Palm Beach Nasty by Tom Turner

hell raiser, guy drank more than a whole goddamn fraternity.”
    “Sounds like him.”
    “Only thing is . . . I’m thinking the guy up there might have been Avery Rob-inson .”
    “Well, the one here is definitely Rob-ertson.”
    “Now you got me really curious, can you describe him again?”
    “I can do better than that,” she said, talking very quietly as if she talked any louder it might shoot dagger-like splinters into her hung-over skull. “Actually I have a picture of him. You won’t believe why.”
    “Why?”
    “ ’Cause Paul Broberg sent it to me. In case Avery ever showed up again at the Poinciana,” she said. “Guess I was supposed to tackle him or something, make sure he didn’t start charging up stuff.”
    She guffawed like she had just delivered the world’s all-time funniest punch line.
    “I’ll bring the picture, next time I come, you can see whether it’s the same guy you were thinking of. ’Course it is a few years old.”
    “Thanks, that doesn’t matter. So this guy Avery doesn’t come around much anymore . . . ’cause of that golf thing?”
    “ ‘Much?’ Are you kidding? Never. Impression I got was almost like the old man put guards at the bridges to make sure he never set foot in Palm Beach again. Word from my manager was if you crossed Spencer Robertson just once, it was the last time, including flesh and blood.”
    Nick could barely restrain himself from cartwheeling across the room. He closed his eyes and did a fist pump. A game plan was taking shape.
    “Weird thing is, Avery’s the old man’s primary beneficiary . . . least he was.”
    Nick practically crushed the phone into his ear.
    “He is? Why?” he asked, trying to tamp down his excitement.
    “Broberg told me Robertson had a thing about charities. Didn’t trust ’em. Thought all the money went to administrative costs, none of it ever got to the actual cause.”
    “So you’re saying he’d rather give his money to his grandson . . . even though he was a complete bum?”
    “I guess. As long as he never came around.”
    Nick did another fist pump.

    T WO NIGHTS later, Cynthia came in with the picture of Avery. Nick could see “eager-to-please” written all over her.
    “See the resemblance to you?”
    He did. But the kid had big fleshy lips and a perfect aquiline nose. Blue eyes, too. Nick’s were green. But they did have the same hair. Similar facial structure, too.
    Nick put the picture down on the bar.
    “That’s not the guy I was thinking of, I’m pretty sure the one in New York was Avery Robinson.”
    Cynthia powered through a few watered down Blasts and after her fourth one excused herself, garbling something about going to the “itta guls room.” Nick picked up the picture of Avery Robertson and stuffed it into his wallet.
    As far as taking her to the movies on Thursday night, that was not going to happen. He had gotten all he needed out of her. He imagined her showing up at Viggo’s on Friday after being stood up the night before, loaded for bear, ready to rip him a new one.
    When Cynthia came back from the bathroom, he made her the last Bahama Blast he’d ever make her. Because he had decided tonight was his last night at Viggo’s. He made it extra strong—three ounces of rum. Because at this point he didn’t much care whether she slammed into a big ficus, a twelve-inch wall or a concrete bridge abutment.
    The drink, of course, was on the house. To ensure a big tip.
    Even though Nick knew his days of counting on tips would soon be behind him.

TEN
    C rawford was still reeling from Misty’s little shocker.
    Ott had just left his office and Crawford was pretty sure, based on Ott’s lack of reaction, that he hadn’t picked up on Misty’s Liliana reference.
    He had heard a few people call Lil “Liliana,” mainly people she didn’t know that well. He flashed back to what she told him late one night. How she had gone through a “bad patch” right before she met him. A nasty