see some ID.
     
I gave him my drivers license. He held it up and inspected it like he was a customs agent at the airport and I was smuggling heroin. Hmmm, youre thirty-one? I would have pegged you as younger. Its not a very flattering picture. He flipped a sun-bleached lock off his forehead and smiled at me, showing off even, white teeth. Youre much prettier in person, especially your hair. I like the way it shines.
     
As he handed back my license, his fingers