Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  The Trailblazer hadn't moved, and from where I stood, I only counted one head in the front seat. Holding the bottle of water, I walked into the gym.

  A thick, over-muscled black man stood behind the counter. He lifted his head as the door swung open.

  "Welcome," he said when the front door chimed to announce my entrance.

  "Hi there," I said, "I'm new to the area. I have been looking for a gym to join."

  "Oh," he replied, "let me help you out then."

  "Can you tell me about your services?"

  He began to rattle off the different things this particular chain offered. It was the standard fare. A variety of workout machines from treadmills to stationary cycles. They had some sub-par classes for the uninitiated, as well as a tanning area.

  "No pool?" I asked with some feigned disappointment in my voice.

  "None of our locations have a pool."

  "Oh," I said, "I like to finish my workouts with a swim. What about a hot tub or sauna?"

  He shook his head slowly. "How about I give you a three-day membership?" he offered. "You can try everything out and see if it fits your needs."

  With a reluctant nod, I agreed. "Yeah, that would be nice."

  He took a card with the gym logo on it out of a drawer, scrawling the date and his signature on it. "This will expire in three days. After that, you'll need to sign up for one of our memberships."

  Taking the card, I asked, "Is there a locker room?"

  "Yes," he said, "I can give you a full tour."

  "No," I said, "that's fine. I can handle it. Just point me to the locker room."

  "Absolutely," he sounded relieved to not have to rattle off the same spiel he spouted every day. "Just straight down that hall there. The men's locker room is the last door on the right."

  "Thank you," I replied as I walked to the locker room.

  It must have been too early for the crowd. Only four people were working out. Three women on treadmills and one older man working on the free weights. A long row of televisions hung from the ceiling from the front of the building to the back. Every four or five seemed to repeat between the various 24-hour news channels and two cooking shows. Nothing like working hard to burn off calories while watching someone teach you how to make a peach pie with real lard. I wasn't sure what the motivation was at that point.

  The locker room had two walls lined with lockers that had been placarded with inspirational logos and the gym's corporate slogans. A 32-inch television hung on the back wall showing a couple of talking heads on ESPN discussing some one-off sporting event. I didn't pay it much attention.

  I chose a locker in the middle of the wall. Something that would be in clear sight of anyone in the room. I removed the new backpack I had just purchased along with the lock and stripped it of any tags. Next, I put the bag filled with money in locker number 27. I padlocked it and pocketed the key.

  The new bag looked deflated, and I began filling it with paper towels from the dispenser. When it looked about the same as the other, I checked my watch. I'd only been inside the gym for twenty minutes.

  When I exited the locker room, the new bag was slung over my back. The Trailblazer was still visible in the lot. There was still a silhouette of a head watching the gym.

  I found a weight machine facing the window. A few reps wouldn't break me out in a sweat, but I might not be noticed. Lots of people go to the gym and don't put in a lot of effort.

  I spent about 15 minutes at that station, trying to be invisible. I decided that I had been inside long enough, and I exited the building. The driver in the Trailblazer was anticipating me. The truck shifted forward slightly before I was even behind the wheel of the marina's courtesy car. He was right behind me as I pulled out of the driveway.

  With the money somewhat safely stashed away, it was time to figure out who was following me. Making random turns, I zigzagged my way back toward West Palm. I didn't want to go back to the Tilly, but I decided to pull into the Publix parking lot. I parked close to the west entrance of the store and walked inside in my most casual I'm-just-shopping stride. From the corner of my eye, I watched the Trailblazer park on the next row over.

  When I entered the store, I cut to the right and walked the length of the store to the east entrance, where I came out, hopefully, unnoticed by my tail. I walked up the row of cars until I could flank the Trailblazer. I moved along the parked cars, trying to use the larger trucks and SUV's to block my approach.

  When I made it to the row where the maroon SUV was parked, I crept along slowly, keeping the rear of the Trailblazer in front of me. There were a few moments when the driver might be able to see me if he were watching his back, but I was gambling that instead, he was watching the door for me to come out.

  By the time I reached the Trailblazer, I was crouched down behind the tailgate. Moving swiftly, I rose and closed the gap from the rear of the truck to the driver's door in two quick steps. The door was locked, and the driver was gone.

  I glanced around, surprised to find my quarry gone.

  A figure came around the front of the Ford coupe parked next to the Trailblazer.

  "What the..." A greasy-looking white kid hollered at me as he pulled a Glock out of his shorts. I pushed off the Trailblazer and rolled on my back over the hood of the coupe as the 9 mm popped twice.

  My right hand and knees hit the sweltering asphalt. The balls of my feet were already shoving me into a cowering sprint before the kid could get a bead on me. I wasn't listening for gunshots anymore. Just moving my feet. Worrying about being hit would have to come later.

  A mother with two small children was huddling behind the minivan on my right.

  "Go!" I shouted and pointed for them to move. The mother was shielding the kids and mouthing words to them, they didn't budge.

  "Shit!" I howled, and I turned away from them and started running upright across the parking lot away from the defenseless family.

  I heard another shot as I slid behind a Dodge truck. Behind the cover of the truck, my head popped up to evaluate my situation. The gunman, probably less of a kid than I first thought, looked to be in his late 20's or early 30's. He tossed a black bag into the Trailblazer. My black bag.

  The Trailblazer's tires squealed as it jerked backward out of the parking spot. I caught sight of the license plate and memorized it before the SUV sped off. He clipped a Nissan Maxima as he cut the corner toward the street.

  I rushed over to the family, still cowering.

  "Are you alright?" I asked.

  The mother, shaking and sobbing, looked up at me.

  "It's over. Are you all okay?"

  She pushed the kids away to look at them. The kids were both under five. Two girls wearing little cotton sundresses. Neither seemed overly phased by the action. The mother fell back on her butt and cried, she pulled both of the girls into her arms as she bawled.

  One of the little girls looked up at me. "Mama, he's hurt."

  The mother turned her head up to me. Her cheeks, wet and flushed.

  "You're bleeding," she told me.

  I looked down to see my shirt was covered in blood. Lifting the bottom of the shirt showed a wound on my side where one of the rounds grazed me.

  "It's just a flesh wound," I stated, but I slipped down to the ground.

  A crowd was forming from the front of the grocery store. A security guard approached with his hand on his weapon.

  "What happened?" he demanded.

  "This man started shooting at him," the mother declared.

  "I think I interrupted a robbery," I said, looking toward the Tilly's Toyota and the broken driver's window.

  "The police are on their way," the guard assured me. "Is anyone hurt?"

  "He's been shot," one of the girls replied.

  I lifted my arm to show my blood-stained shirt. The first responder was a single West Palm Beach Police car. The officer immediately approached the security guard, who seemed to give him a brief description of the events.

 
When the officer finally approached us, he asked, "What happened?"

  The first little girl who noticed my blood said, "The man got shot."

  "He saved us," the mother exclaimed.

  The officer took a slow turn of his head to me. I just sat there, bleeding slightly.

  28

  Despite my protestations, the EMT wouldn't back down on taking me to the emergency room. The police officers on the scene insisted as well, and they began to grow suspicious when I wanted to refuse treatment. To avoid any suspicions, I finally gave in and let the ambulance carry me to the hospital.

  While the bullet only caused a flesh wound, it turned out to be more than a graze. The round left a clear entry and exit wound that the paramedic felt needed a few stitches. The attendee finally goaded me to let him administer a local anesthetic before making any stitches. I was lying on the bed in the open ER area after he had finished the suturing. Agent Kohl walked in with another man that had the look of an underpaid government employee.

  "Mr. Gordon," Kohl asked, "how are you feeling?"

  "I'm fine," I assured him.

  "You look fine," he commented after a glance at my stitched side.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked coldly.

  "I flagged your name in case someone shot you, or you shot someone," he stated flatly. "Seems my instincts were correct."

  "You could have brought flowers," I sneered.

  My side was feeling tight. There wasn't any pain after the doctor hit the area with the local anesthetic. Now I was just feeling the stress of the stitches.

  "This is Detective Charles," Kohl introduced. "He's here about the shooting."

  "You just tagged along because you were worried about me."

  "You are a person of interest in a federal case," he pointed out. "I'm here to make sure you haven't shit all over three years of investigative work."

  "I hate to disappoint you," I said, "but this wasn't Moreno's guys."

  Kohl furrowed his brow. "Are you sure?"

  "Pretty sure," I told him. "I've run the gambit with Moreno's guys. This was a white kid that looked like he should be popping pills between catching a wave. I don't think he fits the job description for working on Moreno's crew."

  The detective glared at me. He noted, "He shot you, though. You must have made an impression somehow."

  "Maybe Moreno should be recruiting the surfer demographic," Kohl joked.

  "I caught the kid stealing my backpack out of the car," I said. "I thought he was just a meth-head or something trying to get a quick fix. I didn't anticipate he had a gun."

  "From what I've seen of you," Kohl stated, "that doesn't track."

  "We all drop our guard sometimes," I remarked.

  "I didn't think Marines were allowed to do that."

  "Well, I'm retired."

  "The mother," the detective started but stopped to look at his notebook for her name, "Ms. Kelton said you were drawing his fire away from the kids."

  "I wasn't thinking. Just reacting."

  Kohl stared at me. Then he asked, "Are you sure that this wasn't Moreno? What was in the bag?"

  "Gym clothes," I said. "This guy's gonna be disappointed."

  "You gave the officer on duty the plate number," Kohl mused.

  I nodded. "I saw it when he was peeling away."

  The detective watched me. "After you were wounded?"

  Kohl raised his hand to stop the detective's train of questioning.

  "The car was stolen," Kohl stated, "so it doesn't lead us anywhere."

  "Where was it stolen from?"

  "From up in Jupiter."

  Not having any idea where Jupiter was, I just listened.

  "If this isn't Moreno," Kohl said, "then I'm no longer needed here."

  "So nice of you to visit, Van," I retorted with a touch of snark.

  He looked at Charles and said, "My guess is that whatever he says isn't the entire truth, and he doesn't know when to get out of the way."

  "That's hurtful," I panned.

  He ignored me and walked out of the ER.

  Detective Charles focused on me. "What else can you tell me about the shooter?"

  "I only had a second before he started shooting. He was white. His hair was longish. Maybe shoulder length and stringy. It looked like he hadn't washed it."

  "Any facial hair?"

  I shook my head. "Did the security cameras get anything?"

  Raising an eyebrow, he said, "In fact, it showed you enter the store and exit out the other entrance and approach the suspect's vehicle."

  "That's true," I said. "I noticed him following me. After my recent run-in with Julio Moreno's guys, I wanted to make sure that I surprised them and not the other way around."

  "Seemed that didn't help," he pointed out to me in a condescending tone.

  "I'm not perfect. I wasn't expecting him to just want to rob me."

  "Why wouldn't you alert security at the store? Maybe call us?" Charles asked.

  I shrugged. "I thought I had it handled."

  "What would you have done if he hadn't shot you first?" His question was pointed.

  "I just wanted to know why he was following me. I was unarmed," I explained. "With no desire to do anything but find out who he was."

  He squinted at me, trying to decipher if Kohl was right about me, only telling half-truths. I assumed that the detective had already made some snap judgments about me.

  With his notebook in hand, Charles said, "I'm going to need a phone number for you."

  I offered an apologetic look. "I don't have a phone," I explained.

  A confused look crossed his face. "You don't have a phone?"

  "I get that a lot."

  "Everyone has a phone," he responded.

  "I live on a boat and spend more time cruising in the Bahamas than on the mainland. Plus, after many years of the U.S. government keeping me at its beck and call, I like the idea of being out of contact."

  He shook his head, incredulously. "Everyone has a phone," he repeated under his breath. "How can I get in touch with you?"

  "You can leave a message for me at the Tilly Inn. I bartend some nights at the Manta Club."

  He jotted down the number as I rattled it off to him.

  "I don't have anything else," the detective said. "I'll let you know if we recover your belongings."

  "I won't hold my breath," I said, adding, "The kid might when he finds my sweaty clothes."

  He looked at me skeptically, and I imagined that even if Kohl hadn't besmirched my honesty, then the good detective would question it.

  "Thank you, Detective," I said as he left.

  I was left alone for another 15 minutes or so before a nurse came through. She was in her late 50's with red hair that came from a box and glowed nearly neon. She reminded me of a lady from my childhood. I couldn't remember her name, but she sat two rows in front of my mother every Sunday and sang three octaves off-key during every hymn.

  "Mr. Gordon, do you have a ride home?" the boxed redhead asked.

  "No, I'll take a cab."

  "You need someone to take you." She was making a note on my chart as if it was some incurable condition to not have a ride.

  "If you are offering, I have to warn you that I was shot and might not be at my full virility."

  Her eyes scolded me.

  "I was shot," I pointed out as an excuse for my sarcasm.

  "That is why you need someone to take you home."

  "I don't have anyone. A cab will be fine."

  The dowdy red-haired nurse left with a frustrated countenance. I waited. By now, I was pretty sure I should have just stayed in the parking lot. I could have been back at the marina with a stiff rum cocktail to alleviate the pain as I licked my wounds.

  The next nurse was much younger. Short black hair with dark skin and brown eyes that might have inspired Van Morrison if she was born forty years sooner.

  "Mr. Gordon," she said, proffering a clipboard, "if I can get your signature, we can get yo
u out of here."

  Her name badge read Anna, and I gave her a smile as I took the paperwork and signed it. "Am I done?" I asked.

  "That's all. You're free to go."

  "Can I use a phone? I need to call a cab."

  She motioned for me to follow her. The phone at the nurse's station was next to the red-haired nurse that eyeballed me as I called for a cab.

  "Mr. Gordon, there's someone in the waiting room for you," Red said with some scorn and a hint of satisfaction.

  I hung up the phone and walked out the doors leading to the waiting room. Missy sat in a corner away from the rest of the crowd. She was wearing a black suit, her regular attire when she planned to walk the lobby and greet guests.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked, sliding into the seat next to her.

  "The police called about the car," she responded. "I dropped Randy off to drive it back."

  "I'm sorry about that."

  She waved me off. "Are you alright?" she asked, staring at the blood-stained shirt I was wearing.

  "It's just a scratch. Like six stitches total."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "Six stitches," she muttered. "Would you like a ride back to the marina?"

  "Yes, you'll make the nurse's day. She was frantic that I didn't have a ride. I thought she might offer to take me home with her."

  "You can still go with her," she quipped. "If you want."

  I smiled, "No, it's nice to see you instead. Do you mind if we make a stop?"

  Missy drove me to the gym. I was nervous that the greasy kid that shot me might have figured out my simple ruse. Once he found a backpack full of paper towels, he definitely would. At that point, though, he was running out of time with the stolen Trailblazer. Unless he was stupid, which I wasn't discounting yet, he needed to ditch it and get a new ride.

  As luck would have it, the backpack was still in the locker. There was a different attendant at the check-in desk, but my temporary membership card got me in the door with no questions asked.

  I garnered a questioning glance when I left the gym two minutes later. The attendant didn't say anything, and if he questioned whether I was carrying a bag or not on my way into the building, he didn't have a chance to ask it.