Gator Aide by Jessica Speart Page A

glass.
    Little Italy suddenly loomed above me.
    “Yeah. He’ll see youse, but he’s only gotta coupla minutes ta spare.”
    Following him across the floor, I caught a glimpse of myself in the French cut-glass mirror. A mass of wild red waves, my hair curled down my back, the humidity making it frizz all the more. While the summer heat had tempted me to cut it off, long hair still seemed a badge of my youth, and I wasn’t ready to let it go.
    Santou’s newly acquired Southern drawl drew my attention back to the walking hulk in front of us.
    “You working for Hillard Williams down here?”
    “Whadda I look like? A guest? I’m his bodyguard.” The heavy New York accent, interspersed with Santou’s Cajun patter, was like being caught between a bowl of gumbo and a heaping dish of linguine with clams.
    “And just why would Hillard be needing the expertise of a bodyguard in our peaceful town?”
    “Hey, you’re a cop. You should know this is one wacko place. I never seen so many weirdos in my life. When ya can’t find a decent pizza, ya know something ain’t right about a town.”
    “My name’s Jake Santou. Who’d you be?”
    I glanced at the heavy gold ID bracelet that hung from Little Italy’s wrist like a chain. When he didn’t respond, I answered for him. “Vincent.”
    Vincent’s body stopped in place, a veritable Rock of Gibraltar as he turned to face me. “Nobody calls me that except my mother, and she’s dead. Call me Vinnie.”
    The sharp rap of high heels caught my attention. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a woman, carrying a dog the size of a Q-Tip with teeth, disappear up the stairs.
    Little Italy answered my question before I had time to ask. “That’s Mrs. Williams, the boss’s wife. She don’t take much to company.”
    Turning back around, Vinnie walked toward the end of the hall as Santou continued his interrogation. “You down here from New York, Vinnie?”
    Little Italy didn’t bother to answer as he flung open the double doors to Hillard’s inner sanctum. Spread out before us was a room that rivaled the Harvard Men’s Club. Paneled in mahogany, the room was drenched in a golden glow from the afternoon sun that streamed in through a large bay window. An overhead fan pirouetted silently above us, its whirling blades reflecting in the barroom mirror that hung above an immense marble fireplace. But what dominated the room was the oversize desk of cherry wood that you could have rolled a bowling ball on. Mounted directly behind it, and jutting out from the wall, was a bleached alligator skull of gargantuan proportions, beneath which sat a maroon leather chair as regal as a king’s throne.
    Perched in its seat was a man whose chest barely met the top of the desk, and whose balding pate was poorly disguised by a few wisps of hair combed from one side across to the other. A pair of electric blue eyes beamed at me in amusement from a face that had all the roundness of a chipmunk’s, its pouches stuffed with food for the coming winter. Jumping up to greet us, Hillard Williams stood five feet tall. A butterball of a man, his barrel chest gave him the appearance of a bantam rooster. The two top buttons of his short-sleeve white shirt were undone, so that curls of wiry white hair pushed their way out in masculine defiance. A pair of red suspenders held up pants which hung below a protruding belly.
    “Well, if it ain’t my favorite detective. How ya doing, Jake? Good to see ya.” Hillard slapped him on the back as though Santou had choked on a chicken bone. “And who’s this pretty little lady here?”
    I towered over Hillard Williams, and could easily have patted him on the head. Instead I held myself back, allowing him to take my hand as Jake turned on his homeboy charm.
    “Why, Hillard, didn’t y’all hear? Fish and Wildlife went and got themselves a female agent all the way from New York City. This is Rachel Porter. I thought this would be a good chance for her to meet the