Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  Tony clamped his lips in sympathetic agreement and patted Sal on the back. “You got it. Been a good run, and we aim to keep runnin’. Those Conchita Beach drops won’t end any time soon.”

  Miles pulled his ear, a signal to Jack to play it down. He continued a less animated discussion of Mike Ditka. “Oh, yeah.” Miles slipped that in—between some generality about the ‘85 Bears and their latest quarterback.

  They swigged the beer. They studied the horizon. A string of tiny lights like diamonds was lined up far away, the night fishing boats setting up to haul in the catch by morning. It was a clear night, perfect for a low-level flight over the barrier keys. A perfect night for a catch. They took deep, deep breaths.

  Jack hunched his shoulders at Miles. It was almost impossible at this point to look casual, a guy enjoying the last of a late night at the bar. But he had to try.

  Miles called it in. All clear. He did not use a phone—the beauty of new technology. He triggered the no-hands, no-phone call to other agents on the ground. Jack was supposed to retreat when the actual drop occurred, protect his cover. But he would be around. He planned to be part of this operation. Simple, fast, and clean.

  His eye landed on Blanche and Haasi, both of them animated, sitting in a booth in the bar. And then he did a double take. Liza had joined them. A light shone down on them, laughing and talking. Concern hardened his features, but he seemed determined to stay focused.

  “They’re ready. Agents in place,” said Miles. He still stared out at the bay, his hands folded on the railing. “Jack, you gotta lay low and get the women out of here.”

  “I’m workin’ on that.”

  “Don’t cause a scene. Let’s play along for now. We might have to leave it the way it is and crank in extra protection for them.” He spoke above a whisper, his eyes trained on the horizon.

  “With all that’s going on? They need to go.” Jack bounced off the railing, but Miles held his arm. “Hey, how ‘bout that new linebacker?” Miles’s voice went up a notch. Jack sighed.

  “Good thing Sal is here. He didn’t see you but you can ID the guy big time.” Miles talked through his teeth, topped with a hearty laugh for cover. He still had a hold of Jack’s arm.

  “Just wish it would be over. What time is it?” Jack wiped sweat off his forehead though the night was a cool seventy.

  “Almost game time.”

  I

  Sal was expecting a shipment in Chicago the same night the Mephisto was to drop its load in the Florida bay. Miles couldn’t believe the luck of the circumstances. Jack could place Sal at the scene of the crime in Florida, and agents in Chicago would follow up at the warehouse. If all went well, Sal was going to be cooked. Miles and the team had worked hard to catch the big fish, but they would settle for bringing in half a dozen other players, too, if it all worked out.

  They had done everything they could to intercept the deal. Now, they had to wait. Miles had been on more than one raid, and each one was different, but one thread remained the same: greed and product. He was after the live fish he could throw in the tank. They were fish that swam for their lives. They were talking fish. Miles was hoping he’d catch some talking fish at High Tide, along with a sizable stash of product that would put all of them away for a long time.

  They expected cocaine, heroin, and marijuana in the drop, but sometimes that bonanza didn’t happen. Sometimes they got one supplier, and one product, out of the way, with a plan to go back for more. And sometimes they were just lucky to make a nice sweep of it. Miles was counting on the latter, according to his sources. Jack had snooped around at Brecksall-Lam, but came up with nothing. No one was talking about any illegal transport or investigation. At least, not yet.

  Tony and Sal headed to the back office. Two o’clock was closing time on a weeknight. It was last call.

  Miles field-stripped his cigarette and put it in his pocket. It was better than throwing it out where the birds and fish could choke on it. Wasn’t that important? Apparently not, as Miles looked over the deck railing and saw dozens of cigarette butts down at the water’s edge under the dock.

  He also saw a row of motorboats, nice and shiny, of similar make. He’d been informed. The boats were ready to take on their cargo and race off to the trucks for distribution. He noted how they were anchored and also noted that they were pointed at the only means of outlet. They would have to cross the bay. All the possible trajectories had been researched, but Miles double-checked this with agents. They had located the trucks on the mainland side between Bradenton and Sarasota and scoped the territory. If the Mephisto didn’t land at the High Tide and instead picked a random spot, the agents had to be ready to move and intercept at the receiving end.

  All bases had been covered, but even the best plans had flaws. Miles had seen his share of screw-ups in his twelve years as a DEA agent, and their cost in time, money and personnel was an outrageous waste. They always happened because someone did not do the job.

  Miles checked his watch. The plane was due over the bay near the High Tide between 2:15 and 2:30. It was a low-level flight plan, difficult to follow on radar. So far, the communication was that the Mephisto had one other scheduled drop and then would fly on to the High Tide. The plane would not be close to local water for more than sixty seconds; it would skim the surface, drop the product, and be gone.

  The agents had worked out a plan of split-second timing to intercept the shipment, gather all the crooks, and get out of there. Miles had his end lined up. The shipment from the Mephisto would never make it to the trucks. At least, that was the plan.

  Forty-Three —

  The Catch

  Blanche, Haasi, and Liza sat in the large corner booth at the High Tide, and they had company. Sal had decided to join them after Haasi engaged him in an earnest conversation about island history. She wove a tale of pirates, hurricanes, and sea creatures that had been spotted but not verified, and she encouraged him to drink. A lot.

  Miles wanted the women gone, but it was too late. The flight was coming in soon, and Miles couldn’t afford to create conflict. He’d have to call for back-up to keep the women clear. Jack had gotten Blanche off to the side and told her to get out of there, but she walked off.

  Sal ordered round after round, and he got drunker and drunker. Tony came out of the back office once or twice and pulled Sal aside, but the party continued. Blanche had the idea that Tony preferred his comrades in the drug trade to remain sober, at least until after the drop. But Sal didn’t seem the least bit worried. He talked about having a frolic on the beach with the girls the next day. Everything was going to be wonderful on this mini va-cay.

  He didn’t know who Blanche was. He’d removed himself from the politics of Santa Maria Island and left the machinations to Sergi Langstrom, R.I.P. But Blanche knew him—the one nosing around her property on Tuna Street. He’d called her “the island chick.”

  Blanche and Haasi took their drinks with them to the ladies’ where they dumped most of the liquor into the toilet. They had to remain sober. They stood in front of the mirror, applying a bit of lipstick, washing their hands, and wringing them. Haasi murmured: “Sal must not remain sober. He must trip over himself and not think straight. He must be incapable of escape. He must be caught and go to jail where information will be forthcoming about his involvement.”

  “This island chick couldn’t agree more,” said Blanche, grinning.

  They returned to the booth and were stunning and charming, full of intelligent conversation and brilliant history. Sal’s flushed face was beaming. “Hey, Ton, these girls are a card. Come on over.” But Ton waved and headed for his office.

  Sal’s head bobbled against the back of the booth. “You gals are the perfect tour guides,” he said, eyeing the beautiful golden brown one. He didn’t take his eyes off the cleavage that peeked from the V in her electric blue blouse.

  Miles talked to the agents in the field through the device under his shirt, and Jack wore a stricken look. “Can’t get them to
leave,” he said. Miles shook his head. Sal and Tony were on Miles’s radar. It was going down fast.

  It was almost two o’clock.

  I

  Blanche, Haasi, and Liza said good night to Sal with giggles and promises. Miles and Jack watched them leave.

  “Whew!” said Jack.

  Miles did not look convinced. “They really go?”

  Sal moved to the parking lot. The women left the restaurant, but they did not head home. They scurried to the underside of the deck near the water’s edge, and they kept an eye on their new “friend” who climbed into an SUV and sat there in the dark. They’d cooked up a few possible scenarios, and one of them involved a crook waiting inside a car. Liza planned to be the lookout in the parking lot.

  Haasi was wearing tight pants which securely held a well-honed knife with a four-inch blade. Sal had tried to grope her on the way out of the bar, but she had gracefully put him off with a bare-faced lie. “Oh, there’s time for that. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” The three women could hardly suppress a new round of the giggles. Blanche also carried a knife; she could feel the hilt against her rib. But she was reticent to use it. She was hardly as skilled as Haasi at wielding it. This Blanche had found out in a demonstration inside the hospital room when Haasi fashioned a pillow over the suspended television set and drew a face on it, which looked surprisingly like Dominique Placer. She proceeded to flip the weapon across the room with astounding accuracy.

  Blanche had asked where she learned to handle a knife.

  “It is something I know,” she’d said.

  “Well, shouldn’t we all.”

  During the last days in the hospital, along with the vegetables and the push-ups, Blanche learned some basics with a knife. One of the first lessons Haasi taught her was to never let anyone know she was carrying one.

  Tonight, they had a mission, and they decided it was better for Haasi to start off by herself. “Very small, and dark.” Haasi grinned. It had gotten to be a joke because most of Haasi’s recon was done in plain sight. She had an uncanny facility for fading into the background. She moved quickly. She was a woman who made the most of her talents.

  Miles left the bar, but he didn’t leave the grounds. The High Tide was built on stilts at the edge of the bay. A wide deck wrapped around the restaurant, and underneath, patrons pulled up in their boats. But now the patrons were gone. The owner had roped off a sort of phalanx of getaway boats.

  Miles couldn’t put it off any longer. He crept along the narrow beach from boat to boat with wire clippers and made sure they would not go anywhere. He’d left Jack on the deck above.

  All along the shoreline, the mangroves grew in a thick tropical forest from the surface of the water to more than twenty feet in height. They grew fast and strong, and they were the guardians of holding the sand together. They were also excellent cover for the DEA agents who hid in the bayside jungle, waiting for the Mephisto.

  The agents were in place, and so was Miles. And so were Haasi and Blanche. Liza had snuck off to the car to change and get in place.

  While Miles was clipping the wires on each motorboat, Haasi was slipping around the underside of Sal’s SUV slashing his tires. She would have to be quicker than Haasi was quick. The car would start to settle, and the drunken drug runner might get out to have a look. It took considerable strength for one so small, but Haasi was capable. Her arms were like cable, and she used her wrists like levers. Sal was grounded.

  In under three minutes, Haasi was back under the stairs near the restaurant deck with Blanche. They watched the horizon, all but pitch black except for the sparkle on the water of a bit of moon and a few distant fishing boats.

  Then he heard it: a slight buzzing like a bee caught in a jar.

  They watched, and waited, and soon heard the plane as it smoothed out and got louder on the approach. Haasi and Blanche hid behind a clump of brush. Blanche was praying out loud that the creeps, or at least some of the creeps, would get caught.

  “Well, look who’s here.” It was Miles. Jack had crept down from the deck and was right behind him. He was furious.

  “Goddamit, Blanche, I thought you said you were leaving.”

  “Not a chance.”

  The plane was closer. They all ducked and focused on the water.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” said Miles. “All of you shut the hell up. Stay out of the way, I mean it, and try not to get killed.”

  “Miles! We have to get them out of here,” said Jack.

  “Really? Are you going to drive them home? Now?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Blanche. “And Sal isn’t going to drive us home either. Or anywhere, for that matter.” Blanche held up a knife, but Haasi gently put her hand on her arm and lowered it.

  “What did you do? Kill them?” Jack was nearly shouting in a hoarse whisper.

  “Tires,” said Haasi.

  Miles motioned to not talk at all.

  If the plane weren’t such a bird of horror, it would have been beautiful, the wings wide and reflecting the lights along the shore and the moon. Rick flew low and level, and appeared to be coming directly at the High Tide. Then he did a circle, like he was on a recon and just checking the scenery.

  Miles stepped away, low to the ground, talking to the agents on his device. “Guy can fly.”

  “What’s he doing?” Jack and the others watched as the pilot made another tight circle over the bay.

  Miles was still on the phone. “Roger.”

  Haasi whispered to Blanche. “Who’s Roger?”

  Blanche laughed. Miles again motioned for silence. They sidled over to the edge of the mangroves and crouched near the water.

  One dropped from the sky, then another, and then it was raining large brown parcels. The plane circled once and dropped several more. One of the agents shot at the plane. Another hit it in the tail section. It started to lose equilibrium, then it steadied and the pilot seemed to rev himself out of trouble. Another shot finished the job. The plane couldn’t maintain its altitude, and it began its plummet into the bay. Blanche saw figures moving toward the water’s edge, diving in, disappearing to rescue the doomed, and the drugs.

  Tony ran down the steps of the High Tide, heading for the boats under the deck. Fortunately, he was alone. Blanche saw the boots clattering down the stairs and acted out of reflex. She came at him from behind the steps and tripped him, just as one of the agents appeared next to her.

  Tony looked up, spread-eagle on the crushed shell. “What are you doing? I work here,” he yelled.

  “Yeah, man, I work here, too.” The agent gathered the flailing arms into handcuffs and led him away. Tony’s workers were cooling it in the walk-in refrigerator, but they didn’t stay for long. Law enforcement ran from the mangroves, up the steps, covering the area inside and out.

  Blanche retreated back under the stairs and saw something across the parking lot that sent a shiver through her. Clearly, it was a white van. The guy likes white vans. Who’d a thought his taste could be so unwavering, and boring. And then she saw Haasi, a small dark shape moving faster than a small deer. It was dark, but the moon and lights around the restaurant gave off enough to barely see. He came around the side of the van, his hair slicked back from a high forehead. He wore an immaculate white t-shirt, and his arms were well-muscled and tattooed. He started across the lot toward the boats for the pick-up. Looking for trouble.

  He found it.

  Placer pulled a knife from his belt. It glinted. He raised the weapon and was just about to drive it into the back of the moving camouflaged agent who crept ahead of him toward the boats. He was well-armed and well-trained, no doubt, but concentration and focus can be like blinders. The agent didn’t hear Placer coming up behind him.

  Placer was too late to his target. He had good reflexes, but it was not enough. Haasi drove her knife into his back, right below his shoulder. He let out an undisciplined scream. The agent turned and grabbed Placer’s arm in mid-air. The knife was still in his
hand, and one was in his back.

  Blanche ran up. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Haasi said. “Dead fish can’t talk.”

  Duncan, and then more officers, and more, appeared. The ground had turned green in the dark with cops.

  He was as mad as Jack had been. “What on God’s earth are you doing here, Blanche? And you, too?”

  “Never mind,” Blanche said. “The red SUV in the parking lot. We slit Sal’s tires, and he can’t move. Sal’s the guts of this operation. Liza is keeping an eye on him, but I think he’s passed out in the front seat. We sort of had a few cocktails.”

  “My God, girl. What the hell are you talking about? You should be in the hospital.”

  “Can’t we talk later, chief? Please? Go.” Two officers headed that way, and Duncan was right behind.

  Liza came clicking toward them in high heels and camouflage with glitter, her flame-tipped fingers waving at them. “Sal’s on the loose. Got out the wedge I put in the door.”

  “How convenient. That’s him,” Blanche shouted.

  Sal had taken off around the edge of the lot, and he was running for the boats.

  It worked with Tony. Let’s see if two is a charm.

  She cut across the lot just as Sal ran past. It was dark at the scrub line, and she was praying she had good aim. She decided to duck and use her whole body. He tripped, and Blanche found herself under a bottom feeder.

  She looked up through a tangle of black curls to see Liza, legs braced in a V, a pistol in her hand. “Wow, Blanche. Good work.”

  Duncan and his troops were clicking handcuffs on as many wrists as they could in the span of seconds. Liza trained the gun on them.

  “Liza, for criminy sakes.” It was Duncan. “Put that thing away.”

  “Sure.” She tucked the gun into a holster on her chest, her legs wobbling. She dusted the sand off Blanche’s shoulders.

  Sal looked at Blanche. “You a cop?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know. Do you have something to confess?”

  He didn’t answer. It was the fastest five minutes Blanche had ever lived through, but she was alive. She looked around. The agents had made fast work of cleaning up the place. The ambulances pulled away with a wet pilot, one wounded hit man, and a couple of Tony’s handlers, plus Tony. The police wagons were full.