The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  The waterside deck of the T&A was forty feet deep and stretched a hundred feet along the white sand beach. The decking planks were old and weathered to a silver gray. A good pressure washing and some wood sealer would have restored the natural color of the wood, but George Blake thought that too much polish would make his little piece of the world look too much like a California fern bar. He’d seen more than enough fern-bars when he was stationed at Camp Joseph M. Pendleton north of San Diego. Real men, by whom Blake meant marines and those like them, didn’t go to fern bars. Blake preferred the weathered nautical look.

  On any weekend afternoon or evening, the deck of the T&A was filled with suntanned bodies. Now, however, it was virtually empty. White and Horse found a seat at a table on the far corner of the deck, under the shade of the Tiki hut, away from the main bar. A few sparrows hopped from the railing to the various wooden tables and benches searching out scraps.

  Less than five minutes after White and Horse arrived, a hulking black man appeared by the bar. A brief, but apparently friendly, exchange between the man and the bartender said he was probably a regular patron of the T&A.

  Horse stood and raised a hand. The man wore a light blue suit and a dark blue silk shirt with the collar over the collar of his jacket. His shirt was open halfway to the waist revealing a dozen gold chains around his neck. His boots were made of the skin of a deceased reptile. He also wore a gold Rolex watch, and the diamond in his pinky ring could have been mistaken for an ice cube. White immediately pictured a gold-trimmed pink Cadillac convertible with lamb-skin seat-covers sitting in the parking lot.

  “Hey there, Pony,” he greeted Horse, his smile revealing two gold-capped teeth. White smiled at the greeting, an apparent reference to the fact that, at six-six and a well-toned two-hundred-ninety, Horse was still small by comparison to the other man. One thing was certain. The man was someone to be reckoned with in his community.

  The man grinned at White and said, “They call me Tiny.”

  “That would have been my guess.”

  Tiny laughed and took White’s hand in his enormous paw.

  A waitress in tight short shorts and a t-shirt knotted beneath her breasts brought White’s Diet Pepsi and a beer for Horse. “Can I get you anything?” she asked Tiny.

  Tiny gave her his toothiest grin. “Girl, just seein’ you in that little outfit be all the refreshment I be needin’.”

  The waitress smiled and backed away.

  Tiny turned his attention to Horse. “You been a busy boy, Pony.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “Guess so,” Tiny laughed. “But you also been makin’ people nervous.”

  “Who?” Horse asked.

  “People who’d rather you didn’t ask too many questions about our business.”

  The reference to ‘our business’ caught White’s attention. He started to say something when a look from Horse silenced him.

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” Horse said.

  “You not aware of lots of things, Pony.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you seem to think your problem is on the east coast.”

  White couldn’t control himself any longer. “What problem are you referring to?”

  “What problem you investigatin’, counselor?”

  White considered the question, debating how much of the investigation he should reveal. The fact was, he still didn’t know whether he was investigating trafficking in heroin or cocaine, or something else. Finally, he said, “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know.”

  Tiny laughed. “That’s good, counselor. You pretty sharp.”

  “Horse says you have information that may help us.”

  Tiny laughed again. “Got lots of information.”

  White waited.

  The man leaned forward, resting his enormous forearms on the table. “You looking at the wrong connection.”

  “We’re looking where the facts take us.”

  “You got the wrong facts.”

  “What are the right facts?”

  “Shepard and Jackson got busted for snow, right?”

  White’s eyes narrowed and creases formed on his forehead. “That’s what was discovered.”

  “They wasn’t dealing snow.”

  White studied Tiny and wondered where the conversation was going. “How do you know?”

  “Cause I know everything.” Tiny was no longer smiling.

  “You’re not being very specific.”

  “Gotta be sure I can trust you.”

  “You’re the one who said you could help us.”

  “Got something that be helpful. Just not sure ’bout sharin’.”

  “What would make you sure?”

  Tiny ignored him. “I hear you don’t like prosecutors.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t think they all play by the rules.”

  “That be sure.”

  “What’s your problem with prosecutors — aside from the fact that they’d like to see you in jail?”

  “Don’t like paying to stay out of jail.”

  Am I hearing right? White cocked his head. “And…?

  “Price of doing business is going up.”

  “Who’s raising the price?”

  “Don’t know fo’ sure.”

  “Who are you paying?”

  “Pay the man who makes sure I got no problems.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He drives a dark blue Porsche.”

  “With Dade county plates?”

  Tiny made a gun with his forefinger and thumb and dropped the hammer.

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Most folks just call him “the Cambodian.’”

  “And he’s collecting for protection from the authorities?”

  “Ain’t that what I just said?”

  “And he’s squeezing you for more?”

  Tiny nodded. “Like I said, the price of business is going up.”

  “Who does the man with the Porsche work for?”

  “Can’t say. But he just the collector. He got to work for someone else.”

  “Is it possible that he works for an attorney.”

  Tiny leaned back and relaxed. “I heard something about that. But I don’ know anything I could prove.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “If I were you, I’d be watching my back.”

  White’s heart began pounding, and he fought to control his breathing. “Why’s that?”

  “The Cambodian been asking questions ’bout you?

  “Oh. What kind of questions?”

  “The kind you ask ’bout folks you don’t like.”

  White’s fingers curled into fists. “That’s good to know. Do you have any other information you’d like to share?”

  “That be enough for now,” Tiny said as he stood to leave. “Yo’ have a happy Christmas.”

  White and Horse watched Tiny’s back disappear through the sliding glass door into the dining room. “Interesting friend,” White said.

  “I have a diverse circle of friends.”

  “You like to stay in touch with the little people. … Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  “Of course,” Horse agreed. “Tiny is also helpful when we get threats.”

  “You mean…”

  “He’s been known to watch folk’s backs.”

  White nodded knowingly. “Tiny also likes to keep his secrets.”

  “He likes his freedom.”

  “Then why is he saying anything?”

  “He wouldn’t tell you anything if there wasn’t something in it for him.”

  White considered the conversation with Tiny before continuing. “He’s being squeezed.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But who’s squeezing him?”

  “Sounds like it’s the same people that Shepard and Jackson were working for.”

  White paused while he considered the possibilities. “What do you t
hink they’re squeezing the local dealers for?

  “Could be the suppliers raising the price of the product they’re selling the local dealers.”

  White shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was talking about the cost of protection.”

  “Maybe one distributor is just protecting his dealers from a rival distributor.”

  White pursed his lips. “It’s possible. But I think there’s something more to it?

  “Like what?”

  “I think dealers are being forced to pay the authorities to avoid being arrested.”

  “Maybe. But what do you think he expects from you?”

  “He thinks that solving Shepard’s problem will also solve his own.”

  30.

  Two days before Christmas, Miami was engulfed in a shroud of heat, humidity, and haze. The crush of afternoon traffic, last-minute shoppers and those leaving work early for the long holiday weekend only made matters worse.

  Lucius White wiped the perspiration from his forehead as he trotted down the steps in front of the Miami Police Department.

  A black limousine pulled to the curb. The driver stepped out and approached him.

  “Mr. White?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Mr. White. Congressman St. James would like to see you.”

  How very interesting. “I’m a little busy just know.”

  The driver looked at White as if he wasn’t sure he had heard him right. He was apparently not accustomed to having requests by the Congressman rejected. He tried again. “Sir, Congressman St. James would like to see you.”

  “I heard what you said, and my schedule hasn’t changed in the last ten seconds. Tell the Congressman ‘thank you.’ If he wants to see me, he can make an appointment like everybody else. I’m at the Coral Reef Hotel.”

  The driver remained standing, speechless, beside the limousine, staring at White’s back as he walked away.

  #

  Back at his hotel, White dialed the number for his apartment. When Leslie answered, he told her, “Something came up at the last minute. I’m going to spend the night in Miami.”

  “Did you find a slinky bimbo on South Beach?” Leslie teased.

  “More like a slimy slug.”

  “Huh?”

  “Congressman St. James sent a limousine to collect me for a command appearance.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “I think he followed the trail of breadcrumbs. I was checking up on him with the police and his limousine was waiting for outside the police station.”

  “You’re getting more important. Until now, the only people who send limousines to get you were felons.”

  “I’m not sure anything has changed.”

  It took Leslie a moment to understand what White was implying. “If he already sent a car for you, why do you have to stay overnight?”

  “I was too busy to see him this afternoon.”

  “And were you really? Busy, I mean.”

  “I wanted to see Harry. I went to visit him at the convalescent facility.”

  For a moment, Leslie didn’t say anything. White understood what she was thinking and waited. Finally, she asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “According to the nurses, he seems to be a little more alert than he has been.”

  “Isn’t that a good sign?”

  White revisited the debate he had been having with himself since leaving the rehabilitation center. “Probably.” Why ruin her holidays with the truth. “He isn’t as responsive as they’d like, but it takes time.” White hated lying to Leslie, but the truth about Harry’s condition — he was completely non-responsive — wasn’t something she needed to know. Not now. Not by phone.

  “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “Wait for the Congressman to contact me again.”

  “What makes you think he’ll try again?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “But how will he be able to find you?”

  “I told him where I’d be staying.”

  “Are you always so generous with your assistance to the bad guys?”

  “Only when I don’t think they’re smart enough to find me on their own.”

  “If you want to see the Congressman, why didn’t you go see him this afternoon?”

  “I wanted to see what you’ve come up with first.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Maybe. I spent the afternoon searching the online morgue of the Miami Herald and…” White heard the rustle of papers. “Most of what I found was just routine campaign stuff.”

  “But?”

  “I came across some pictures of the Congressman at campaign events and fund-raisers. Some of the people the Congressman is being chummy with are interesting.”

  “Barlow?”

  “Among others.”

  “Who else?”

  “The esteemed esquires Arthur Bell, Tommy Lester, and Don Wright.”

  “Interesting. A former narcotics detective being chummy with defense attorneys who represent big-time drug dealers.”

  “There were also some society page pictures of the Congressman hamming it up with a few other politicians and, get this, Lyle Wilson.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yes shit.”

  “When did he appear anywhere with Wilson?”

  “Let’s see,” Leslie said as she shuffled through printouts. “There’s one from the Fourth of July celebration with some veterans group… and another from a charity ball on December 1st. They must have had something to do with the gala because they were both in the receiving line.”

  “I might have something to discuss with the Congressman after all.”

  “And there’s something else. Horse got curious about any connections that might exist between Graham and the Congressman. He spent a couple hours playing with his computer… trying to find anywhere that both Graham’s and St. James’s name appeared.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t find any direct connections between them.”

  “But?” White knew Leslie wouldn’t have brought the subject up if they hadn’t discovered something.

  “He found a connection between Graham and the Congressman’s brother, Robert St. James.”

  White retrieved a legal pad from his briefcase and scribbled a note. “Interesting.”

  “I thought you’d like that,” Leslie said. “And get this. Robert St. James spent some time as a guest of the federal government. He was released from the prison camp at Saufley Field a little over a year ago.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “Horse is working on that, but I may have something even more interesting. I think Graham is still holding out on us.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “According to Graham, his investigation was supposed to be looking into corruption in the Miami office of the U. S. attorney.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Graham also said that the investigation was being conducted under the auspices of the Public Integrity Section of the Department of Justice.”

  “And?”

  “The Public Integrity Section doesn’t investigate U.S. attorneys. It investigates corruption in the judiciary and public officials. Investigations of activities in the offices of the U. S. attorney are conducted by the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Amen. Graham was never after the federal prosecutors. He was investigating corruption in the state judicial system.”

  “No wonder he wasn’t concerned with Wilson.”

  “But where does that leave us?”

  “I’m not sure, but I see a lot of water and no paddles.”

  Leslie laughed. “Will you call me after your meeting?”

  “Nothing could keep me from doing just that.”

  “Not even a slinky bimbo from South Beach?”

  “Well, maybe that.”

  #

&
nbsp; The Conch Shell Lounge at the Coral Reef Hotel was indistinguishable from a thousand similar bars in a thousand hotels. The nets, floats, shells and inflated puffer fish were equally interchangeable with the faux maritime adornments of any nautical bar or seafood restaurant in the city. Even the artificial Christmas tree with blue and green lights had a standard stock number in a restaurant supply catalog.

  White arrived at eight o’clock and took a seat at the ornately carved bar opposite the entrance to the lounge. The mirror over the bar gave him an unobstructed view of the entrance and anyone who might come in. The cocktail crowd had dispersed to their rooms or dinner, and the serious evening drinkers had not yet appeared in numbers. White ordered a Diet Pepsi with two squeezes of lime and settled in to wait.

  Forty-five minutes, three’s Pepsis, a plate of complimentary peeled cold shrimp and one trip to the men’s room later, White was beginning to think he had misjudged the Congressman. A commotion at the entrance to the lounge saved him from having to consider the possibility. The Congressman, complete with a plastic smile and the obligatory minions in tow, greeted his constituents with back slaps and hearty seasonal wishes as he headed for a table in the corner of the room. Being the farthest location from the bar and the free food, it was relatively isolated. White watched as the Congressman’s staffers dropped bills on the nearby tables, said a few words and the table occupants moved elsewhere.

  Less than a minute later, a deep voice behind him said, “Mr. White. Congressman St. James would like a moment of your time.”

  White turned to face the voice. One look at the man behind him told White that the Congressman learned quickly and knew how to send a more explicit message. Any correlation between the polite request and the man facing him was purely coincidental. The man was a thug. He knew it, White knew it, and he knew White knew it. Things were always easier when everyone knew where the other players stood.

  White was tempted to ask a question about Faye Wray but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, “Is the Congressman buying?”

  Either King Kong had bad ears or no sense of humor — not that it mattered which. The firm grip on White’s shoulder as he said, “Come with me, please,” left no doubt that the Congressman would not accept another refusal.