I sat down with the ladies and ordered an Ice House. It was cold and tasty. I decided on direct.
“So Sal, here it is.”
I recounted the tale as best I could, leaving out nothing. She and Miss Julianne both sat motionless except for an occasional sip of something sweaty and pink. I was betting on rum, grenadine, a hint of vodka, and something fruity. Schooner’s was good at that. Their eyes were a little dazed, but I knew them too well to think it might interfere with intellects that were honed as sharp as a straight razor. Sal spoke first.
“You don’t want to hear this, T.K. I know you too damned well, but you sure better be careful. Getting what you wish for is often the final curse.”
She took a foggy breath, paused, cut a glance at Miss Julianne, and went on, “there are bad people out there. They promise some sort of Valhalla to people who are beyond desperation. Of course, nothing in this life is free. So the creeps charge and the people pay, but for many, Valhalla is just an illusion. The desperate don’t make it and when they do, some of them end up in a ditch without a kidney or a liver.”
“Okay Sal, being philosophical and obtuse is not your strong suit. What the hell are you talking about?”
She looked at Miss Julianne and shook her head much like a believer afraid to name the devil for fear he’ll appear. Sal reluctantly nudged her drinking partner. The Mysterious one spoke.
“Organs . . . the law of supply and demand. A healthy kidney is worth at least thirty K, a liver even more. It’s the black market right here in your own back yard. The payees doesn’t care who, or where the things came from. It means life . . . a few more years away from dialysis, probably even death. They cough up the cash . . . and they do it willingly . . . even gratefully. That’s where the supply part comes in. There just aren’t enough of the organs . . . at least not legally. So the smart guys have identified a source that is readily available. The nice thing for the butchers is that as far as the law is concerned, the donors don’t exist. They don’t show up on any social security lists, background checks, or other official documents . . . and dead men tell no tales, nor do their relatives . . . especially if they live in fear of being discovered and deported.”
I shuddered. Suddenly the beer wasn’t cold enough and the music had become a din that pierced and prodded my ears. I lit a Marlboro and sucked in the gray cloud. My lungs burned. Still, it made sense . . . a chilling, ghastly version of it, but a horrible reality, with an equally horrible rationality, that I’d seen evidenced more than once. Suddenly I remembered that case in Miami where the girl’s body had turned up with no kidney. I didn’t read any follow-up, but I had at least one friend who might have some info that would make parts of this puzzle begin to fit. And of course, there was Frank. He knew people who knew people all over the state, and they knew things that defied gruesome and inhuman.
I silently swilled the last of the beer, and lit another cigarette. Another Ice House just didn’t sound so good. I ground the butt into a filthy astray and stood. The sun was down and a cool breeze had begun to kiss the evening. I went out to the Schwinn to pedal the short distance back to KAMALA. Shit . . . the rear tire was plastered to the concrete, flat as a child’s discarded balloon. Okay, no big deal, it wasn’t that far. I started pushing and soon I was in the dirt parking lot at the dock.
Chapter Twelve
I was almost to the dock when I heard what I thought was the sound of feet shuffling on the gravel. Expecting Fritz, or one of my other compadres from Buffett’s Roundtable, I turned to see three short silhouettes against the dim streetlight. I could just make out the black vests. Another visit from Carlos and his confederates.
“Dr. Fleming. It is good to see you getting some exercise. We must stay in shape. But I see your tire has no air. It is a pity.”
He came a bit closer and I focused on the face and the Pancho Villa moustache. His voice was clear, but I thought I noticed a bit of menace that hadn’t been quite so evident before. The two tree trunks seemed tense, or make that poised, but for something I wasn’t sure of. He reached out his hand.
Then he buried a concrete fist in my gut and the bicycle clattered to the stones. I curled up and gasped for breath, but it wouldn’t come. Then he gave me a vicious kick, the toe of the dusty boot slamming into the side of my head. The blood started immediately.
“Of course, you were expecting Carlos, but dey do say there is a family resemblance. Actually, I come in peace, but sometimes peace comes only after a little warning. Our business is Our Business. It does not concern you or your lovely whore. My brother is a romantic fool. You must ignore him. If not, you do so at your own peril, and of course, that of your lady friend. Sunny . . . I hear that is what you call her, is dear to you. I hope there will be no next time. It is what you gringos call ‘bad policy’ to defy the Messageros de Infierno.”
I was still on the ground coughing when I saw another dark flash. She had raced between his henchmen and was on his back, legs wrapped around his waist and a gleam of silver at his throat. I could hear her whisper.
“Come fools, and I will open him up like a fresh caught grouper. Francisco, you always assume too much. You are tough hombre. I know that, but you bleed like any other man. You will be dead before your stinking body hits the ground.”
He was frozen. The tree trunks waited.
“I should have known someone might be lurking. I just didn’t expect you, mi corazon. Muchachos, back off. Go to the machines and wait for me. We will have cerveza and laugh over this little incident later.”
They did as ordered. She put her feet on the ground, but held the blade close in place. A tiny trail of blood ran from under his chin, disappearing in the folds of his shirt.
“I do not want to kill you,” she said, but the blade stayed at attention at his throat.
“Go home, Francisco. Take your amigos. You will find it quite comfortable . . . even safe.”
He moved slowly, turned and stared into her eyes. They were like dark coals, at once simmering, but without the vision of death I had seen in my earlier encounter with this she-devil.
“Gracias, mi amor. This one is yours. Vaya con dios, corazon. You will need it.”
Francisco turned toward the roar of the bikes. She watched him carefully, the knife still at her side. Then she reached into the dirt and took my hand. We stumbled down the dock to KAMALA, her arm steadying me as I struggled for balance.
She followed me down the companionway. I grabbed a Kleenex and dabbed at the blood. Then I reached for the green bottle of Jameson and poured a huge slug into a plastic cup. I nodded to her, but she shook her head and looked around. I watched her take it all in. Meanwhile I was doing the same.
Vee was something out of a sailor’s dream. Full lips painted a deep burgundy and eye shadow the purple of royalty. The dark orbs were almost shocking, but there was little doubt. She missed nothing. Her ebony hair shown like a river of rich jewels in the light of the kerosene lanterns. Again, she was dressed in black from head to toe. The fabric clung to her brown skin, giving off an iridescence like dark pearls. It moved and shimmered as she twisted on the settee.
“It is your home, Dr. Fleming,” she said with feigned innocence that was much too obvious.
“Listen Vee, you just saved my life. Maybe it’s time we got on a first-name basis.”
“Yes, T.K. But you misjudge Francisco. He would not have killed you, at least not yet. But that could change. This was a caution . . . one which deserves your utmost consideration . . . if not for you . . . perhaps for those you love. But your wound . . . you still bleed. Get me some peroxide and a bandage. Take off your shirt. It is stained.”
I did as she commanded. She dabbed the cut gently, washed the area around it, and taped a white gauze over it. Her touch was soft, skilled . . . even comforting.
“Yes, you are very much the man,” she said as she ran her soft palm over my chest.
She moved a little closer. My head was clearing fast, and
other parts of me were responding to the things a woman does best. I stepped back and grabbed a clean t-shirt. I slipped it over my head and sat down, my hand firmly around the sweet Irish elixir.
“Tell me what you can,” I said.
“I have loved them both. A man is not a simple thing. He is perhaps two beings, two sets of consciousness, many sets of action. A woman can be even more. I cannot tell them apart . . . the twins . . . at least not until I hold them in my arms. Then I can feel the evil or the good. It whispers to me and pulses through them with a sense they cannot control. Right, wrong . . . they should be powerful words, but they have no real meanings. It lies in the perception of the one who interprets through his own experience . . . the teaching, the injustice, the kindness, all those parts within each of us. At the end, we are all just beings . . . humans perhaps . . . more likely animals who must feed and die. And what are we to do until we take that final breath?”
I didn’t have an answer. I knew what I wanted it to be. I wanted to follow a path that righted the wrongs, gave all men an opportunity to be instruments of the fair and the good. I also knew that in some ways I was a naïve fool. The things I had seen . . . experienced in my own version of hell . . . had convinced me. Still, I chose not to believe it. The textbook definition of imbecile. Vee was the ultimate temptation, the one that always created the fool. I could see her, even smell my own desire . . . and maybe hers. What did I want? I longed for her to stay . . . to lick my wounds, to run my fingers through the lush black hair, to taste the fount of her sex. I couldn’t help it, but then there was Sunny. I was ashamed . . . and now I wanted Vee to go before I did something I couldn’t forgive myself for.
She was a woman. They knew things. They sensed them. She waited a moment, staring into me with eyes that were black pools of the abyss, but finally she got up and turned toward the companionway.
“I am sure we will meet again,” she said, and shook back her ebony locks. I nodded, breathing heavily, and wondering when that would be. Her boots echoed on the dock, but slowly faded, lost in the sounds of the tide and the wind.
I barely slept.
Chapter Thirteen
Frank was my next option. I was sure Vee had spoken the truth. I was diving head first into water without knowing the depth. Francisco would kill me if he felt it was necessary. I pulled by weapons from their nesting places and checked them once more. I wouldn’t leave the boat again, day or night, without at least one of them at my side. I thought of it as insurance, but the premium was stiff, and there were no guarantees I’d be around to collect the payoff.
“Beamon,” he growled after a couple of rings.
“Frank, I need help.”
“Don’t you always, T.K.? What you need is a good therapist to convince you that you’re not Don Quioxte, although Sunny does remind me a bit of Dulcinea . . . Okay, let me guess. You’ve met both of the Medina twins.”
“You call it a meeting . . . I call it an assault, although Vee said Francisco wouldn’t kill me . . . at least not yet.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. So tell Uncle Frank all about it.”
I did . . . all about my night on the town and the fun afterwards. I spared no details, except for the stuff about Vee on KAMALA. Privileged information, I guess you’d say.
“You dumb sonovabitch. I told you to be careful. Why don’t you and Sunny take a nice cruise up to Miami? Stay in the Miami Beach Marina and walk over to South Beach. Have a good meal . . . maybe a margarita or two. Watch the flamenco dancers. Hell, you could even sit out on the white sand and watch those topless nymphs strut on the beach. It would be good for you. Come back in a week or so. It might be a little quieter by then.”
“That’s probably damned good advice, but this time I’ll pass.”
“Yeah, you always do. So what do you want to know? Off the record, by the way.”
“What about my pal, Francisco? What are his business interests? I’m guessing there’s no rap sheet since he hasn’t been deported.”
“You’re right about that . . . no record . . . we got nothing on him. I know he’s shoveling meth, probably running a few whores, maybe a little petty crime along the way. There have been a few mysterious disappearances. We really can’t tie them to him or any of his boys, but there is no question that’s a bad lot. People are scared. They won’t talk. I give the Messageros credit. They do know how to lay low and cover their tracks. The DEA, the Border Patrol . . . they’ve been pretty damned useless. All we can do now with our under-staffed, under-funded, little police department is watch. It’s a good thing we have Carlos. He definitely helps keep things under control, at least for the present. Let’s call him a quiet enforcer.”
“There are rumors that someone local might be delving into the organ transplant black market.”
“I’m not gonna ask where you got that little tidbit, but I’ll bet you don’t mean pipe organs like the gray-hairs play in those big churches. I know . . . I hear the rumors, too. But so far, that’s all they are. I’ve got nothing concrete to go on. If you’re thinking the Messageros, I kind of doubt it. They’re bringing in plenty of cash with the dope and the girls. Organs . . . then you got to worry about getting a good doctor on staff, disposing of bodies . . . it gets very complicated. The bad boys are pretty happy right now and they aren’t drawing any attention from the Feds. Why screw up a good thing?”
It made sense, but it didn’t get me any closer to Carlos’s sister. I wondered if I ever would.
Chapter Fourteen
The room was really more of a suite, and as advertised. Muted pastels, huge white leather sofa with matching overstuffed chairs. The tables were all polished chrome with tinted glass. Accessories all in their appointed places, bits of porcelain, ivory, and jade covering each top. The paintings were a tasteful assortment of beach scenes, and lovely women, with a few abstracts mixed in. It all screamed interior designer, with no expense spared. The flood of color kept it from being cold, but there was still something somewhat impersonal about it . . . nothing that might speak of human interaction.
Only one thing seemed out of place. There was an antique roll top desk in one corner with a small pile of unopened mail, a fountain pen that was probably a Mont Blanc, and some miscellaneous odds and ends.
Eric went to the wet bar and pulled a green bottle off the shelf. He held it up, but she couldn’t quite make out the label. Maybe Dom Perignon, or at least something equally expensive. Eleise smiled and nodded. He turned his back, then poured the ruby liquid into two crystal glasses. That’s when his cell rang. He started to ignore it, then reluctantly pulled it off his belt.
“Sorry, you know how it is . . . always on call. I’ve got to take it.”
He handed her a glass, then went into the bedroom and closed the door.
“Paitence,” she whispered to herself, but that was a virtue she’d never practiced too well. She got up and pretended to move toward the balcony, but the desk was more temptation than she could stand. Perhaps she could at least get a last name, or a return address off one of the envelopes. She was holding them in front of her face when he came back in.
“See anything interesting?”
“Sorry, couldn’t resist. My damned curiosity has gotten me in trouble more than once.”
“Of couse,” he thought. He smiled like it was nothing, but he thought he knew better. Who was this woman? Why was she shuffling through his mail? Curiosity, my ass. He’d always been much more than careful, and he would again.
They went back to the sofa for some harmless banter. She let him talk, boast, wander, but still nothing she didn’t already know . . . and that was also nothing. He claimed to be a surgeon from Miami, down here to consult with colleagues on a particularly difficult cancer case. When the glasses were nearly empty, he took her hand and gently eased her off the sleek leather. She stumbled a bit as she rose, and shook her head. Surely she hadn’t had that much to drink. Still she followed him to the king-size bed. Sometimes pillow talk
was the best . . . not to mention the most revealing . . . and she was good at it.
He had already turned down the spread, and the ivory silk sheets glowed in the light of the lamp at his bedside. Eleise was still a little light headed as he kissed her neck and slipped the red satin over her shoulders. He pinched her nipples playfully, and covered one with his mouth. His tongue was warm, wet, and soothing. She took his wrist and guided his hand to the wet heat between her legs. It was her job, but there was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy it. She thought, “I just hope he’ll respect me in the morning,” and laughed silently at her own little inside joke.
He didn’t.
She was motionless as he thrust up inside her. The powder he’d slipped in her wine had performed beautifully . . . and so had he. Twice he had pumped a load into her. Actually, he liked it when they didn’t move . . . even sometimes when they didn’t breathe. Afterwards, he dozed for a full hour. When he woke, he went to the closet and pulled a wide roll of painter’s plastic and an old shower curtain he’d brought along for a special occasion. He looked her over one more time as she lay on the mattress. My God, she was beautiful. He thought about one more quick romp, but it was getting late and he had work to do.