by Karl Tutt
Chapter 13
I picked up some bagels, a frozen pizza and two six packs of Kalik. Then I made sure we were in the checkout line where Elvis was bagging. I paid cash. He smiled that beautiful, shy smile of his and stowed the groceries.
“Elvis,” I whispered, “Can you find the address of the warehouse you told me about?” It was probably a stupid question.
“Got it.” He picked up a discarded receipt from the floor and reached for the pen in the pocket of his green apron. He wrote it down quickly. It was the photographic memory that Teeny often bragged about. She’d be proud of her man.
I pulled him to me and kissed him on the cheek. His bony knees buckled. I thought he was going to collapse from embarrassment, but he went back to his line with a shudder and a grin about the size of Chicago.
We went back to the boat. Ev left her heels on the dock and we went below. I popped a couple of Kaliks and dialed the remote number to check calls at the office. No Ricky . . . and that was the only one that mattered. Ev took a long swig on the bottle and got things rolling.
“Tell me everything you can about this Bijet. I need to listen and to write.”
She removed a .38 caliber Sig Sauer from the Coach and placed it on the table. I had a hard time imagining her with her hand on the grip and her finger on the trigger. Then I looked into her eyes. She was in full agent mode. She had killed a man. No trace of emotion, just a cold, hard stare waiting for business to begin.
I told her everything I knew about Bijet and the Ju Ju D’s. I explained the situation with Henri’s brother, Jacques, their belief in the “Kiss of Death” and the encounter we had with Bozo at Bugsy’s. She listened and wrote. I’m not sure why. Her mind was as cool and sharp as broken glass. She was silent until I finished. Then she placed her elbows on the table and cradled her chin, one long finger aside her nose like a Coco Chanel version of Santa Claus. The red polish paled beside her olive skin. We were thinking the same thing.
“Perhaps a nocturnal visit is in order,” she said quietly.
I pulled Elvis’ note out of my pocket and laid it on the table. The address was on the other side of the river, not far from the line between Riviera Beach and Lauderdale.
“Run me by the accounting office to pick up my car. I’ll get ready and meet you back here around 1 A.M.”
I nodded. I left her sitting in the leather seat of the Mercedes and heard the engine hum to life. I unlocked GREAT GESTURE and went below. Then I ate another of my famous gourmet meals, a tuna sandwich on rye and a handful of week old chips. A quick glass of cabernet and I was asleep on the settee. My internal alarm went off around midnight. I washed my face and put on my black ninja garb. I looked like a fugitive from Bruce Lee’s “Fists of Fury,” but what the hell? I was working and I always look stunning in black. I checked the .38, then placed it in the leather holster at my waist. I pulled my jacket down over it. Maybe a little charcoal under the eyes? No that would definitely be overkill and this wasn’t the NFL. I clicked the padlock on the hatch boards and walked up to the parking lot. I had the Focus running when Ev parked the Mercedes.
She popped the door and sat in the passenger seat. She wore a chocolate running suit and black Nikes. She, too, had an interesting bulge at her waist. It screamed nine mil. I knew my old four wheeled beast was slumming for her, but my baby would get us there and it wouldn’t be nearly as conspicuous as a new red convertible in what I was sure would be a bad part of town.
I was right. I had made a couple of wrong turns, but we were now parked in an alley a couple of blocks from the warehouse. Several of the street lights were out and the sidewalk was shrouded in shades of gray. There was a rusty junker on blocks with the tires missing and all of the windows smashed in. The whole scene was ominous, but it was deserted . . . at least as far as I could tell. I welcomed the darkness. Sometimes the night is your friend, especially if you’re in a place you shouldn’t be in.
Evelyn and I slinked through the shadows. The warehouse looked deserted. No lights or signs of recent activity. I pulled out my penlight and checked the door knobs and the asphalt leading to the entrance. Nothing but dust. There was a rusty chain and an old padlock on the gate that led to the side. I thought we might have to scale the fence, but when I yanked the lock, it fell open with a muted click. We crept toward the door.
Ev ventured a tight beam through the dusty windows. It sliced through the inky void. Nothing. We tried the side door. There was a little resistance, but it creaked open just enough for us to slip inside. Ev drew the Sig from her waistband and motioned me to follow. She held it down, pointed at the concrete, but ready to come up firing at an instant. The place was deserted. A big empty space with nothing but cobwebs and flecks of dust floating and reflecting in the flashes of our lights. We checked a few doors off the main space. Probably old offices. Broken glass, a few battered file cabinets, some garbage here and there. But unless you believe in ghosts, we were alone.
“It’s time to get the hell out of here,” I whispered. She cut her eyes and bobbed her head up and down.
We talked on the way back to the marina, but not much. Our little field trip had accomplished little besides denying us some much needed sleep. She got in her sparkling red chariot and was gone before I could say goodnight. I climbed onto GREAT GESTURE and poured a small tot of Jameson. It’s times like this that I wish I was still smoking. But old habits die hard and I sure didn’t need that one again. Where the hell was Ricky? Was he even still alive? I lay down and began to drift off.
Bijet’s face was up against mine. I could feel the fetid breath collapsing onto my cheeks. He smiled and ran his thick tongue over his lips. I could see the bubbles of the wet saliva on them. He got closer. There was a feral sound, almost like the purring of some giant predatory cat, coming from the folds of his chest. I knew I was dreaming, or more accurately, you could call it a nightmare. But somehow I believed that this “Kiss of Death” was very real. I could feel the yellow sickness burning in me and the fiery bile clogged my throat. I shook myself awake. Suddenly I was very cold. I grabbed an Afghan from the cushion and wrapped up in a fetal ball. I fought it for a while, soon enough I was asleep. No more nightmares, no more visions of death, only a haunting fear that we would never find Ricky . . . at least not alive.