dog island

by Mike Stewart

  Joey said, “Why the hell not?”

  “He said Purcell wants to make some kind of example out of her. You know, ‘don’t fuck with Leroy Purcell’ or some equally eloquent sentiment.”

  Susan stood. “Kelly, tell Tom what you told us about the yacht. I’m going to get this poor guy something to eat. Don’t let him say anything else until I get back.”

  I said, “Thanks. Just not that chicken salad and fruit we had for lunch yesterday. I saw a little too much of that on the boat.”

  Susan said, “Yuck,” and left the room. I picked up my Coke and turned to look at Kelly.

  She said, “The yacht Billy Teeter spotted the night you and Joey saw the drop-off is registered to a corporation in Tampa called Products Americas, Inc.” Just as a good legal secretary should, Kelly pronounced Inc. “Ink,” rather than saying “incorporated,” as most people would—a distinction that matters only to people who try lawsuits or draft contracts for a living. She said, “They are sort of an import-export business. I called around and found out they sell American machinery in half a dozen South American countries, and I guess they buy mostly agricultural stuff down there and sell it here.

  “Anyway, after Loutie called this morning and said you wanted to know about Cuban owners or managers, I started calling again, and you were right on the money. The chairman and the president and three other senior officers are ‘of Cuban descent,’ as they put it. I found that out from the company itself. The investor relations department. Apparently, I wasn’t the first person to ask. I guess other Cubans like to invest in Cuban enterprises or something. Whatever the reason, they weren’t shy about telling me.”

  Joey interrupted and said, “Tell him about the guy in Tallahassee, Kelly.”

  Kelly said, “Okay. So, after I got as much as I could from the investor relations woman, I asked who I could talk to about this yacht the company owned. That kind of rattled her. Not, I think, because some manager in investor relations would know about illegal activity on the company yacht. What I think was that she didn’t want to catch a lot of grief from an investor about expensive perks for the president or something like that. Anyway, she said she didn’t know anything about any boats the company might own, and she referred me to their outside PR guy.”

  Joey was literally on the edge of his seat. He said, “Listen to this,” as if I might have been napping through the rest of it.

  Kelly said, “Be quiet, Joey. It’s not that dramatic. I just called the guy. It’s a man named Charles Estevez. ‘Charlie,’ he says. He’s one of those guys who wants everyone to call him by his first name. This Estevez has a lobbying and PR firm in Tallahassee, and I found out before I called him that he has a pretty good reputation. I also found out that he is the point man in the Florida legislature when it comes to lobbying for anything having to do with Cuban refugees, or like relations and trade with Cuba, that kind of stuff.

  “So, I get him on the phone and ask about Products Americas, and he starts babbling a mile a minute about what a great company it is and how wonderful and civic minded the management is.

  “Then I ask about the yacht, and suddenly Estevez just doesn’t have that kind of information about his clients. So I give him the registration number and tell him the Coast Guard has verified that the boat belongs to Products Americas. And, guess what. He seems to remember something about the yacht. Suddenly, he even remembers being on it one time for a cocktail party or something. Then, get this, he just volunteers that the boat is, quote, ‘really just a marketing tool for the company.’ He says the thing is used mostly for entertaining customers who are in Tampa on business, and that it, quote, ‘hardly ever leaves the Tampa Bay area.’ Which, I don’t know about you, but I thought that seemed like kind of a strange thing to just volunteer out of the blue. So Tom, you weren’t around to ask, so I just told him the yacht was spotted in Apalachicola Bay on such and such a date, just to see what he’d say. I hope that was okay.”

  “That was fine. This isn’t a walk-on-eggshells kind of case anymore. What did he say?”

  Kelly smiled and looked endearingly proud of herself. “He said he had another call coming in, and he’d have to call me back.” Joey and I laughed as Susan came in the room and put a plate with two sandwiches and a handful of chips on the table next to my Coke. I thanked her, and she got comfortable in her chair.

  Loutie frowned at the floor and pressed the foam knob further into her ear. I ate some sandwich. Kelly said, “A little over an hour went by, and the phone rang. All of a sudden, Estevez knows all about you and wants you to call him. ‘Personally.’ I tried to get more information, but he insisted on talking to you.”

  I asked, “When was this?”

  “I called Products Americas yesterday. My conversation with Estevez was this morning.”

  “This is getting interesting,” I said. “Last night I get briefly kidnapped by a Cuban revolutionary who knows all about Carli and Susan and Joey and, especially, me and Purcell. And the discussions he said he had with Purcell took place yesterday morning. I guess after you called Products Americas. I wondered why Sanchez showed up out of the blue last night.”

  Everyone seemed to pause and think about that for a beat or two; then Susan said, “Okay. Now tell us about the Cubans and Purcell not wanting you and me dead and why he won’t leave Carli alone.”

  So I did. I started with chugging out into the bay with Willie and Captain Billy and finished with every detail I could remember about my forced meeting with Carlos Sanchez. When I was done, I asked Joey, “How close are we to finding Carli?”

  “We’re not.”

  I said, “Damn.”

  “Yeah. I know. Randy Whittles is killing himself, and I’ve got a couple of guys helping him. But, like you said, damn.” Joey shook his head and went on. “I did find out where our buddy Thomas Bobby Haycock has been taking his illegal shipments, though.”

  I asked, “Where?”

  Joey said, “You’re not gonna believe this shit, either.”

  Loutie Blue interrupted. “Joey. Come in the kitchen. I’ve got a female voice at Purcell’s place.”

  chapter twenty-four

  Susan asked the question. “Is it Carli?”

  Loutie pressed the tiny foam knob against her ear and waved Susan off as she left the room. We all hurried into the kitchen where Loutie turned up the volume on the speakers. A feminine voice said,”… not that hungry. Sorry I’m late. I thought Jim was never going to leave.”

  “That’s not Carli,” Susan said. “Sounds like little Leroy has a hot date.”

  Loutie agreed. “Sounds like it. I’m going to stay in here and listen.” We looked at her, and she explained. “If there’s any kind of conversation, we need to listen. You never know what might come out.” She looked around. “And it would be easier if the rest of you went somewhere else.”

  Back in the living room, Joey returned to his story. “So, getting back to Haycock. I followed him this morning from the ferry landing in Carrabelle. He headed west up 98 and then hung a right on 65 toward Tallahassee, and I figure he’s planning to fence the stuff in the city. But just a few miles up, he turns off into a place called ‘Tate’s Hell Swamp.’ No shit. That’s actually the name of this frigging place on the map.”

  Joey looked at Susan and Kelly and then at me. I was anxious for less color and more useful facts, and I think it showed.

  He said, “So anyway I follow Haycock into the woods. About four miles in, the woods turn into swamp, and it’s just this one pissant logging road. And if somebody decides to come out, there’s not much I can do but try to get out of their way. So I’m getting pretty nervous about being able to keep tailing him without anybody seeing me.

  “About that time, I come around a curve and Haycock’s truck is stopped dead in the middle of the road. So I slam on the brakes and damn near wreck sliding into a little gully there.”

  I said, “Joey, this is a fascinating travelogue. But you’re here, so we know you got away. C
an we cut to what you found at the end of the road?”

  “I’m getting there, but you gotta hear this. I’m off in the gully where Haycock can’t see me, and I can’t see him. I roll down the windows and hear his track start up again, and I’m hoping he hasn’t turned around. But, if he has, I don’t wanna get caught like a sitting duck, so I pull back up on the road. And, guess what, Haycock’s gone. Disappeared.”

  Susan asked, “Where’d he go?”

  I said, “Don’t encourage him.”

  Joey smiled. “Took a while to figure it out. Haycock had driven off through this tall grass next to the road. Stuff’s like rubber. Just pops back up after you drive over it. But he just had turned off, so I could still see his tracks. I followed ‘em three or four hundred yards across this field and then hooked a left into some trees. And I’m telling you, he took me through some of the nastiest-looking shit I’ve ever come across. Black, scummy water up to my axle most of the time.

  “I could see on the trees where the way was marked with cuts in the bark, like somebody marking a land line. A few hundred yards of that and I’m back on a road that just picks up in the middle of nowhere.

  “I follow the road up around this little curve where the road rises up to a bridge over a creek, and I can see up ahead. About two hundred yards off, there’s four metal buildings, and Haycock was just pulling up to ‘em.

  “I shit you not. These guys got a frigging compound out in the middle of the swamp. Like an island or something. It’s this piece of solid ground slap-ass in the middle of Mosquitoville. I’m telling you, the place is nothin’ but mile after mile of fuckin’, I mean friggin’, snake heaven. I saw four alligators on the way in. No shit. Four alligators.”

  I tried to get him back on point. “You said you could see Haycock pull into the compound?”

  “Yeah. Haycock’s unloading his truck and taking the stuff into this big warehouse-looking building. And there’s a guard. The guy just stands there holding some kind of short weapon—it was too far away to tell what kind of firearm it was—and he spends his time watching the road for trouble.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  Joey said, “I sure as hell did,” and paused for dramatic effect. “I saw that dark, chubby guy Haycock picked up on the beach the other night. You know, the Carpintero guy they smuggled in with his wife and kid.”

  I asked, “What was he doing?”

  “Just talking with Haycock. Looking through the boxes and stuff in the truck, and, it looked like, maybe telling Haycock where to put the stuff he was unloading.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s about it. I needed to get out ahead of Haycock. So, after I checked things out and made a little map and a diagram and took some pictures, I got the hell out of there.”

  For a few seconds, I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “You took some pictures?”

  “Sure.” Joey grinned. “When Carpintero came out, I went back to the car and got my camera and popped a three-hundred-millimeter lens on it. I clicked off a roll of film, mostly of Carpintero, but I got the buildings and Haycock and the boxes and stuff too.”

  I said, “You’re a genius.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. I haven’t gotten it developed yet. Overnighted it to a guy in Mobile. He’ll turn ‘em around in an hour, once he gets ‘em.”

  “Good.” I said, “Let me ask you something. Did the chubby guy from the beach—Carpintero—did he look familiar somehow? I mean, familiar from somewhere besides Dog Island.”

  Joey stopped and looked at the floor for a second or two and said, “Nope. Why?”

  I shrugged.

  Joey looked amused. “Did he scare you?”

  “He gave me the creeps, is what he did.”

  I turned to Kelly. “Have you got Charles Estevez’s number?”

  She said, “Sure,” reached down to get her purse, and fished out a thick DayTimer bristling with business cards, pink phone message slips, and a couple dozen yellow and pink Post-its. I said, “Come on. Let’s go give Charlie a ring.” Kelly tagged along as I used the phone in Loutie’s bedroom. Estevez had gone home for the day. I left my cell phone number with his answering service, and less than five minutes later, he called. He admitted “knowing of Carlos Sanchez.” I felt him out, discussed the various uses of beachfront properties, dropped a name or two, and got off the phone. Kelly said, “What did he want?”

  I said, “He wanted to make sure that I’m more afraid of Sanchez than I am Purcell, which I am. And he wanted to, quote, ‘open up the lines of communication.’ No kidding. That’s what he said.”

  Kelly smiled and asked, “Well, are they open?”

  I said, “I think maybe a little more open than he had in mind.”

  The weather had become less fickle outside our aggressively cute beach house, and bright spring sunshine glinted off sand and water in one direction and white impatiens, pink and purple azaleas, and faux-Victorian gingerbread in the other. Susan opened the blinds to let in the late afternoon sun, and, for the next two hours, we rehashed stories and theories.

  I still had a young client with a death sentence, and even if we did find her first I’d have to figure out what to do about Purcell. Carli was a juvenile with little education and fewer skills, and we weren’t going to be able to simply send her to Europe or South America and expect her to fend for herself. Carli would want to stay in this country. And, sooner or later, she was going to call her mother, if she had one, or her sister, if she had one of those, or her best friend from junior high. And, when she did, Purcell would have her.

  Around seven, I drifted into the kitchen. “What’s Purcell up to?”

  Loutie said, “Screwing.”

  It was not an answer I had expected. So I said, “What?”

  Joey said, “Screwing, Tom. You know, rubbing uglies, choking chubby, grounding the gopher…”

  Loutie sounded like a disappointed mother. “Joey?”

  “…bumping monkeys, pounding the puppy, squeezin’ squigley, polishing the Jag…”

  Loutie sounded, at once, amused and exasperated. “Shut up, Joey.”

  Joey grinned. “I know a lot more.”

  Loutie said, “We don’t care.”

  While my giant friend wasn’t exactly drunk, he wasn’t exactly sober either. But after long days and sleepless nights of crouching between a pine tree and a gritty sand dune forcing himself to focus on every insipid detail in the life of an eighth-grade dropout turned criminal, Joey was entitled.

  I looked at him, and he grinned some more. I turned to Loutie. “Have you heard anything useful?”

  Loutie said, “Other than entertaining Joey? No. Some doctor’s wife came over when her husband left to take their kids back to Atlanta. Apparently, she wanted to stick around for a few more days of sun, and whatnot.”

  I wandered back into the living room and plopped down on the sofa next to Susan. Kelly sat on the carpet. She had pulled down a seat cushion and leaned it against the front of her chair to make a floor-level lounger. The two women were watching an attractive female anchor on CNN who looked disturbingly like a vampire. A report on one of Princess Grace’s randy kids ended just as I was snuggling my backside into the linen cushions. The vampire anchor rearranged her smiling eyes and glistening red lips into a somber expression as a photo of a petite, bookish woman appeared over her shoulder, and she began to read a story about an Iraqi physician with an almost Teutonic genius for exploiting horrific diseases.

  A few minutes of that was more than enough reality, and we switched over to HBO and watched a Bruce Willis, everything-gets-blown-up movie until we were bleary-eyed. Kelly got up to go to bed, and Susan went with her to help find sheets and blankets. When Susan came back, she said, “I’m tired, Tom. I’m going on up.”

  And, suddenly, I didn’t quite know what to say. It occurred to me that the problem with having avoided Susan’s bedroom earlier in the day was that my actions might have damaged the assumption
that it was still my room too. In other words, now that I had gotten out, I wasn’t quite sure how to get back in. I said, “Where’s Kelly sleeping?”

  Susan said, “She’s in the yellow bedroom.”

  “The yellow bedroom? Is that the one I took a nap in today?”

  “I’m not sure I’d call seven hours a nap, but, yeah, that’s it It’s the only empty room we’ve got. Joey will stay with Loutie, assuming she ever goes to bed. She’s listening to that black box every night when I go upstairs and every morning when I wake up. So I’m just assuming she actually goes to sleep at some point.” Susan yawned and stretched her arms over her head and arched her back in a maneuver that caused her knit shirt to pull across her breasts in an interesting way. Of course, it would have been hard for me to imagine anything about Susan’s breasts that wasn’t deeply and profoundly interesting. She said, “Good night.”

  “Susan?”

  She said “Huh?” And I hesitated. Actually, I choked. Susan smiled and said, “You’re still invited. Is that what you’re hemming and hawing about?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it hemming and hawing.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  A blinding light filled the room. “Tom! Susan! Get up.” It was Loutie. “They’ve got Carli.”

  I bolted up in bed. “Where? Where is she?”

  Loutie said, “I don’t know where. But she’s still alive. Purcell got a call from some guy named Rupert about five minutes ago saying they found her. We gotta move. Joey’s downstairs listening. Get up. We’ve got to be ready to follow Purcell when he leaves his house.”

  A thought hit me. “You sure Joey’s ready for this?”

  “Joey’s fine. The man’s got the metabolism of a racehorse. He sobers up like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Loutie said, “Now, come on. Move it.”

  Susan was already on her feet and dressing while I was sitting on the bed talking to Loutie. She went into the bathroom while I got dressed, and, as we hurried downstairs, I noticed that she had run a wet comb through her hair.