Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  The music didn't help to make anything happen. The afternoon was waning. A couple of hours had passed while I sat on Flowering Trail.

  Finally, when I was near the point of giving up, Ponce Alvarez came out of his house. By now, my forehead was bubbled with sweat. My shirt was sticking to my back, and I hastened to imagine how I was starting to smell.

  He was talking on the phone. He stood under the Spanish moss talking. He pulled on a piece of moss until it came free. He idly dropped it on the ground. When he seemed to be through with his conversation, he stuck the phone in his pocket and climbed into his Del Sol and backed out of the drive. I waited as he reversed into the street and started in the other direction. When the little blue and yellow Honda had driven down the road a block, I began to follow him, staying a decent distance back and hoping that he didn't notice the silver BMW in his rearview mirror.

  We drove through several neighborhoods and along some side streets. I spend very little time in Miami. If I go much farther than the Costco in West Palm Beach, it's an extraordinary occasion. Urban sprawl tends to turn my stomach. My childhood was spent in a community of fewer than 50 people, my elementary, junior, and high school were all housed in the same building. The same nine kids followed me from kindergarten through graduation. Well, my high school graduation occurred on my second night on Parris Island. I would like my neighbors several miles away if I had my wish.

  As I said, I don't come to Miami much, and I couldn't tell you where we were going. The neighborhoods we were entering were growing visibly more rundown. The businesses that had signs had them in Spanish. Many buildings were just boarded up, the owners or tenants surrendering to the decay.

  When Alvarez stopped, we were on a populated thoroughfare through the western side of Miami. He parked on the street. I found a spot half a block away, trying to remain inconspicuous. The block we were on was a little less dilapidated than some we had driven past.

  Alvarez crossed the street and entered a small diner. The elaborately hand-painted sign hanging over the double window facing the street showed a great deal more pride in the restaurant than some of the other businesses on the street displayed. Small print under the name stated, "Cuban Restaurant" and "Comida de Cuba."

  Sitting in the BMW, I sank down in the driver's seat and watched the front of the diner. The street was lined with cars, most older but well-maintained. A few spots held newer, sportier models. Chuckling to myself, I noted that there wasn't a single minivan in sight.

  This time, the engine stayed on. The air was cooling the interior and keeping the sweat at bay. As I said, I didn't mind the heat, but the sweat might be offensive to anyone with olfactory glands.

  While I stared at the door of Padrino's, I fiddled with the radio until I found another station playing some Sting. That seemed as good as anything else.

  Thirty minutes passed. Or at least close to that. The door to the diner opened, and Alvarez came out with his buddy, the spiky-haired smart-ass. The two got into the Del Sol and pulled away from the curb. I took a moment and considered whether to follow the two of them or check out Padrino's. The latter seemed like a better idea. Something about the restaurant didn't fit in the neighborhood. Someone was keeping a nice joint open in a wasteland. There has to be a good reason for that.

  Besides, I was a little hungry.

  Unless the two goons were on their way to find Tristan, letting them go wasn't a big deal.

  Locking up the car, I started toward the little cafe. The alarm beeped as I set it. The last thing I wanted to do was explain to Missy how something happened to her BMW. Truthfully, I doubted she would care-especially given her current state of mind.

  Inside Padrino's, there were seven tables. Most were empty, but two in the back corner were occupied. The center of that group was a tall, thin man, probably of Cuban descent. His hair was flecked with gray, and he was the one in charge. Two men sat at the table with him, and a third man sat at the next table alone. The scar across the face of the one sitting alone reminded me of a man from the church where my parents dragged me as a kid. The story was that the man's wife unloaded two rounds of birdshot in his face when she caught him with one of the Sunday school teachers. I don't remember what happened to that teacher.

  A neon sign scrolled over the table, reading "Cristal." Two cans of beer sporting the same name were sitting on the table.

  A small counter stood close to the door. A beautiful young girl was behind the counter; she looked at me curiously.

  "¿Necesitas una mesa?"

  "No habla español," I explained.

  "Do you need a table?" she asked gracefully.

  "Can I order it to-go?"

  She nodded and passed me a menu. I scanned the listed items in Spanish. While I don't speak Spanish, I can manage reading it.

  "Can I get a Media Noche?" I asked.

  She wrote my order on a pad and smiled at me before she walked into the back.

  "Good choice," an accented voice came from the table in the corner.

  I turned and saw that the man in the center was speaking. "Thanks," I said.

  "You should come back for the boliche some time," he commented.

  My face must have displayed my confusion. He added, "It's carne...beef. Stuffed beef. Very good. Tender and delicious."

  "That sounds good," I said. "I'll come back."

  "How did you find Padrino's?" he asked. His tone and demeanor were docile, but his eyes reminded me of something sinister I had seen in the eyes of a Taliban warlord before he detonated a bomb, killing several innocent Afghans in a square.

  "It was recommended," I said. "I thought it would be good to try it."

  The smile he had sent shivers up my spine. "Where are you from?" he asked.

  I returned his smile with one that was filled with Arkansas charm. "Originally, a cow farm in Arkansas."

  "Originally?"

  "I move around a lot now. In fact, I am planning to visit Cuba soon. I wanted to sample some food before I go."

  "I am sorry," he said with a humble tone. "I don't remember your name."

  "We didn't exchange names, so you can't be faulted for that."

  He smiled again. His teeth were impressively white. Eerily white.

  "Señor," the girl said from behind the counter. She held a white paper bag.

  I bowed my head to the man. "It's been a pleasure," I said before turning to pay the young girl.

  "Be sure to come back for the boliche," he said to my back.

  "Certainly," I said as I left the cafeteria. I had a suspicion that the man I met was Alvarez and Spike's boss, and possibly Julio Moreno himself.

  Whoever he was, he was dangerous. I wondered if he knew who I was, or if he just suspected me of being a federal agent.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the scarred man that had been sitting alone was coming out of Padrino's. He turned down the sidewalk behind me.

  14

  This time I didn't have a butcher knife strapped to my arm. I made a couple of quick assumptions. The first was that Scar was very likely carrying a firearm, and if I wasn't careful, it might make my day turn for the worst. That meant that whatever I did next needed to provide me with the upper hand, or at the very least even the playing field.

  The second was that I needed to lose Scar before I got to Missy's car. Trying to get into and start the car would put me in a vulnerable spot. Not to mention getting it out of the parking spot I maneuvered into earlier. He'd have plenty of opportunities to put a bullet or two into me, or worse into the BMW.

  No, I was going to have to take a walk and lose him.

  The third thing I assumed was a little more heartbreaking. I was never going to get a chance to try the sandwich in my bag.

  Increasing my pace fractionally, I tried to increase the distance between us without going into a full sprint. I could outrun Scar easily. He was big and strong, that was evident from looking at him. He was used to winning fights. Not against someone who knew how to fight, thoug
h. He thought he was scary. I could see that in his eyes in Padrino's. Intimidation isn't strength.

  I was now a little farther ahead of Scar. Ticking the seconds off in my head, I counted a ten-second lead on him at our current speed. As soon as I reached the end of the block, I took a left. The instant that I was out of his line of vision, I sprinted down the street. I counted off seven seconds. Then I slowed to my original pace.

  He made the turn behind me. Now I had a significant lead on him. Unless he decided to charge me or shoot me, I gave myself a little room to work. I decided to force his hand. When a small break in traffic appeared, I jogged across the street in the middle of the block.

  When I stepped off the street onto the other sidewalk, I took a quick right down an alley. A quick glance confirmed my tail was trying to time the traffic so he could cross. I broke into another run. The alley was short enough that I was able to race through it before Scar even made it to this side of the street.

  I could lose him now, or I could wait and confront him. Confronting him was more visceral. There was nothing to gain from it. Losing him was the smarter option.

  Besides, I might still be able to enjoy the Media Noche in my bag.

  The alley hit the next street, and I went right. I could make the block and get back to the BMW while he tried to figure out which way I went. My feet pounded against the sidewalk as I jogged up the block.

  When I reached the corner, a delivery van pulled up in front of me. The side door slid open, and Agent Kohl stared at me.

  "Get in," he ordered.

  "Am I under arrest?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Get in the damn van, or you will be."

  I took a quick survey in my head. Kohl wasn't going to try and kill me. At least, I didn't think he would. Scar, on the other hand, could very well try just that. The decision was easy. I obeyed Kohl and climbed into the back. "I hope this doesn't end up with me in a black site somewhere."

  "Drive, Ken," Kohl ordered the driver.

  The van pulled off the curb, and I glanced out the side window to see Scar come out of the alley.

  "The man following you is Esteban Velázquez. He's an enforcer for Moreno. He is a person of interest in numerous murders, including three drug enforcement agents about ten years ago."

  The van bounced and jarred as it drove over the roads of this unmaintained neighborhood. Road work didn't seem a priority around here, and judging from the facades of many of the buildings, neither did regular upkeep. This was a forgotten section of Miami that most of the denizens of West Palm Beach would never see. The neighborhood was as war-torn as many places I saw in Afghanistan and Iraq. This didn't feel like America.

  "You think he wanted to take my sandwich?"

  "He doesn't get involved unless someone else ends up dead," Kohl stated.

  I bit my tongue, mainly because I had nothing to add. My sixth sense was telling me when Moreno's goon started following me that he had that exact plan.

  "Care to tell me why you were having lunch with Julio Moreno?" Kohl asked.

  "You weren't following me today," I stated firmly.

  "We were," Kohl responded, "until you decided to give my agents the slip."

  I shrugged. "I like my privacy."

  Kohl narrowed his eyes, a trait I wondered if he did with everyone, or if I just special.

  "That means that you are watching Padrino's because it is Moreno's little hangout. Am I right?"

  "You seem to have been following Ponce Alvarez. How did you pick up on him?"

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  Kohl broke the silence, "Gordon, you keep stepping on my toes here. It seems you won't go away."

  "I'm just trying to find a good sandwich."

  Kohl smirked, maybe at my wit. Probably not, though. "Why don't I tell you what I know about you?" he suggested.

  I shrugged. "If you've been following me, then you know enough, I'm sure."

  "Not everything," he stated. "I know that Alvarez and Cabrera visited Locke's home the other night. Now, his wife and daughter are nowhere to be found. Then, you and Alvarez have a little altercation at the Tilly Inn. Next thing I know, you are showing up at Moreno's restaurant. Do tell me again how you aren't involved? Are you protecting the wife or Locke?"

  "Which one is Cabrera?" I asked.

  "Short guy. Greasy hair."

  "Spiked?"

  He nodded.

  "Let me ask you something, Kohl," I started. "If your wife and daughter got a visit from the two of them, what would you want Ken up there to do about it?"

  Kohl glanced at the driver whose eyes looked back in the rearview mirror. "Are you saying that Tristan Locke asked you to protect his wife?"

  I shook my head. "No, he didn't."

  "Have you talked to him?"

  I shook my head again. "I have a feeling that he's dead."

  That was the first time I mentioned my thoughts. They had been milling around my head for the last day.

  "You think Moreno had him killed?"

  "No," I answered. "Alvarez and Carbera..."

  "Cabrera," he corrected me.

  "Right," I continued, "Alvarez and Cabrera were looking for him. I don't think they would be doing that if they killed him."

  "Then what makes you think he is dead?" Kohl asked.

  My eyes cut to Ken driving through a nicer stretch of neighborhood. Maybe the delivery van circling Moreno's block was a little too obvious. While I worried that Tristan was dead, I wasn't sure. The last thing I wanted was to find out that I had given the evidence to have him convicted or worse. My steps needed to be taken gingerly.

  "Let me state unequivocally that everything I know is pure supposition."

  Kohl nodded. "In other words, off the record and inadmissible."

  "Exactly," I said, "and getting me to testify is not going to be in your case's best interest."

  Reluctantly, Kohl seemed to agree.

  "Tristan may or may not have been involved in something with Moreno. Enough so that now Moreno thinks he owes him a lot of money. However, he, or at least his goons, are still looking for him, so they haven't done anything to him yet. Moreno thinks that he is still out there in hiding. Alvarez and..."

  "Cabrera," Kohl supplied.

  "Right," I said. "I can't seem to get that. Cabrera. The two of them now go to his wife and try to strong-arm her, hoping that he is talking to her. Thinking maybe threatening his family would bring him out."

  Kohl listened. Even Ken seemed to be intent on my theory.

  I continued, "This is the part that makes me think he is already dead. He hasn't talked to his wife in a long time. That seems unusual for someone like Tristan. I know that I haven't really talked to him in years, but he was loyal and devoted. He needs to get that kind of affection. He might go off on his own, but he'd still need to talk to his wife and daughter."

  "And he hasn't?" Ken asked from the driver's seat.

  "Right."

  Kohl asked, "Do you think someone killed him?"

  "Seems likely. You might want to check any John Does. Kayla hasn't involved the police, so there isn't a missing person case open."

  "Who would kill him?"

  "Consider this," I suggested. "If you were in debt to someone like Moreno, what are your options?"

  Ken spouted, "Find the money to pay him back."

  "Otherwise, he is going to kill you, right?" I asked.

  Ken nodded. Kohl said, "You think he got involved with someone else?"

  I shrugged. "I don't actually know shit. That's the problem. As far as I am concerned, though, whether Tristan was involved with Moreno or not, is that his family stay protected."

  "From Moreno?" Kohl asked.

  "He seems to be the most viable threat."

  "And you are doing this out of the kindness of your heart?"

  I glared at Kohl. "I'm doing this because it's what a brother does."

  "You're willing to go up against the biggest drug cartel in Florida for her?"<
br />
  "Kohl, if you don't get it, then I guess, I can never explain it to you," I stated. "Suffice it to say, yes, I am willing to go up against Moreno to help this woman and her child."

  My peripheral vision caught Ken gesturing in agreement.

  "Fine, Gordon," Kohl agreed. "We are going to check any John Does against Locke, but if we can't get his cooperation, then we can't help his family."

  "No offense, Agent Kohl," I said, "I don't think you could help him even with his cooperation. Whatever involvement he had with Moreno was marginal, and I assure you, Moreno was well-shielded from Tristan's involvement."

  "Doesn't mean he can't help our case," Kohl said defiantly.

  "Not enough to justify the sacrifice he might make. It's not that I don't trust you, Kohl, but I know how the government cogs rotate. They don't tend to work in favor of the little mouse caught in between the gears. He might make it messy for the powers that be, but he ends up squished every time."

  Kohl's face twisted. "I protect my CIs," he announced firmly.

  "I don't doubt you intend to," I told him. "Just you don't call all the shots, do you? American bureaucracy beats the little guy almost always."

  "Cynical, aren't you?"

  I shrugged. "I watched brothers and sisters fight and die in battles that should have never been engaged. Because somebody higher up wanted to attempt a strategic move. Some worked, but most were abject failures. Let's say that I trust you. I do not trust your superiors or their superiors. Not to protect a guy who might have been doing shady things just to feed his family."

  Kohl remained silent. Ken took another glimpse at me in the mirror, his eyes were empathetic. He served somewhere. He held himself like a soldier, not that Kohl was unprofessional. There is just something that is trained into your core during training that never goes away. Not if you were a good soldier.

  "Hey, Ken," I said, "if you guys aren't arresting me, can you drop me close to my car?"

  He glanced at Kohl, who gave a curt nod of his head.

  I added, "I assume you know where I parked."

  15