New York Homicide: A Charlie Crawford Mystery Prequel (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries) by Tom Turner

Author:Tom Turner [Turner, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, mystery
Publisher: Tribeca Press
Published: 2021-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 3

Todd Tropez sized up her net worth. Somewhere in the eight- to ten-million-dollar range, he figured. Conservative-looking brick colonial up north, ocean-front condo down here, owned both free and clear. Nothing conservative about her clothes, though, or the bling. Manolo shoes, flashy designer dress, giant rock on her finger. North of three hundred K, easy. A triple string of Wilma Flintstone– sized pearls and diamond earrings dangling from her mushy earlobes.

Todd looked around the darkened bar for younger options. He saw a few, but no one looked anywhere near as rich. Keep your eyes on the prize, he reminded himself. The woman took a long pull on her drink and then, smiling at him, fluttered her glued-on lashes.

“So I’m guessing…twenty-eight?” Her orange corduroy throat waggled along with a small fortune in facial reconstructive surgery.

“Twenty-six,” Todd said, raising his hand to the bartender.

“Oh God,” she said, “I was twenty-six when you were born.”

Sure you were, he thought. She’d shaved off at least fifteen years. Who was she kidding? Even in the dimly lit Leopard Room, designed to shroud crow’s feet, wrinkles, and pouches, the woman had to have at least one foot into her seventies.

The Leopard Room at the corner of Peruvian and Cottage Row in Palm Beach was owned by an astute Cuban businessman who built his business on the sound concept that even septuagenarians got horny.

Todd smiled at her the way Amory Blaine would have. He was going through his F. Scott Fitzgerald phase now. That was the way he did it: picked an author and read everything the guy ever wrote. John O’Hara had been before Fitzgerald, and before O’Hara was a more obscure guy. Boston writer by the name of J.P. Marquand.

Margo, the bartender, brought over his Mount Gay. “Here you go, Todd.”

“Put the gentleman’s drink on my tab, please, Margo,” the woman said.

“Will do, Mrs. Schering.”

“Thank you.” Todd raised his glass to her.

“It’s Janet,” the older woman said, flipping her long platinum wig the way women half her age did.

Todd could tell being called “Mrs. Schering” made her feel old. He also knew his drink would have been on the house, since bartenders took care of their own.

When Margo said his name, he realized again how much he hated it.

Todd. Should have changed it, too, back when he jettisoned his last name, Gonczik. Tough enough making it in Palm Beach, but with the name Gonczik? And Todd, he thought, kind of a mama’s-boy name.

He had thought about going with “Trent.” It had a sort of WASPy ring to it.

But Trent Tropez? Nah…that was lame, too. A guy in a soap opera with capped teeth and blonde flecks in his hair. Plus, Trent was one of those Brant, Brent, Brett kinds of names. Phony as Janet Schering’s age…and nose, for that matter.

Todd took a big slug of courage. The Mount Gay went down easy.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“Love to,” Janet Schering said, eagerly sliding off the zebra-skin barstool.

Todd had weighed his options and decided on a slow dance.

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