Horse slid the bill across the bar, keeping his hand on top of it. “His name is David Shepard.”
The bartender’s eyes moved from the bill to Horse’s face. His greedy look was replaced by one of cautious concern.
At the mention of Shepard’s name, conversation at the dark corner table stopped. The bartender’s gaze shifted from Horse to the table. Chair legs scraped the floor, and the sound of steel-studded motorcycle boots echoed in the suddenly silent room. Horse looked toward the mirror and watched a man approach.
“Why are you looking for David Shepard?” a voice behind him snarled.
Horse sipped his beer without turning. “I have some business with him.”
“What kind of business?” the voice demanded as two more chairs pushed away from the table
“Ah’m trying to locate a mutual friend.”
“That right?” the voice growled. “Well, your friend got his ass busted. And we don’t need him or his buddy around here.”
Horse turned on the stool and faced the other man. He was about five-foot-ten-inches and two-hundred-fifty-pounds of what had probably been muscle a long time ago. He was in need of a shave and a haircut. A bath would also have been a good idea. But mostly he needed mouthwash.
The bartender reluctantly concluded that his participation in the conversation, and the reward for doing so, had ended. He cast a last covetous gaze at the bill on the bar and backed away. His eyes never left the man standing in front of Horse.
Horse leaned back, his elbows resting on the bar. His face showed no emotion as he studied the man and, just in case, gauged the distance from his foot to the man’s groin. “Do you have something against my friends?”
The man crossed his arms and glared at Horse. “We don’t need his kind around here.”
“Why’s that?”
“We got a good thing going, and the cops leave us alone. People start playing with his kind of stuff, and things get uncomfortable in a hurry. We should ’a run them out a town, them and the Asian guy with the Porsche, soon as they showed up.”
“Ah guess you don’t like the guy with the Porsche.”
“Never met him an’ don’t want to.”
“Why’s that.”
“His kind is trouble.”
“You mean people who drive Porsches?”
“You know what the fuck I mean.”
Horse glanced briefly toward the table before returning his attention to the man in front of him. “Tell me about the man with the Porsche.”
The man looked at Horse suspiciously. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Who would you like me to be?”
The man said nothing as he apparently tried to decide how to respond. Lacking any more appropriate answer, he asked, “You some kind of smart ass?”
“I don’t know. How many kinds of smart-ass are there?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” Playing mind games was no fun when only one of the participants has the necessary equipment. “I’m an investigator,” Horse admitted. “I work for David Shepard’s attorney.”
The man stared blankly at Horse before beginning to laugh. “I tol’ you he wasn’t the heat,” he shouted at the other men between guffaws. “Fuckin” investigator,” he repeated, pronouncing each syllable separately, and shaking his head.
“So, Mr. Investigator,” he returned his attention to Horse. “Why’d you claim you were looking for Shepard when you already knew he was in jail?”
Horse ignored the question. “I’m looking for information on his friend.”
“You mean Jackson?”
“Do you know his first name?”
“Tom, Thomas. But was call him Tom-ASS.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Do I look like a fuckin’ information booth?”
Horse examined the man before saying, “No. I suppose not. But you do look thirsty.”
The man started to say something, then stopped and said, “You buyin’?”
Horse gave the man a toothy smile. He didn’t have any desire to make friends with the man, but it seemed like a reasonable gesture under the circumstances. “I only drink with people I know. My name’s Horse,” he said as he extended his hand.”
The man took Horse’s hand. “Well, welcome to the Wreck, Horse. Call me Smitty.” He continued to grip Horse’s hand in a trial of strength. Horse’s response was to continue to smile without any indication he was aware that he was being tested.
With his free hand Horse signaled the bartender with a circle in the air. The bartender put another beer in front of Horse’s and his new best friend and took two more bottles to the corner table.
Smitty relaxed his grip, stepped to Horse’s side and leaned against the bar while flexing his right hand. When his circulation was restored, Smitty reached for his bottle, took a long swallow and said, “What was the question again?”
“What can you tell me about Shepard and Jackson?”
“Oh, yeah.” Smitty took another swig of beer and burped. “Morons. Both of them. But Shephard… he was just a wannabe.”
“Want did he want to be?”
“I’m don’t think he knew. I guess he wanted to be like Jackson.”
“And what was Jackson like.”
“Jackson… he had a major attitude problem.”
“How so?”
“Just thought he was something special. Figured he was a real bad dude ’cause he worked for the guy with the Porsche.”
“Who was that?”
“How the hell should I know? He showed up a couple a’ times. Then Shepard and Jackson would go somewhere with him. When they come back, they were loaded with cash.”
“Where did they go?”
“Away. That’s’ all I know.”
“When’s the last time the guy with the Porsche was here?”
“At least a couple weeks. Maybe a month.?
“What did they do when they were here?”
“Nothin’ that I knew about. Hardly ever came in here?
“Did you ever buy anything from them?”
Smitty examined Horse suspiciously. “Like what.”
Horse raised his head slightly and inhaled deeply. “Ah can smell a lot of smoke that isn’t from cigarettes.”
“You sure you’re not a cop?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Then why do you care if anyone smokes a little weed now and then.”
“I don’t care.”
“So why you asking all these questions.”
“I’m just a curious fellow… and it’s my job.”
“Well, mister ‘curious fellow.’ Down here we mind our own business.”
“That sounds like a good way of doing things. And I suppose the sheriff looks at things the same way.”
Smitty glanced around the Wreck. He seemed to be deciding whether his companions cared that he was talking to Horse. One man at the corner table held up an empty pitcher. The bartender looked at Horse. Horse nodded his acceptance of the proposal. That appeared to conclude the negotiations and Horse regained his companion’s attention.
“We got us an arrangement. We don’t blow smoke in his face, and he lets us be.”
“And what about Shephard and Jackson. Did they understand this arrangement?”
“If you think they was dealing grass, you need to think again.”
“What kind of stuff were they dealing?”
“Got busted with a load of coke.”
“And were they dealing?”
“What else would they be doing with two kilos of coke?”
“I heard it was five,” a man at the corner table called out.
“Shut up Mack,” the bartender said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mack stood up and started toward the bar before one of his companions grabbed him by the belt and said something that couldn’t be heard across the room. Mack scowled at the bartender and returned to his seat.
The possibilit
y for an altercation having been averted, everyone’s attention returned to Horse.
Horse pretended to have ignored the exchange between the bartender and the corner table and took another swallow of beer before returning his attention to Smitty. “Dealers need buyers. If you fine gentlemen weren’t their customers, who were?”
The bartender moved a little closer. Maybe that twenty was still available. “They’s no buyers for that stuff around here, but they’s plenty of folks up in Myers that’s usin’ coke.”
“Then why were Shepard and Jackson staying here.”
“I guess you’ll have to ask them.”
“Uh huh. Just one more question. Where’s the guy with the Porsche from?”
“Miami… I guess. Plates was Dade County.”
“Got a plate number?”
“Didn’t pay that much attention.”
“What color was the Porsche?”
“Dark blue.”
One of the men at the corner table shouted, “It was black.”
“Shut up, moron,” Smitty yelled back. “It was blue, navy blue.”
“What model?”
“What do I know from models? I ride a hog.”
“But it was pretty new,” one of Smitty’s companions called out from the corner.
Horse considered the information for a minute before stepping back and throwing another twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “Another round for my friends.”
As he headed for the door, the man at the bar called, “That attorney you work for. He any good?”
Horse nodded. “Yeah. He’s very good.”
“What’s his name?” the man asked. “Maybe I’ll need an attorney sometime.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Horse said as he walked toward the door. “You couldn’t afford him.”
6.
Lou Hamilton, now five-years retired from the Florida State Police, lived alone in a small cottage at the end of a gravel road on the outskirts of St. James City, a small, misnamed enclave on the south end of Pine Island. His cottage was nestled in a stand of red mangroves on the edge of Pine Island Sound. To the right of the property, a narrow channel wandered from the Sound to the small marina and restaurant that were the center of what passed for a social life existed in St. James City. Lou Hamilton’s battered flats boat rocked gently on the shallow swells that rolled into the canal from the Sound.
Harry Harris, who had avoided the morning rainstorm, drove past Matlacha to Stringfellow Road, the only road that ran the north-south length of Pine Island. As he passed through Matlacha, he spotted Horse’s Explorer in front of the Shipwreck Bar and felt an influx of acid in his stomach. He hadn’t done any investigative work away from the office since his accident. Interviews in the office were one thing; he was on his home turf, and he was generally only responsible for preparing witnesses for trial. But this was different. He knew White was counting on him and didn’t want to disappoint him. But at least he had a personal connection to Hamilton. That should make things easier.
Hamilton strolled down the gravel walkway to meet Harris as he rolled off the lift of his modified van. “How the hell are you, Harry?” Hamilton grinned. “I haven’t seen you since….” Harris knew that Lou was about to refer to his accident. Guilt at having not tried to remain in contact with him was a common reaction from his old friends. Harris was accustomed to it, but that didn’t make dealing with it any easier.
Lou Hamilton was tall and thin. His face was drawn, and he had deep-set dark eyes and a narrow nose. He was born in Presque Isle, Maine, about as far north and east as you can get in the continental United States, and was raised in Bar Harbor, on the Maine coast. He retained the distinctive accent peculiar to the region, the languid down-east drawl found nowhere else on earth.
As usual, Lou held a cigarette in the nicotine stained fingers of his left hand. Harris couldn’t remember ever having seen Hamilton when he didn’t have a lighted cigarette. Why Lou Hamilton, a four-pack-a-day smoker for more than thirty years, had not long ago succumbed to lung cancer was a mystery that would never be explained.
“It’s been a while,” Harris agreed, accepting Hamilton’s hug. “I don’t get around much anymore,” he added, patting the arm of his wheelchair.
“Aw, hell, Harry. You’re a better lawyer on two wheels that any of these new kids are on two legs.”
“Maybe. But juries aren’t always that open-minded. It wouldn’t be fair to bet my clients’ freedom on the feelings a jury might have about a crippled defense attorney.”
Hamilton tensed at Harris’ reference to himself as a cripple. The description came too close to what Hamilton thought when he first saw Harris in his wheelchair.
“I hear you partnered up with Lucius White,” Hamilton said as he led Harris through the kitchen and out to the screened porch at the rear of his house. The screen was superfluous. Lizards and flies passed freely through large tears and helped themselves to the remnants of pizza, at least a week old, sitting in the box on the rusting remains of a patio table.
“Yeah. Lucius and I have been together for a couple of years. I was pretty far gone after the accident.” Harris paused as the painful memory returned and slowly subsided, like a wave on the shore. “Lucius stuck by me. He helped me through rehabilitation, got me dried out, and gave me a home. I owe him a lot.”
“He’s a good attorney.”
“And a good friend. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
“But you didn’t come out here to catch up on old times,” Hamilton said as he dropped into a wrought iron chair. “My guess is you’re interested in the guys that got picked up in the big drug bust.”
“What do you know about it?”
Hamilton shrugged. “Not much.”
“Come on, Lou. Nothing happens on the Island that you don’t know about.”
“I hear things,” Hamilton said as he shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit up.
Harris waited until Hamilton inhaled and blew three perfect smoke rings before continuing. “What do you hear about the bust?”
“Those boys got some bad folks mad at them.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They were set up, pure and simple.”
“How do you know?”
“According to the Sheriff’s deputy, they got your basic anonymous call telling them where to look and what they were likely to find.”
“Where did the call come from?”
“I don’t know. I hear Paul Parker got the call on his cell phone so they couldn’t get a trace on it. It was probably a cloned cell phone anyway. That’s how those boys usually do it.”
“Those boys?”
“Sheriff figures it was probably some sort of double-cross. The smart money says those guys ripped off a major player and this was payback.”
“What smart money is there on Pine Island, Lou.”
“Ain’t none, Harry. I’m talking about what the State police are saying.”
“Why are they interested in a drug bust out here?”
“Two kilos is a big bust no matter where it takes place. Hell, that’s even big by Miami standards. The troopers are talking about it all over the state.”
“Interesting,” Harris said. “Do you have any particular reason for thinking it was a set-up?”
“Just good guesses, as far as I know.”
“But if it was a set-up, someone had to have a reason for getting Shepard and Jackson arrested. Who stood to gain by it?”
Hamilton shrugged. “I suppose that’s something you’ll have to figure out.”
“What can you tell me about Shepard and Jackson?”
“Not much. They never came down to this end of the island. They’ve been around for a couple of months. Drunk or stoned most of the time from what I hear.”
“If the authorities knew they were doing drugs, why weren’t they picked up earlier?”
Hamilton downed a swig of beer before answering. “Parker and the Sheriff hav
e a sort of flexible policy on drugs.”
“Paul always was a realist.”
“It’s more than just that,” Hamilton continued. “He used to be a narcotics cop. He put himself through law school while he was on the force.”
“I’d forgotten that. Over in Miami, wasn’t it?”
Hamilton slapped his thigh and laughed. “I said you were as sharp as ever.”
Suddenly Harris closed his eyes, grimaced and shook his head as if trying to clear water from his ears.
“Are you okay, Harry?”
“Just a little… headache.”
“Do you want an aspirin?”
A minute passed, during which Harris fought waves of nausea and pain before he could reply. “No, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Harris closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. He opened his eyes and looked around as if trying to get his bearings. “Yeah. I’ve just been having these damned headaches lately.” He forced a smile that he didn’t feel and continued. “You were telling me about Paul’s drug policy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Hamilton said. He eyed his friend suspiciously, seemingly satisfying himself that Harris was okay before continuing. “So, like I was saying, Paul knows where the real drug money is. Why waste the taxpayers’ money on folks who aren’t hurting anyone but themselves? All we have down here are artists and fishermen. They’re not a problem for anyone. As long as they’re just using, everyone sorta looks the other way.”
“Uh Huh,” Harris said. “How long have Shepard and Jackson been here?”
“I don’t rightly know. Couple a’ months I think.”
“Do you know where they came from?”
“Naw. They just showed up.”
“They ever been around here before?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have they been dealing drugs locally?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. They were just a couple of wasted stoners who shared what they had and didn’t bother anyone.”
“So why is there all of a sudden an interest in them?”
“They were caught with two kilos of uncut cocaine. That’s felony weight.”
“But you said you didn’t think they were dealing.”
Hamilton stood, lit another cigarette and walked to the side of the screen porch facing the canal. “I said I hadn’t heard anything about them dealing. There’s a difference.”
The Nominee Page 5