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  “How’d you get into this end of the game?” I asked.

  She looked up from the postcard, then looked around.

  “This stuff sells like sunscreen at the beach,” she said. “We got postcards and calendars, all with pictures of real babes on them, not those tired-looking hags you’d see in Beaver magazine, or something like that. The girls have to be first class, or we don’t distribute the stuff.”

  “Like that girl?”

  She looked down at the postcard again, then looked at the back.

  “Ray Cortez,” she said, saying the name of the photographer. “Yeah, Ray only uses first-rate girls.”

  “You know the photographer?”

  She looked up at me then and said, “Not personally, but we handle a lot of merchandise where he was the photographer.” She looked around, then grabbed a calendar wrapped in plastic and said, “Like this,” handing it to me.

  The front cover had a girl in a bikini, with breasts like cannonballs. Her hands were over her head, like she was playing volleyball or something. In big block letters above her head it said: beach athletes. I turned it over to look at the back, which had reductions of each of the twelve photos inside.

  “That whole calendar is photos taken by Ray Cortez.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve been hired to find the girl on the postcard.”

  “Somebody recognized her back?” she asked.

  “Her husband,” I said. “Seems she took off on him six months ago, and he wants to talk to her. Here’s what she looks like from the front.”

  I held the photo out to her. She took it and looked at it.

  “Know her?”

  She took a few more moments over the photo, then handed it back, shaking her head.

  “So what do you do? Track down wayward wives and take them back?”

  “I track them down,” I said, “but I don’t have the authority to take them back unless they want to go.”

  “So then you tell their husbands where they are?” She seemed real interested in the logistics of looking for “missing” wives.

  “Only if they agree,” I said. “Otherwise I have them get in touch with hubby, either by phone or through the mail. What happens after that is up to them.”

  She stared at me for a while, tapping the postcard on a nail. Maybe I had just given her the impetus she needed to run away from her husband.

  “Are you on the level?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You don’t strike me as a sleaze,” she said.

  “Well, thanks.”

  “You’re too good-looking to be a sleaze,” she said.

  “Thanks, again.”

  She stared at me for a few seconds longer, maybe waiting for me to make some sort of move on her, but I waited too long and she looked at the postcard again.

  “I can’t help you find Ray,” she said, waving the postcard in her hand like a fan, “but the manufacturer probably can.”

  “And you know who they are?”

  “Sure I do,” she said. “This long number back here is the manufacturer’s code. All I have to do is look it up in my book.”

  “And will you?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it so happens I know who makes these cards,” she said. She held it out to me, and when I reached for it she pulled it back so I’d have to take another step to grab it. She did that a couple of times, until I was standing right in front of her.

  “You an athlete?” she asked, touching one corner of the card to her chin.

  “I used to be a boxer.”

  “I thought so,” she said. Now she pressed the corner to her bottom lip. “Want to do some postcards? I can get you the job, you know.” She ran the corner along her bottom teeth.

  “Angie!” a man shouted. “Get your hormones under control. We got work to do.”

  She pulled the postcard away from her face, looked past me, and gave somebody the finger.

  “Asshole,” she said, in what was almost a snarl. “That’s my husband.”

  I decided not to turn around and take a look. He sounded big.

  “Can you help me, Angie?”

  She sighed and said, “I guess I’ll have to—and I’ll have to do it for nothing. If you had come last week, when he was away . . . Oh, well . . .”

  She handed me back the card and dropped her glasses back onto her nose.

  “That card is manufactured by Sunny Coast Cards. They’re located in Longwood.”

  “Longwood?” I said. “Where’s that?”

  “It’s about ten miles north of Orlando, on I-Four.”

  “Orlando?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Tampa.”

  “Hey,” she said, “it’s a straight run on I-Four, take you about an hour and a half at a good clip. You got to go past Disney, past downtown Orlando, past Altamonte Springs. What are you driving?”

  “A Caddy.”

  “A Caddy?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s rented,” I said, then added, “I got a special deal.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “You got an address?” I asked.

  “That I’d have to look up.”

  I waited while she bent over the desk, affording me a fine view of her even finer butt. I wondered if her husband was standing behind me, also watching—not to mention the rest of the men who worked there.

  She looked around at me once—to make sure I was watching, I guess—then returned to her search until she had what she wanted. She scribbled on a blank index card, then turned and handed it to me. She had written “Sunny Coast Cards” and an address in a neat, tidy hand.

  “Thanks, Angie.”

  “Come and see me next time you’re around,” she said. “Maybe he won’t be.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Keep that calendar,” she said, indicating the Cortez calendar I was still holding. “It’s a gift.”

  “Thanks,” I said, tucking it under my arm.

  I turned to leave and she said, “Hey, Jacoby.”

  “What?”

  “You were right,” she said, pointing to a calendar hanging on the wall. “I did used to pose.”

  I walked to the calendar, which had 1972 on it. The photo was of a much younger Angie Worth wearing a powder-blue one-piece bathing suit, and she had tits like cannonballs.

  I turned and looked at her and she was smiling, her arms folded beneath her full breasts. I whistled soundlessly, then proceeded to try to find my way back through the maze to the exit before her husband found me ogling his wife.

  12

  I drove back to Tampa and arrived about dinnertime. I stopped in my hotel to freshen up. As I entered, I dropped the calendar and all the postcards I had bought at the Pier on the double bed and went into the bathroom to wash my face and hands. I was hungry, but didn’t fancy stopping in Denny’s again. I decided instead to take a ride over to Magadan’s. I applied a fresh coat of cologne and quit the bathroom. It was then that I noticed that the message light on my phone was flashing. I sat on the bed and dialed the front desk.

  “Front desk.”

  “Yes,” I said, “this is three-oh-four, my message light is on.”

  “Just a minute, sir.”

  While I waited I grabbed the plastic bag with the postcards and dumped them on the bed. I spread them out to look at them. The women on all of the cards were gorgeous, but one woman in particular was breathtaking, and I noticed that she was on about three or four different cards. I turned them over and saw that they had the manufacturer’s name on the back: The Cheesecake Factory. Considering what the front of the cards looked like, it sure made sense. The woman was auburn-haired, tanned, a bit exotic looking, wearing very little, and particularly well endowed. She seemed to be a popular model. I noticed that the manufacturer’s address was in Ontario, Canada. I guess I had lucked out that mine was in Longwood. I put the rest of the c
ards back in the bag but kept her four cards out.

  “Yes sir,” the desk clerk said, coming back on, “the message came in at two p.m. this afternoon. It says, ‘call Geneva.’ Would you like me to get you long distance, sir?” He sounded impressed.

  I smiled and said, “No, it’s not that Geneva,” bursting his bubble. “Thank you.”

  I hung up, got a dial tone, and called New York. I called the bar first, and Geneva answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Gen,” I said.

  “Hello, boss,” she said. “How are all the tanned little dollies in Florida? Lots of bare butts on the beach?”

  “I haven’t been to the beach, Gen,” I said. “I’ve been working.”

  “Oh, pooh that,” she said.

  “Sort of what you’ve been doing while I’ve been away, right?”

  “Right, boss,” she said, “I’m working my little black butt off.”

  “Is that what you called me for, Gen?” I asked. “Because I already knew that.”

  “No,” she said, “you got a call, sounded like an important one.”

  “About what?”

  “About a job,” she said, “a detecting job. The man said he was anxious to get in touch with you, and could I give him your phone number.”

  “And?”

  “I said I couldn’t, but that I’d give you his phone number.”

  “Geneva, love,” I said, “you’re going to make some private eye a perfect secretary someday.”

  “Gee, thanks, boss,” she said. She gave me the number and asked if I was going to call right away.

  “Did he say who he was?”

  “No.”

  “What he wanted?”

  “Just that he wanted to talk to you about ‘possible employment.’ He said it was a ‘very important matter’ He talked pretty.”

  “Like a lawyer.”

  “You gonna call?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “But boss,” she said, “this guy sounded like he’s got money.”

  “I’m already on a job, Gen,” I said, “and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m in Florida. This guy’ll have to wait anyway. One more day ain’t going to hurt him.”

  “If you say so,” she said. “Sounds like a helluva way to get clients, though.”

  “How are things going there?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she said, “I meant to tell you . . . you know that weirdo you said was around?”

  “Yeah?” I asked, perking up.

  “I ain’t seen him lately.”

  I relaxed.

  “Maybe he followed you to Florida?”

  “He didn’t strike me as the type of guy who could go for the fare,” I said. “More likely he’s fixated on some other poor boob. How’s business?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Sorry to hear it. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Have a good time,” she said. “Send me a postcard.”

  “I will.”

  “One with beefcake on it.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Say hi to the guys.”

  “I will. ’Bye.”

  I hung up and put my new girlfriend on the night table next to the phone number I had written down. It was a New York number, and there really wasn’t much use in calling it now, especially if it was a business number. Business hours were over in New York—and as far as I was concerned, they were over in Tampa, too.

  I left the hotel room and headed for Magadan’s Sports Cafe.

  13

  I was back on the road again the next morning by 10:00 a.m., heading toward Orlando. I took 275 until it branched off into I-4, and then settled in for the long ride. I turned on the radio and changed stations until I came to a country station. Being in the South, it seemed appropriate. Besides, of late I had become quite a fan of the Judds, the Forester Sisters, and Mary-Chapin Carpenter. I was surprised at how much country music had changed, and all of the singers didn’t sound so much alike anymore. I still wasn’t real fond of the male singers—especially the nasal quality of a Randy Travis or George Strait—but the women had won me over. Pam Tillis—daughter of Mel Tillis—was new, and destined for stardom I thought, and Tanya Tucker was still doing it. I remembered her from her earlier rock days, but she had found her niche in country, and now that she was in her thirties—my age—she was hotter and sexier than ever.

  I’d checked my directions with the desk clerk at my hotel, and he had told me that I’d be passing places like Lake Buena Vista, which was all high-rise hotels and tourist shops. I’d also be passing a theme park called Baseball & Boardwalk, where the Kansas City Royals had their spring training facility.

  The exits came hot and heavy for a while, and then they were strung out, but once I passed Lake Buena Vista, they came pretty frequently again. By the time I had reached downtown Orlando, the exit numbers were into the forties, and I was supposed to get off at forty-nine. I passed Church Street Station, which was a collection of shops and restaurants, including one that featured shows with country singers that I understood were televised on the Nashville Network—but I didn’t have cable, and like Geneva said, “Bummer.”

  I passed signs for jai alai and the dog track, and finally came to the exit for Longwood.

  The address for Sunny Coast Cards was on something called 436, which was a state road number. I almost got off at the Altamonte Springs exit—forty-eight—because it said 426, but I kept going and eventually got off at the proper exit.

  Then I had to decide between right and left, so I went right and soon discovered that the numbers were going the wrong way. I made a U-turn in front of a shopping center that featured a grocery store called Publix, which I would soon discover were as plentiful as Waldbaum’s in New York.

  I passed beneath I-4 and kept going with the address numbers moving in the direction I wanted. I passed several more shopping centers with other grocery chains—Albertson’s and Gooding’s—and there seemed to be a Kmart every few blocks. Finally, I slowed, looking for my number. I wasn’t surprised to find that the location was in a small shopping center—or shopping “plaza,” as the locals said it.

  I parked in front of a hair parlor called Fantastic Sam’s, in a parking spot that said “For Fantastic Sam’s Only,” hoping that these were not tow-away zones.

  The shopping plaza had a stucco/Mexican look to it, and existed on two levels. Apparently, Sunny Coast Cards was on the second floor. When I got out of the car, the sun assaulted me. The rented Caddy had an excellent air conditioner, but I’d still been able to feel the heat through the windshield, so I knew what to expect. Still, it was a shock. I was wearing a polo shirt with a little animal on the chest. I had brought a sports jacket along just in case, but chose to leave it in the car. I mounted the dark brown wooden steps and found a door that said Sunny Coast Cards on it. I pressed the doorbell, then entered while the ring was still hanging in the air.

  I found myself in a reception area. The girl sitting behind the desk wouldn’t have qualified for the postcards, but she was attractive enough for normal people. She looked up at me and smiled as I approached her desk. Everyone I had rim into in Florida who dealt with the public—the hotel people, the waitresses in Denny’s and Magadan’s, and this receptionist—were amazingly friendly and open. It was probably amazing to me only because I was from New York, where “open” applied to a hot sandwich with gravy and not much else.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’ve come a long way—from New York—and so far I’ve been to St. Petersburg and Sarasota, and I’m staying in Tampa.”

  “Oh, my,” she said. “It doesn’t sound like you’re here on vacation.”

  She appeared to be in her late twenties, and I may have been too quick in dismissing her as less than postcard quality. She had lovely, smooth skin, clear gray eyes, and long brown hair that hung mostly over one shoulder and smelled wonderful. At least, I think it was her hair I was smelling. Maybe it was just her.

  “I
’m not,” I said. “I’m working. My name is Miles Jacoby, and I’m here about this postcard.” I showed it to her.

  “This is one of ours,” she said.

  “I know,” I said.

  She looked at me and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m trying to find that girl,” I said. “That is, I’m trying to find out if she’s this woman.”

  I showed her the photo of Sandy Meyer.

  “I know this girl,” she said, taking the photo.

  “Really?”

  “She’s a model, right?”

  “I think so,” I said, then added, “that is, I hope so.”

  She looked at the postcard again and said, “I don’t know if she’s this girl, but I think I’ve seen her. Maybe you should talk to my boss.”

  “Maybe I should, Miss . . .” I looked on the desk for a nameplate, but there wasn’t one.

  “Connor,” she said, “Sarah Connor. You know, like in The Terminator?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In The Terminator,” she said, patiently. “Linda Hamilton’s character was named Sarah Connor.”

  “Was she?”

  “Well, sure,” she said. “Didn’t you see it? Have you seen Terminator Two?”

  “I don’t think I’ve had the time,” I said.

  “You should see it,” she said. “If you were here on vacation . . . uh, my boss is Mr. Delta.”

  “He’s not named after a movie character, is he?” I asked.

  “No, silly,” she said, “he’s named after an airline.”

  She thought that was funny, and when I laughed it was with her. She had an infectious laugh, and she seemed willing to laugh almost anytime.

  “Can I see him?”

  “I’ll find out,” she said. “Wait here, please.”

  She got up from the desk, and I saw that she was tall and slender, maybe too slender for the kind of postcards I’d been seeing, but not for just looking.

  I waited a few minutes, checking out the walls, which seemed to have framed postcard photos on them. There were even a couple of my new girlfriend, the girl on the four cards that were still on my nightstand back at the hotel.

  I turned when I heard Sarah Connor returning, and she was smiling.