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“He’s probably a perfectly nice guy,” I said.
Hooker was blatantly staring, hands in his pants pockets, back on his heels. “He looks like he kills people and eats them for breakfast.”
The man looked our way and Hooker smiled and waved. “Hi,” Hooker said.
The man watched us for a moment without expression and then turned his back on us and continued his conversation with the senator.
“Nice,” I said to Hooker. “Now you’ve annoyed the professional killer.”
“I was being friendly. For a minute there I thought we were bonding.”
We turned away from Flex and walked back to the concrete path. There was a lot of activity around us. The weather was perfect, if you like hot and hotter. It was noon Friday, and by Miami standards this seemed to constitute weekend. Hooker was wearing sandals, totally washed-out jeans with a lot of rips and holes in them, a bleach-stained black sleeveless T-shirt, sports sunglasses, and a ball cap that advertised tires. I had sunglasses but no hat and no sunblock. I felt like I could cook an egg on my scalp, and if I looked cross-eyed I swear, I could see my nose blistering.
A guy was walking toward us on the path. He had a schnauzer on a Burberry leash, and the dog was prancing along, head high, eyes vigilant under bushy schnauzer eyebrows. The guy caught my attention because he was everything Hooker wasn’t. His brown hair was perfectly cut and styled. His face was clean shaved. His white three-button knit shirt was stain free and unwrinkled. His khaki shorts were crisply ironed and a perfect fit. He was maybe an inch shorter than Hooker, and he had only slightly less muscle. My best friend, Marjorie, says you can always tell if a guy is gay by the size of his pores. And, even from a distance I could see that this guy exfoliated.
The dog and his walker got even with Hooker and me, and the dog stopped and growled at Hooker.
“I am so sorry,” the guy said. “He’s just been in a mood today. I think he must need a bran muffin.”
“No problem,” Hooker said. “You’ve got a good grip on the leash, right?”
“Absolutely. Down, Cujo,” the guy said to the dog.
“His name is Cujo?”
“No. Not really. His name is Brian.”
I smiled at the dog walker. “Jude?”
“Yes?” He looked over at me, recognition slammed into him, and his eyes opened wide. “Barney? Omigod. I don’t believe this!”
“This is Jude Corker. We went to grade school and high school together,” I said to Hooker.
“Jude Corker, Sam Hooker. Sam Hooker, Jude Corker.”
“Everyone calls me Judey now,” he said, extending his hand to Hooker. “Barney and I were such good friends, and then we went off to college and completely lost touch.”
“How long have you been down here?” I asked him.
“I went to school here and decided to stay. I met a lovely man my junior year and that was it. He had a thriving business here, so of course we couldn’t move.”
“And you’re still a couple?”
“We broke up a year ago. Just one of those things. But I’m a Miamian now. What brings you here?”
“Bill lives here.”
“No! I didn’t know that. I haven’t run across him.” He looked back at Hooker. “And who is this person? Is this a love interest?”
“Associate.”
“Nice body,” Judey said. “But the hat has to go. Tires. Ick.”
Hooker smiled at him. Friendly.
“I don’t suppose you’re gay?” Judey asked Hooker.
“Nope,” Hooker said. “Not even a little.”
