Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  But, then, Rose smiled, and she was gone.

  I

  Blanche didn’t open her eyes as she lay in the bed, but that was all right. She could move her arms and legs, and that was something new. She couldn’t do that before; she was glad she could do it now. A familiar voice was yelling in her ear: “Bang!”

  She knew that voice. Jack.

  “What are you doing here?” The question was almost a whisper, low and gravelly, and she wanted to know why he was yelling. She remembered a field with purple flowers, talking to her mother, and now she was here. And she thought of Haasi, sitting next to her through the dream that had lasted for days.

  “You’re in Bradenton Memorial, and you’re alive.” She felt a large thump next to her, she guessed it was on top of the bed. She wasn’t on the ground anymore. She was clean, and the sheets felt smooth. She tried to keep her eyes open, and this time it worked, not very well, but she could see the outline of Jack’s head next to her, pitched forward on the white sheet. He raised his head. He looked terrible, shocked even. His face was puffy and his eyes were rimmed red.

  “Jack, you don’t look so hot.”

  “Blanche, it’s been almost five days. You almost died. You were so dehydrated; they thought you were a goner. Oh my God, Bang, I’m so glad you’re back. It takes an awful lot… to kill a… Murninghan.”

  “That’s a whole book.”

  Jack did not appear to be amused. He looked exhausted, but relief crept into his eyes.

  “She’s wide awake.” A nurse stood in the doorway. She called down the hall then walked over to Blanche and picked up her hand. “Welcome back.”

  “Where have I been?”

  The doctor was there, next to the nurse. The two buzzed hurriedly over Blanche’s chart, and the doctor whisked out the door. Jack hadn’t budged from his spot. He held on to Blanche’s hand. “They drugged you and threw you out in that field. You’ve been delirious or sleeping for almost a week.”

  “All right. That’s enough now.” The nurse planted herself between Jack and Blanche. “Don’t you think it’s time for us to get a cup of coffee?” She was addressing Jack, but it didn’t sound like a cozy invitation. She clearly wanted him out of there.

  Jack called Cappy, who had been sitting next to Blanche all week. Cap had finally gone home to check on his house, take a shower, and eat something besides cafeteria food. Jack had worried about him. One patient in the hospital was enough.

  Liza had been visiting, too, practically begging Blanche to get better, and Peaches came almost every day, bringing croissants and muffins, hoping the aroma would trigger a wake-up call. Many of her neighbors called, sent flowers, dropped by.

  Blanche was happy to be back and on the mend, and grateful. She’d been mixed up in the murder investigation and in saving Tuna Street and the whole rest of it. This she remembered. As for her trip in the van that ended in a scrubby stretch of no-man’s-land in the middle of Florida, it was all a vague recollection. It began with that hand reaching out of the passenger’s side and grabbing her. She remembered Haasi’s terrified expression, and the driver talking, and mercifully, that was about the end of it.

  Where is Haasi? She lay back and dozed off.

  There are the things I heard. I need to tell her to get ready.

  She had this yearning to see her, and Rose. If it hadn’t been for them, she’d probably be dead.

  I

  “Blanche.” Haasi sat in a chair next to the hospital bed. She held Blanche’s hand and patted it. Blanche opened her eyes. She tried to sit up.

  “It’s a mess.”

  “Yes, but you have started something that needs finishing. We are going to finish it.”

  “I’d just like to finish one night’s sleep. Impossible in here. I need to get home.” She started to lean forward and Haasi gently arranged the pillow behind her back. She smiled. The spunk appeared to be returning.

  “Yes, you will leave here. That is a very good idea.”

  At that, Blanche swung her legs out of the bed and stood up. She wobbled some, one hand on the mattress. “I feel good. I just need some fresh air, and exercise.”

  “If you can, practice walking. Some breathing techniques. Exercise, cautiously, like you did before this happened.”

  Then Blanche got her bearings. “Haasi, I heard them. They’re planning a major drug drop. A big one.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “May be connected to Conchita Beach. I heard that goon on the radio, or phone, or something when he was driving me out. He thought he’d knocked me out with a shot of some kind, but I wasn’t completely under.”

  “Well. That is a fit. I hear something is happening at the High Tide. Jack and the DEA and Duncan are talking.”

  “How do you know all this?” But Blanche knew better than to expect an answer. Haasi smiled.

  “I’ll find out more,” she said. Something in the way she said that made Blanche’s spine stiffen. Like a shot of B vitamin, or adrenaline. She could feel her limbs kick in.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “I will return with an update.”

  “I suppose I could get up and walk out of here.” She paced around the room and back to Haasi.

  “Blanche, stay. For now. Get stronger.”

  “Murder. Lying and deceit and ruination of the island. The kidnapping.” Blanche’s eyes were bright and cheeks rosy. She did a tentative push-up against the wall, then five more.

  Haasi put her hand on Blanche’s shoulder. “Get rest. Promise.”

  Blanche reluctantly climbed into bed. How can I be energized and tired at the same time?

  But she was exhausted. She’d suffered trauma. No doubt. There had been talk of the effects of “reversible coma” and possible “organ damage,” but the worst worries and predictions proved false. Toxicology tests confirmed that Blanche had been drugged. It was the theory—though a weak one—that the drugs, which were as yet unidentified, had slowed her metabolism and may have been a factor in her survival. If she had tried to move, with no water and no protection beyond where she was left to die, Blanche might have spent what little strength she had and run out of time. Theories went back and forth.

  Blanche knew she was just plain lucky. Heaven and earth were on her side. She had stayed alive with the unmistakable intervention of her mother and the girl with shining dark eyes. Rose had stood next to her in that deserted land and did not leave her until help came. She would always believe her mother saved her life by willing her to hang on. Haasi handled logistics on the ground. She’d led that search party directly to the field where they found Blanche. Comatose. The medics began treatment, and the hospital took over right after the helicopter landed on the roof of Bradenton Memorial.

  The details were a blur. She floated into half-sleep, still a bit confused by all that had happened. But one thing was certain in the hazy hours. Blanche was not alone.

  And now. A drug bust? Blanche opened her eyes. She looked around for Haasi, but she was gone. Blanche stretched her arms and legs, determined to rest up for the wild ride.

  Thirty-Six —

  Meanwhile, Back at the Station

  Duncan had been very busy putting pieces together. He held a report in his hand that conveniently fit the puzzle:

  Authorities had found the van, abandoned, in a stand of mangroves near Tampa. In the back of it were women’s shoes, both size five, one string sandal and the other a tennis shoe. The footwear was traced to Haasi and Blanche. The van was dusted for fingerprints and those findings were on the way to be matched with Blanche’s cellophane wrapper.

  Haasi appeared in the doorway to Duncan’s office. She smiled at the chief and curled herself into a padded metal chair in front of his desk.

  “You need more information. I went to that meeting in the town hall and I saw something was not right with that man. I was tracking him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I am around. You know I overheard the
man in the motel room, and I have seen him in many places.”

  Duncan produced Langstrom’s photo, and Haasi nodded. “That is him. And, yes, he is very bad. His language, too. Not so good.”

  “Hmmm. He was at the Sun and Fun Resort here. Well, you know where he was staying.”

  “Yes, I overheard talk of where they put Blanche. And, oh, he wanted money put in a Swiss bank account.”

  “Now, isn’t that interesting?” He was leaning back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “Money. Keeps turning up.”

  “Yes, it is a bad root.”

  The chief sprang forward. “We are going to need more information, Haasi.”

  She uncurled herself from the chair and put both very small hands on his desk. “Oh, chief, you need much information, and help.” Her dark eyes gleamed at him. He sat back and tented his fingers.

  “We’ll be in touch. We’re closer. Not there yet, but definitely closer. You give that Blanche a big hug from her police chief.”

  Haasi produced a rare grin.

  Duncan did not mention that Sergi had disappeared, and that Brecksall-Lam had taken no responsibility for the actions of a lawyer they hired to represent them. The latest comment from a spokesperson at the firm boiled down to this: “People may make odd decisions over which we have no control, nor liability.”

  Duncan told the person at Brecksall-Lam: “We’ll see about that.”

  I

  DEA was fully on board now, based on Jack’s disclosure that the trucking division for Brecksall was into drug-running. A peremptory raid of a delivery of unbelievably heavy leather hassocks to the Chicago warehouse confirmed it, and the sordid route was still being untangled. The company of Brecksall and Lam was circling the drain, for all Duncan could figure, but officially nothing had been proven. Their dealings were on hold while their books and employees were under investigation. And that included Jack and his newly acquired trucking division.

  “Jack, what are you going to do now? What’s the plan?” He sat in Duncan’s office, his hands between his knees, looking somewhat like he’d been run over by one of his own trucks.

  “They told me to hold tight, for now.”

  “Who?”

  “DEA. I’m an informant, Dunc. Remember? Local island boy makes good.” He didn’t look good; he looked greyish instead of tannish. “We’ll talk to the agent soon. Think you know him, Hank Miles.”

  “Sure do. Like him. But I prefer to go fishing with him—for fish, not drugs.” Dunc sighed.

  The chief got up and came around the desk to Jack. They were the only ones in the office, but he still whispered. “What the hell is happening, Jack? How? Just how did all this happen?”

  “It’s a long story. No, actually, a pretty short one. I took a long walk off a short pier. I thought I could cut corners; I needed a trucking division so bad for that new business, and, bingo, there it was. I can just hear Gran. You don’t get somethin’ for nuttin’, and there really are no good short cuts.”

  “You got that right, son. We’ll figure this out somehow. I’m not sure how, but we will. I’ll keep you informed. Oh. But that’s you, isn’t it. The informant.”

  Jack gave him a rueful smile. “That’s me.”

  Thirty-Seven —

  Bringing in the Feds

  DEA Agent Hank Miles walked into Duncan’s office a few days after Blanche woke up. He held a pile of notebooks, some of which belonged to Blanche. Duncan had shared some of the information, and Blanche was only too happy to get it out there to the authorities.

  “The lady has a way with words,” he said, looking up at Duncan. “We can identify the driver pretty well with this description. Did you get the prints back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I need to talk with her about the kidnapping,” said Miles. He scratched his red beard and ran a hand through his straight black hair. They called him “Red” when his temper flared, which was not often. So far he’d been taking on this new assignment, cool and collected.

  “Blanche just woke up a few days ago out of that near coma. The scumbags drugged her, dumped her on an old cattle ranch. It’s a damn miracle we got her back.”

  “Whew. You can bet on that. I know the place. We’ve uncovered a number of bodies out there, and when the animals get through with them…”

  “All right, all right.” Duncan didn’t want the details. “You said you wanted to talk to Haasi? You’ll just have to be patient. I can’t get hold of her, but she’ll show up.”

  She didn’t have a phone. But she must have heard the call because there she was, standing in the doorway. She wore a bright yellow beaded shirt and a long braid neatly circled her head like a crown. Her sudden appearance startled the two men. Her eyes focused on them.

  “I saw you arrive,” she said to Miles. “I thought I would give you a moment with the chief.” She walked in and sat in an armchair, crossing her legs that barely touched the floor.

  Miles got up out of his slouch and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Thanks for coming in. Let’s talk.” And Haasi did.

  I

  The driver as yet had not been apprehended, but every law enforcement agency had him on the blotter. He was not traced to the license number, but a witness had come forward, under a certain amount of pressure from the chief of Bonnam County and the Feds, and matched certain details of the van and the man to one Caribbean career criminal, a Dominique Placer, whose last name was Spanish for “pleasure.” There was nothing pleasurable in Placer’s background. A native of the Dominican Republic, of mixed French, Spanish and German extraction, Placer had somehow gotten himself into the USA and obtained citizenship. He moved to Chicago in his early twenties and involved himself with a remnant of the Chicago mob, a semi-extinct bunch of racketeers who had mostly been sent up under RICO—the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. He was the quintessential go-to for any crime on the agenda and would do anything for money. That meant killing, kidnapping, and confiscating that which did not belong to him. He was also tied up with drug smuggling, and that was one of the reasons Hank Miles had come to see Aloysius Duncan.

  He and Miles sauntered over to Peaches. Duncan once more tried to digest an omelet he had a weakness for, and Miles made three blueberry-nut muffins disappear.

  “We’ve got a couple of threads going here,” said Duncan. “The killing, the kidnapping. And this drug business. Like a constant thorn in my shoe.” The two sat back and looked at each other. “Lord, where did we go wrong.”

  “I don’t think we is the operative word. We didn’t do this, but we will figure it out.” Miles finished off the crumbs.

  “Bob’s favorite,” the chief added, stacking the litter of muffin wrappers. Peaches kept her eye on the handsome agent. She’d filled his coffee cup several times and brought him a cranberry-date muffin on the house, to top it all.

  “Well, he had good taste.” Then Miles frowned. “We need to get this sorted out, Dunc. A good place to start is with this hit man. He’s going to open up a lot of doors if we can get him to open his mouth.”

  “Yeah. Well, first we have to find him.”

  “We’re on it.”

  “What have you got planned down here?”

  “A bust. We’ll get into it later. We’ve already got agents in the field who are putting it together. But it’s a big one. This one reaches from Honduras to San Antonio and up to Chicago. But the net is bigger. Jack Murninghan really stepped in it.”

  The omelet burned. Duncan popped a Tums and shook his head. “Jack. What do you know?”

  “That trucking business. He went in full bore and didn’t look where he was going, as far as we can tell. But now he’s helping us out.”

  They got up and meandered back to the office. The two had known each other for years, and along with the talk of the criminals, they always got back to fishing stories and football. They liked each other even though they were supposed to be frictional counterparts, wor
king in different fields of law. Miles hadn’t had any official business on the island until now.

  “Think there’s any relation to the Conchita Beach drops?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Miles.

  They walked across the parking lot to the police department, which was no more than a squat white cinder block building on a canal near the marina. Emma had planted bougainvillea at the door and vinca and butterfly bushes under the windows, and the station had the cheery aspect of a fat lady all dressed up. Duncan called it home, at least ten hours a day lately. He opened the door for Miles.

  “What I still don’t get is why you call yourself the Drug Enforcement Administration. Are you administering the enforcement of drugs?”

  Miles did not take the bait. “Ha Ha. That’s funny, Al.”

  Duncan fell into his chair and put his elbows on the desk. “I don’t like this business. I hope you’re here until we sort this out.”

  “I am. And we will. Believe me.”

  Miles put his feet on an upended wastebasket and balanced a large coffee cup on his taut stomach. He played the air guitar while he considered the Santa Maria situation. If given a real guitar, police business would have sounded a lot better. He’d been accused of stealing the ghost of Robert Johnson, a soubriquet that Miles both appreciated and feared. It was hard to walk in another man’s shoes, and sometimes it was a good idea. It was one of the reasons Miles was such a good DEA agent. He was skeptical and intuitive—with a good streak of empathy and humility. He was “down to earth,” according to his friend, Duncan.

  “Jack Murninghan is next on the agenda.” Miles poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. He made a face at the bitter taste. “Dunc, why can’t you make a decent cup of coffee?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Duncan ignored the remark about the coffee. He’d drink battery acid if it were presented in a foam cup. He pointed his finger at Miles. “Go talk to him.”

  “We need your help.”