Motor Mouth

fanned the air.
    “We gotta rewrap Mr. Dead Guy if we’re taking him for a ride,” Felicia said. “Mr. Dead Guy don’t smell good.”
    I ran to the hauler and came back with boxes of plastic wrap, some duct tape, and a can of room freshener I’d snitched from the bathroom. We sprayed Huevo with Tropical Breeze, rewrapped him in plastic, and secured him with duct tape.
    “I think he looks good,” Felicia said. “You can hardly see where he got chewed on. He looks like a big present.”
    “Yeah, but some of the smell is still leaking through,” Rosa said. “We’re gonna have to strap him to the roof rack.”
    I hustled back to the hauler and returned with three air fresheners shaped like pine trees and designed to hang in a car. I tore their cellophane wrappers off and taped them to Huevo.
    “That’s better,” Felicia said. “Now he smells like a pine tree. It’s like being in the forest.”
    “Good enough for me,” Hooker said. “Let’s get him in the car.”
    Hooker and Rosa picked Huevo up and walked him to the SUV. A big shaggy head appeared in the back window, nose pressed against the glass.
    “
WOOF
!” Beans said, eyes riveted on Huevo.
    “You got a real sicko dog,” Rosa said to Hooker. “You’re not gonna be able to put Mr. Dead Guy back there with Cujo. Mr. Dead Guy’s gonna have to go in the front seat.”
    I moved the front seat back as far as it would go, and Hooker wedged Huevo in and closed the door. Huevo looked like he was intent on the road ahead, knees bent and pressed against the dash, feet on the edge of his seat, arms tucked in at odd angles. Probably best not to dwell on how his arms got to look like that.
    Felicia and Rosa slid onto the backseat, and Beans snuffled them from the cargo area at the rear of the SUV. Gobbles, fresh from the bathroom, climbed in with Beans.
    Hooker stared in at Felicia and Rosa. “You don’t have to go with us to South Beach. It’s late. You probably want to get home. Barney and Gobbles and I can handle this.”
    “That’s okay,” Rosa said. “We’re gonna help you.”
    Hooker draped an arm around my shoulders and whispered into my ear, “We have a problem, darlin’. I was going to leave Huevo sitting in front of a Dumpster. Taking him to the marina is a stupid idea.”
    “I heard that,” Felicia said. “And you’re not leaving that poor Mr. Dead Guy sitting by a Dumpster. Shame on you.”
    Hooker did an eye roll and took the wheel, and I squeezed in next to Rosa. Hooker drove north to First Street and headed east. He wound his way through downtown Miami and picked up the MacArthur Causeway bridge to South Beach. It was after midnight and there weren’t a lot of people on the roads. Hooker turned south onto Alton and pulled into the lot by Monty’s Restaurant. Miami Beach Marina and Huevo’s yacht were just beyond a fringe of trees. And the entire marina was lit up like daylight.
    “I wasn’t counting on so much light,” Felicia said.
    “Maybe we could steal a car and leave him in valet parking,” Rosa said.
    “What’s to the side, past those trees?” Felicia wanted to know. “Looks like there’s a driveway going somewhere.”
    “It’s for deliveries to Monty’s,” Hooker said.
    “I think we got a delivery,” Felicia said.
    Hooker cut his eyes to her. “You sure it’s okay with God?”
    “I’m not getting any messages,” Felicia said. “So I’m thinking it’s okay.”
    Hooker dimmed his lights and pulled into the driveway, close to the delivery door. We wrangled Huevo out of the front seat and set him on the little cement pad in front of the door.
    “How they going to know what to do with him?” Felicia asked. “Maybe no one recognize Mr. Dead Guy.”
    I went to my bag and returned with a black Magic Marker and wrote OSCAR HUEVO in big letters on the top of Huevo’s head. We all got back into the SUV, Hooker cranked the motor over, and Beans started barking. He was doing his bird-dog impersonation, his attention riveted on Huevo.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Rosa asked. “Maybe he thinks we leave his chew toy behind?”
    And then we saw it. The dog. It was a big scruffy mutt, and it was creeping in on Huevo. Huevo was a dog magnet.
    “This won’t work,” Felicia said. “God won’t like it if Mr. Dead Guy turns into dog food.”
    We got out of the SUV, picked Huevo up, and put him back into the passenger seat, next to Hooker.
    “Now what?” Hooker asked. “Does God have a plan