Authors: Paul Carr
“Yeah, well, that might tend to anger a person,” Carling said, “but I’m okay, forget about it.”
Sam started to say something and she interrupted.
“Just don’t get yourself shot again.”
She hung up the phone and the dial tone droned in Sam’s ear. He dropped the handset to the cradle, got out of bed and stretched in the warm rays of the sun. Carling didn’t say that to wish him good luck. What she meant was, Don’t come back, because you won’t get in.
Sam made coffee in the galley and walked out on the deck. The newspaper lay on the gangway, encased in a plastic bag. He picked it up and carried it to one of the deck chairs under the awning.
Sipping his coffee, he scanned the paper for any mention of the woman, or of the man who died with four bullets in his heart. There were lots of crimes in Miami, but none seemed to fit. She said someone was trying to kill her. Maybe she knew something she shouldn’t, or had stepped on somebody’s toes. She was a great-looking woman, and that might have something to do with it. But what kept coming back to him was the gun and the probability that she had used it very efficiently to kill a man.
Sam walked to the railing, leaned on his elbows, and looked toward the inlet. The mirror of water threw the sun’s glare back in his eyes. A mullet jumped near the boat, and Sam thought he and the mullet were alone until he spied a lazy pelican perched on a dock timber. The bird cast longing eyes toward the fish, probably waiting for the last meal to stop wiggling in its stomach. Its eyes blinked sleepily, and it pecked at something under its wing until the mullet jumped again. The pelican jerked its head around, flapped its wings, and dived into the water. It bobbed up a moment later, empty.
This mullet had savvy, and so did the mystery woman. Who would expect her to go up against Miami thugs and come out alive. She had taken a bullet, but had killed a man and gotten away. Like the pelican, though, they would be back, and Sam was pretty sure he would see her again.
****
SAM HAD been running on the beach for about thirty minutes when he spotted Jack Craft about fifty yards away, tending a fishing rod. Almost a week had passed since Sam had seen the wounded woman, though he’d thought about her every day, hoping she wasn’t dead. She’d said Tommy Shoes sent her to him, and Sam remembered that Jack had mentioned Tommy a couple of years before.
He slowed to a walk and angled over Jack’s way. Jack turned, saw him approaching, and set the rod in a holder stuck in the sand. Sam mopped perspiration from his forehead with the bottom of his tee shirt and nodded toward a plastic bucket at Jack’s feet.
"Catch anything?”
Jack Craft grinned and reached down.
"Got a bluefish.” He pulled what looked like a three-pounder out of the bucket. "Thought I had something really big the way this baby pulled."
“Yeah, that’s a nice one,” Sam said. “Invite me over when you cook it. I’ll bring the beer.”
Jack nodded and dropped the fish back into the bucket.
“You got it. By the way, the tackle store had a sale on that rod you liked and I got it for you. It’s on my boat if you want to come by.”
Sam smiled. Jack had gotten the fishing bug after watching an old geezer drag a large Pompano in from the surf. He had been working on Sam to go fishing with him. Sam kept putting him off.
“As a matter of fact, why don’t I give you a ride back. I need to get this blue in the reefer."
“That sounds good. It's too hot out here to run, anyway.”
Jack gathered his tackle, Sam grabbed the bucket and they walked about two hundred yards to Jack's Mercedes.
Sam had met Jackson Craft about ten years before when they both were hired by a Government agency in Miami to bring down a notorious financier who had stolen a large fortune from retirement accounts. Sam happened to be good with a gun and Jack could run a good confidence game. The financier didn’t have a chance, and Jack cruised away with his million-dollar floating home,
The Clipper
. Sam got his regular contract fee, along with a few bumps and bruises. Since that time they had been involved in a number of cooperative ventures, some of which Sam tried to forget.
Jack did most of the talking on the way back to the marina, telling Sam about his latest activity.
“I buy boats from the DEA and sell them to rich people.”
“You have a boat business?”
“Actually,” Jack said, “I never see the boats, I simply broker the sales.”
On this particular operation, Jack said he had made an average of about thirty percent on the dozen or so boats he had brokered. He didn’t mention dollars, but Sam knew that Cigarettes and Donzis, which were favored by drug smugglers because of the enormous engine power, would sell for a small fortune on the second-hand market.
Jack sounded like a legitimate businessman, but Sam knew he was actually Grand Master of the high-level con. This latest venture was just busywork until the right mark came along.
They arrived at the marina and walked down the dock to
The Clipper
. Jack led him into the galley, which was much larger than the one on Sam’s boat, and pulled two beers from the full-size refrigerator. Handing one to Sam, he twisted the top off his own and took a long swallow, then reached into the bucket for the bluefish and plopped it onto a cutting board. He pulled a filleting knife from the wall, sliced into the fish, separating a four-inch-wide slab of meat from the backbone.
Sam sat in a chair next to the table, watching the operation. Jack skinned the two filets, zipped them inside plastic bags, and tossed them into the refrigerator. He rinsed his hands and said, "Be right back.”
Jack left the galley for about thirty seconds and returned with a seven foot surf rod. "It's a beauty," he said, scanning the rod from handle to tip, running his fingers over the ceramic eyelets.
Sam took it by the handle and looked it over. "You don't see many like this anymore."
"Better believe it. Why don’t we try it tomorrow morning on the changing tide? We'll kill those blues.”
"You’ve got a deal."
Sam stood the rod in the corner next to the table and turned back to sip his beer. Jack sat down at the table and rocked back in his chair.
"Funny thing happened last week," Sam said. "A woman, a real looker, came to my boat about midnight on Tuesday. She said Tommy Shoes sent her. Turns out, she’d been shot and fainted before she could tell me anything else."
Sam told the rest of the story, leaving out the part about him and Carling on the sofa.
“Oh yeah, Carling said to tell you hello.”
Jack’s face softened, and his eyes drifted off to a pleasant place for a couple of seconds.
“Carling, huh, I bet she still looks great.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I took her out a few times, but never got to first base.”
“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jack said. He took a long swallow of beer. "So, you haven't heard anything from this mystery woman since she left Carling Research?"
"No. I thought I might talk to Tommy Shoes, if I can get a meeting with him.”
"You want your ten thousand back?"
"It’s not that. I just thought I'd make sure she’s okay."
"You said she’s pretty. You wouldn't want to cash in on a debt of gratitude, would you?”
Sam looked at Jack and smiled.
"C'mon, Jack. That's something you'd do."
Jack winced.
"Hey, I was kidding. Anyway, I can set up the meeting with Tommy if you want.”
“You can?”
“Sure, no problem.”
Sam stood up to leave.
“How much did the rod cost?”
Jack closed his eyes, waved Sam away.
"Forget it. It's a present."
Sam knew there was no need to argue, so he thanked him and turned to leave.
“What about Tommy?” Jack said, “you want to see him this afternoon?”
“Sure, if you can arrange it.”
“Why don’t we get some lunch first and drop in on him.”
Jack must know Tommy pretty well.
He nodded, said he had to go take a shower and would be back in thirty minutes.
Sam walked off
The Clipper
and turned his eyes toward the water. Fifteen or twenty boats drifted on Biscayne Bay. Their sails, fat with the eighty-degree Miami breeze, colored the sea with green, red, and white dots. The scene made him envious for a split second, but he wasn’t sure why, because he could do the same if he wanted to. Maybe he would take a cruise down to the Keys in a week or so if he could tie up a few loose ends, and see if Carling wanted to go along.
****
JACK WANTED to try a new seafood restaurant and said he’d drive. Sam noticed a car following them, and it stayed behind them all the way to the restaurant. Sam and Jack went inside, ordered grouper sandwiches and beer. Two men came in a few minutes later and took a table about ten feet away.
“You see the tail?” Sam said.
Jack nodded. “Gray Dodge, picked us up right outside the marina.”
“I think they just walked in,” Sam said. “Maybe Feds.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You call Tommy?”
Jack shook his head. “I figured he’s probably home. He usually is this time of day.”
Sam chanced a glance at the table where the two men sat; a tingle ran up his neck when he recognized one of the faces. The waiter brought their beer and poured it. Sam turned up the glass, took a long drink, and set it down. For the second time in a week, he wished he’d brought his gun.
Chapter 3
S
AM KNEW the man only as Grimes. He used to work for the Government, and their paths had crossed on a couple of jobs. Both times, he left death in his wake. He looked different from what Sam remembered, beefed up, his spiked hair lighter, almost white, but the eyes were crazy as ever.
They ate crab cake sandwiches with fries and left the restaurant. Sam checked the side mirror. Grimes and his sidekick followed.
Jack drove into Coral Gables and up to a Mediterranean mansion, built in the twenties by a man who helped kill the Everglades. Many others had owned it since then, most of them wealthy. Jack waited for traffic to pass so he could turn into the driveway.
“Used to be Mickey Jay’s place,” Sam said.
“You knew Mickey?”
Sam shook his head. “I just know he lived here.”
“Tommy moved in when Mickey disappeared a year or so ago,” Jack said.
Sam remembered the story circulating at the time: The owner of a tee-shirt shop at the beach got tired of paying protection money, hit Mickey on the head with a hot tee-shirt iron, and took him on a one-way trip to the Gulf Stream. He probably got what he deserved.
“Did Tommy take over Mickey’s business?” Sam asked.
Jack shrugged. “I assume that went with the house.”
The Dodge kept going down the street when Jack turned into the driveway. Grimes and
the other man looked straight ahead as they passed. They didn’t realize they had been made.
Jack drove up to the gate, reached out his window, and pressed a button.
“Yeah?” an anonymous voice said from a speaker.
“We need to see Tommy Shoes,” Jack said.
A couple of seconds later the gate opened and they rode into the expansive turnaround in front of the house. They stopped close to the entrance, got out of the car and walked onto the portico. A short, fat man in a cheap brown suit opened the door.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Craft.” The man smiled. He had perfect teeth, and he also had a black eye, the edges of it turning yellow.
“Hello, Frankie,” Jack said, “Tommy in?”
“Sure. Step this way.” The man turned and walked very gracefully for a person who had to weigh more than three hundred pounds and stood only a foot or so higher than the door knob.
Sam first met Tommy Shoes a dozen years before in Chicago. A guy named Roland had run up gambling debts and borrowed money from someone on the street. Roland couldn't pay the money and was getting threats. He asked Sam for help.
Sam and Roland met two guys in the back room of a restaurant where Roland told them he needed more time. One of the men was named Tommy Shoes; he wore a pair of white, patent leather wing-tips with flamingos painted on the toes.
Tommy had said to Roland, “How much more time do you think you should have?”
“A month,” Roland said.
Tommy squeezed his lips together and shook his head. “You got ‘til midnight.”
“What if I don’t make it?”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “Believe me, you better make it, or you ain’t gonna like what happens next.”
Roland pulled a gun Sam didn’t know he had and grinned. “That’s okay, I'd rather settle the debt right now.”
Sam knew Roland would kill both men, and had planned to do that all along.
Tommy and the other man were caught off guard and fumbled for their guns. Sam back-fisted Roland, grabbed the gun from his hand, and laid it on the floor. Tommy had drawn his own gun by that time, and said he would kill both of them. Sam somehow talked him out of it, promising that Roland would have his money the next day. Tommy wanted to work Roland over, but he settled down after a while and told them to beat it, saying if he didn't get the money when promised, that he would drop both of them into Lake Michigan.
Roland didn't have any way to raise the cash, so Sam called in some markers. Tommy played it pretty cool when Sam paid the debt. He counted the money, leaned back in the chair, said, "Okay.”
Sam nodded, and was half-way to the door when Tommy called after him.
“Hey, Mackenzie?”
He turned around.
“I appreciate you not letting Roland shoot us. I'm gonna remember it. I’ll probably have to teach him a lesson, though."
Sam said he understood and left. He hadn't seen Tommy Shoes or Roland since. He often wondered if Tommy had dropped Roland into the lake anyway, just on principle.
Now the fat man led them into a large study where Tommy Shoes sat at a desk. Tommy stood when they entered and walked around to greet them. He hadn’t changed much in the last dozen years: a little thicker around the face and the midsection, the shiny pompadour graying around the edges. He didn’t seem as tall as Sam remembered. Tommy gave a nod and the fat man disappeared down the hall.