Eric grabbed her ankles and pulled her prostrate body off the foot of the bed. Her head thumped on the carpet, but he didn’t think she’d mind. She was tall and heavy, despite a shape that any centerfold would have envied. It might be tough to get her into a garbage bag, but he always bought the heavy duty brand. One call to his crew and the human trash would disappear like magic. He went to the small chest beside the bed. He pulled the drawer handle and the lamp on the stand shone on the silver instruments. They were just as he’d left it, razor sharp, shiny, and deadly.
She was still breathing. Slowly she began to stir. Eleise tried to lift her palm to her head to wipe something out of her eye. The hand was cold and it wouldn’t move. Something thin and sharp bound her at the wrists. She felt the same sensation at her ankles. Her lips tried to speak his name, but something sticky held them together. She couldn’t even beg. The vein in her temple throbbed in small red explosions. She wanted to laugh, but this time the joke was on her. Probably her last. She always been so careful, but this time . . .
“Such a waste,” he thought, but a girl like her . . . healthy and no doubt, full of things that certain people would pay dearly for. He went into the bathroom and scrubbed his magnificent hands, the instruments of the gods. He held them up before the mirror and admired the delicate skin, the curve of the fingers. He flexed them to circulate the blood, loosen the muscles, but it was time for the task . . . the gloves. First he would slice her throat . . . wait for the pulse to go, the heart to stop. Then it was just another surgery. A good night’s work by a Da Vinci of the flesh . . . and one that would pay dearly . . . most appropriate for a man of his inestimable artistry.
Chapter Fifteen
It was hot as hell, and I didn’t think Vinnie’s had seen a breath of fresh air in months, maybe even years. I was wearing a cotton guayabera emblazoned with antique hot rods in blues, greens, and reds. It bloused out around the waist, making it easy to conceal the Taurus stuck in my belt at my back. Hooray for good old fashioned caution. I could feel the handle scratching and poking at my kidney, but in some ways it felt good just as a reminder that I could be a target at any time. There was a flesh colored band-aide taped on my head. Another damned reminder. It looked kind of stupid, but not as gross as the wound that was still running a bit of yellow crap. My gut remained sore, but the cold beer and the music distracted me . . . at least for now. She wasn’t there, but I silently toasted Vee. If it weren’t for her, I might have many more miscellaneous distractions of the damaging kind.
Two of the Messageros, not too nattily attired in dirty t-shirts and those black vests, were seated at the bar, sipping tequila and taking turns glaring at me. I already knew I had been followed. I guess Francisco wanted to let me know that I might soon be due another visit. Maybe I’d bake him a cake, but in truth, I can’t say I was looking forward to it.
The Ancients were as hot as the weather, turning out old rock n’ roll and blues like they were born to it. I gotta admit, I didn’t sound too bad myself. The Epiphone was sweet and mellow with just the right amount of screech and wail. My voice was locked in, and so was the crowd. Sunny had a night off, and was perched on a stool near the end of the bar. She’d take a sip of cerveza and grin appreciatively whenever she caught my attention. For her, that was easy.
She’d cut her hair. Okay, I missed having those blond locks draped across my chest, but the tight bob hadn’t deleted one ounce of sexy. She wore a pair of stacked heels that accentuated her gorgeous legs and luscious ass. A parade of guys had come up to her, doing the gentlemanly innocent routine, then asking to buy her a drink. She’d smile, shake her head, always polite . . . it was her nature . . . then point to the stage. I read her lips a couple of times, “I’m with the band.” They’d retreat dejectedly and move on to the next target. Most of them gave up. If they didn’t, she could get very testy. And you didn’t want to test Sunny.
I’d gotten to know some of the regulars at Vinnie’s, mostly young, attractive ladies in barely legal cut-off jeans. They worked the bar, served the frosty libations, and discreetly flirted with those patrons who doled out the most cash.
Just before we went on break, Layla, one of the knock-outs that Vinnie regularly hired to hustle beer, came up to the stage and whispered something in my ear. I nodded. When we hauled up the finale of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode”, I thanked the crowd and headed for the exit. Sunny was right behind me.
“More slow-motion suicide, I’ll bet.”
I grinned sheepishly and reached for my pocket. My fingers fixed around the Marlboros like a long-lost love. The hazy poison tickled, then pierced my lungs. The knock-out came out a few seconds later.
“Hello Layla,” I said.
“Please don’ call me dat. It is my bar name so the boys don’ look me up after I get off. My real name is Maria. Please use it. I must talk to you.”
She eyed Sunny and hesitated.
“Not a problem. She knows who I know, and what I know. You can speak freely.”
Sunny dipped her head and forced a thin smile. It seemed to satisfy Maria. She inhaled deeply and began in clipped phrases punctuated with emotion.
“I from Venezuela . . . I am what you call illegal. I come to America for good reason. It is mi madre. The plan was I come make money so she can follow. Maduro . . . and Chavez before him . . . have made existence in my country a life sentence to prison . . . de forever in de pit of hell. Violence, corruption . . . all are in danger. De money dere is no good. You make twenty Bolivars in the morning. It is worth fifteen before you go to bed, and ten the next day. Food, water, safety . . . all in short supply. I pay man to bring me here. He is bad hombre, but I make it. I have done many things I am no proud of . . . I sell beer, I sell some dope, I even sell myself, but she is old. I must save her before it is too late.”
“Okay Maria. I guess I get it, but I don’t. Why are you telling me this?”
“I know many. In the shadows, I talk to all. Dey say you are man to be trusted. Dey call you de Ghostcatcher. You find things. You help dose who are helpless.”
I took a deep breath, then sucked some of the gray smoke into my lungs. She took my silence as a signal to go on.
“Six months ago I send my mother five thousand dollars. She tell me she has made arrangements and she will come on boat. I wait . . . no word, no call . . . no nothing. She is dead. I know that. I can feel it in here.”
Maria put her hand to her chest. Her eyes were dark crystal puddles. She sucked in a breath, brushed a tear off her cheek, and pulled a hand mirror to check her make-up.
“It is too late for her, but these things must not happen. De coyotes get rich and de bodies of my countrymen wash onto de beach. I have a friend. You do not know him. I will call him Hernando. He say he loves me . . . that he will take me from this place. He tell me he help avenge the death of my mother and dose many lost souls who perish. He has no proof, but he has suspicions. I watch. I listen. I think he is real.”
“Maria, I am sorry for your loss and for the loss of others who have suffered needless deaths, but there is nothing I can do.”
“Dis is not true. You have expression in English. I know it, ‘Your reputation precede you’. I am informed what this means and I know what you have done. Now you must trust me . . . help me fight. I tell you of Hernando’s suspicions and you observe. Check them. If it is nothing, I will no bother you again.”
Sunny touched Maria’s arm gently and gave me that etched in stone “don’t you dare say no” look. I bit my lip and lit another Marlboro. Maria shook back her mahogany mane and waited.
“So tell me what you can.”
“You know de Southernmost Buoy near Truman Annex. Be close dere at eleven in de morning. You may see something.”
She rushed back inside. So what the hell was that all about? I didn’t know, but I did think I might know Hernando. I suspected he was sitting at the bar with one hand on a cold Modelo and the other near a shot of Cuervo Gold. Hell . . . ev
en a bad-ass biker can fall for a beautiful woman. I damned sure did.
Sunny and I walked back into the club and the glare on the dark face focused like sulfuric acid eating away my flesh. The burn was palpable and the source was stationed at the bar. I thought, “Hello Hernando, the pleasure is all mine.” I reached behind my back and adjusted the .38.
My mind raced, “Come-on Boys, gimme a break, I just came to play a little rock n’ roll.”
We finished the last set with Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac”. The crowd was on its somewhat uncertain feet. Vinnie grinned appreciatively and a couple of tourists came up to thank us for ‘testifying’ to the awesome power of rock and blues. Hernando shot me one more withering stare and he left. Sunny grabbed my arm.
“You’re coming home with me, Cowboy.”
I didn’t argue. I packed up the electric and squeezed my Schwinn into the trunk of the Saab. She turned the key and we bolted for her apartment. We had barely gotten in the door when Sunny snatched a bag of Cheddar and Beer Kettle chips and poured two glasses with generous dollops of Cabernet. We were both exhausted, but we tried to make some sense out of Maria’s words and determine if it had any connection to the stuff we already knew. If it did, I couldn’t make it out over her crunching, and the thick fog that was creeping into my brain. Suddenly the conversation stopped. She was reclining on the sofa, chips lovingly cradled in her lap, and snoring like a freight train.
It’s a good thing my cell rang about eight. I could have easily slept through the morning, but the noise reminded me I had an appointment.
Chapter Sixteen
He didn’t need to say hello. The voice pounded into my head, but it couldn’t block out the jackhammer in my brain. Key West Police Department calling. At your service, Detective Frank Beamon.
“Off the record, but I thought you’d want to know . . . probably has nothing to do with anything, but just in case . . . had a call from one of the Untouchables. Those guys drive me nuts. He won’t even tell me exactly which agency he’s with, but he’s been a reliable source in the past. Probably FBI, maybe with a CIA connection . . . definitely some Homeland Security contacts. I’ve checked what I can. He’s legit. Seems as though someone has misplaced an agent. Definitely undercover. Tall, blond, apparently quite beautiful, on assignment to something he won’t discuss. I’m only guessing, but it could be black market organs. Seems all the fashion these days . . . and very profitable. That sort of thing always seems to get the FED’s attention. That’s all I know for now. You got anything?”
“Not really . . . except this damned hangover.”
“Hey . . . the wages of sin, my friend.” he lolled. The phony sympathy only made it worse.
I didn’t tell him about Maria, my appointment . . . or anything else. I promised him that if I came up with something solid, he’d be the first to know. That was the truth, and no offense to our valued band of boat bums, Frank was probably the only person in this town I absolutely knew I could trust . . . at least except for Sunny.
Fact Alert: Each of them had saved my life at least once and both knew their way around guns. That was hard not to like, especially with the recent turn of events.
Sunny barely stirred and the smile on her face told me she was dreaming of two scrambled eggs, homemade biscuits, a side of pancakes, and at least four fat juicy links of sausage. Hell, I’d run her down to Pepe’s when she woke up. Whatever it takes, the woman was worth it.
I decided to get up while I waited and make a cup of coffee. I pulled out a notebook and pen. It always helps me to write it down. Clears my head, and this morning that was something I definitely needed. Unfortunately, not much came. I listened to the coffee maker spit, and smelled the rich scent of the inky Columbian magic.
I grabbed the pen with my right hand and the coffee with my left. I tried to squeeze something out of my parched brain, but when I looked at the paper the only words that appeared were
“Eleven o’clock at the southernmost buoy.”
I went to the fridge to see if there was anything remotely edible lurking on one of the shelves. Sunny’s good at a lot of things, but as a shopper, she’s a damned good golfer. There was a half-eaten honey bun peeking out around the carton with the soured milk. I snatched it. Nothing green on the edges. It would have to do.
I went back to the bedroom. She was still snoring, visions of sugarplums . . . no, make that eggs, pancakes and sausages . . . dancing in her head. Hell, she might sleep for a couple more hours. I knew she didn’t have to report to the Parrot until four. I sneaked into the shower and slipped on a clean t-shirt and underwear I kept stashed for just such an occasion. The keys to the Saab lay on the kitchen table right next to the Taurus. I stuffed the .38 into my belt and scratched out a note. “Be back soon.” I filled my coffee cup, grabbed the stale bun, and made for the door.
I was near the Truman Annex by 10:40. It was still early for Key West, not much traffic. I found a parking spot on the street about fifty yards from the buoy. I ducked down in the seat and stuffed the bun in my mouth. Hey, better than nothing. The windshield was littered with dead bugs, but I could see well enough. I adjusted the rearview mirror to watch what might come up behind me. I didn’t have to wait long.
A tall man, beautifully coiffed, maybe even a touch of effeminate, but definitely elegant, sauntered down the sidewalk. Despite the early heat, he was sporting a silk jacket with matching slacks. He was whistling an old tune stolen from the seven dwarves in the Disney version of “Snow White”. In his right hand he carried a small Styrofoam cooler. From the drape of his arm, there was some heft to it. He mostly looked straight ahead, but a couple of times he glanced left or right, appreciatively taking in the calm landscape. As he got closer to the buoy, his head darted in a complete 180 degree arc. He smiled and approached a metal garbage can near the landmark. He scanned again, lifted the top and gently placed the white container in the can. Then he secured the top and went on the down the street. Not really anything odd in that. Probably some garbage he needed to dump, or maybe some fish guts from the morning catch.
I sat in the Saab and contemplated a second career as a garbage collector. I’d heard they had benefits. The clock in the car showed exactly eleven. This was the time and this was the place that Maria had tipped me to. I wanted to know for sure what was in that cooler. I waited a few more minutes in case someone was watching. Just then I saw a woman approach, prancing like Giselle on the runway. She wore huge round sunglasses and a floppy straw hat pulled down on her forehead. It covered her face, but even at a distance, I could see she was very shapely, and the outfit screamed mystery and allure. A willowy purple kaftan flowed behind her in the light morning breeze. Dark tufts of raven hair had escaped around her ears. I suspected she had the rest of that glory tucked up under the hat. A large black leather bag was slung over her right shoulder. Coach, or Gucci, I was willing to bet.
She glided over near the metal canister. She dropped the sunglasses down on her nose, and scanned the area. That’s when it hit me. She lifted the top and eased the cooler out of the can, then replaced it with a manila envelope she pulled from the handbag. I was sure. It was the woman who might have saved my life.
I shook my head. What the hell was going on? Who was the silky bastard? What was in the cooler? What was in the envelope? Why her? How did Maria know about this rendezvous, and what else might she know?
I watched the woman strut back down the street. Watching her was sheer poetry. I admit I was enthralled, but then I had a thought. Was this a snake charmer coaxing a cobra out of the basket? Graceful, tempting, but still a cobra. A minute or two later, a dusty blue Chrysler eased past me. The windows were tinted much darker than Florida state law allowed. It didn’t matter. I knew who was at the wheel.
I just hoped Sunny was stirring when I got back to the apartment. She had a mind like a razor, and she was much better than I was at leaving the emotion aside and getting down to the hard analysis. The Saab spun to life. I shifted
into first gear and pulled away from the curb, not much smarter than I had been when I arrived.
Chapter Seventeen
Sunny was awake. I could smell it when I got in. I was willing to bet it was “the works”, Mama Rigatoni’s sixteen inch special, peperoni, sausage, ham, onions, mushrooms, and extra cheese. Guaranteed thirty minute delivery right to your door. What a shock, my delicate lady had woken up hungry. There was a dribble of tomato sauce on her lip as she tried to greet me through the massive third slice.
I sat at the table and pulled the Taurus out of my belt. My notebook was still there.
“So the Huns are at the gate?” she mumbled.
“Damned right.”
She wolfed while I told her about my surveillance at the buoy. I was hoping she’d offer me a piece of the Italian delight, but I was beginning to wonder. She finally shoved the box at me with a shrug and a frown, one last lonely slice lay on the cardboard bottom. I grabbed it while I could. With Sunny, you gotta be quick.
She gulped down the last of Mama’s feast and pointed to the pen and paper.
“Okay, today I’m Sherlock and you’re Dr. Watson. Write it down, and pay attention. If you’re a good boy, I’ll make it up to you later.”
I hoped I knew what that meant. It was time for obedience based on the expectation of future rewards.
I told her about the events at the buoy, leaving out no details. She listened and slogged an Ice House. Then she sat and rolled those gorgeous blue eyes. I could almost hear the cogs grinding in that magnificent brain. Then she dictated. Here’s what we got on paper.
1.Two people missing. A sister and a mother, probably both victims of an elusive coyote, a target that likely wouldn’t come into our range. We needed to concentrate on what we knew and other information we might be able to gather.
2.Two gangs, twin brothers, one presumably a good guy, the other one bad to the bone.
3.A trade in illegals --- possibly with local connections --- with maybe some black-market traffic in harvested organs.