Motor Mouth

sweatshirt and slouched back in my chair. The widow Huevo didn’t slouch. She was at rigid attention, hands clenched on the tabletop.
    “So,” I said, “what brings you to South Beach?”
    “Business.”
    Our drinks arrived, and Huevo belted the first martini back, exhaling when the alcohol hit her stomach.
    I extended my hand. “Alexandra Barnaby.”
    “Suzanne Huevo.”
    Her handshake was firm. Her hands were like ice. Definitely needed another martini.
    I raised my margarita glass. “To Itsy Poo.”
    “I’ll drink to that,” Suzanne said. And she downed the second martini.
    I gave the new blast of alcohol a minute to register, and then I got right to the meat of the matter, because at the rate Suzanne Huevo was slurping martinis, I worried she wasn’t far from incoherent. “Did you happen to know the man who was murdered? I think his name was Huevo.”
    “Oscar Huevo. My asshole husband.”
    “Omigod, I’m so sorry.”
    “Me, too. Someone killed the bastard before I could get to him. I had it all planned out, too. I was going to poison him. It was going to be nice and painful.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Do I look like I’m kidding? I was married to that jerk for twenty-two miserable years. I gave him two sons. And I sacrificed and suffered for him. I logged enough hours on the StairMaster to go to the moon twice. I’ve had my thighs sucked out and my lips plumped up. I’ve got enough Botox injected in my face to kill a horse. I’ve got double-D implants and full-mouth veneers. And how does he thank me for my effort? He trades me in for a newer model.”
    “No!”
    She ate a couple olives. “He was going to. Served me with divorce papers. And then he died before I signed them. How’s that for justice?”
    “Do you know who killed him?”
    “No. Unfortunately. I’d send him a fruit basket. And then I’d beat the crap out of him for robbing me of the pleasure of seeing Oscar die in front of me.” She looked around for a menu. “I’m starved. We should order something to eat. French fries. I haven’t had a French fry since 1986.”
    “Wasn’t Oscar Huevo Mexican? You don’t look Mexican.”
    “I’m from Detroit. I met Oscar in Vegas back when Vegas was Vegas. I was a showgirl.”
    I reached for my margarita and was shocked to find it was empty.
    “Hey!” Suzanne yelled to a passing waiter. “Another margarita and bring me more martinis, and we want French fries and onion rings and macaroni and cheese.”
    “I’m not really a two-drink person,” I said to Suzanne.
    Suzanne made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just fruit juice.”
    I licked a few grains of leftover salt from the rim of my glass. “Are you here for the funeral?”
    “No. The funeral will be held in Mexico next week. They haven’t released the body yet. I came to harass Ray. He’s sitting out there in that yacht like he owns it.”
    “He doesn’t own it?”
    “Huevo Enterprises owns it. Oscar was Huevo Enterprises, and when the estate is settled, that boat will belong to my two sons.”
    “How old are your sons? They must be in shock over this.”
    “They’re both in college, and they’re dealing with it.”
    “Let me guess. You’re here to guarantee no one screws your kids out of their inheritance.”
    “Ray is slime. I wanted to make sure the yacht didn’t mysteriously disappear. I want to make sure
nothing
disappears.”
    The food was delivered, along with the drinks. Suzanne polished off the third martini and dug into the onion rings. Her right eye was drooped half closed. I was trying not to stare, but it was a complete car crash.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Uh, nothing.”
    “It’s my eye, isn’t it? It’s drooping, right? Goddamn freaking Botox. Can’t even get hammered without something going all to hell.”
    “Maybe you need a patch. Like a pirate.”
    Suzanne stopped eating and drinking and gaped at me. She burst out laughing, and the laughter rocketed around the patio. It was deep and straight from her belly and gave an insight into a happier, less angry, less Botoxed Suzanne.
    “Oh jeez,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “Is my mascara running?”
    It was hard for me to tell if her mascara was running, because somehow I’d managed to slurp up the second margarita, and Suzanne had gotten extremely fuzzy.
    “This is sort of embarrassing,” I said, “but I seem to be drunk, and you’re a big blurry blob. Nothing personal.”
    “S’all right,” she