by Karl Tutt
Chapter 17
It rained during the night. The leaden drops on the cabin top sounded like pings on a tin roof. The next morning was a nasty combination of fog and drizzle. Still nothing from S, but I damned sure wasn’t going to call him. I was totally cried out and more than slightly hung over. My old pal Jameson is a friend and a comforter, but too much makes your head swell like an overripe cantaloupe. It sounds stupid, but I really didn’t care. The only thing on my mind was the clown and how to get the sonovabitch.
Evelyn and I had agreed to meet at the office around ten. I took my time getting ready. Ricky would be awfully disappointed if he thought I was still in my bag lady persona, circumstances notwithstanding. I did the makeup, the hair, then dressed like I was headed for the runway. My only concession was the white Nikes. Even with the swollen eyes, I looked pretty damned good. I guess I wanted to do it . . . whatever it was . . . with class.
Ev came in right after me. It’s like we had read each other’s minds. Her mahogany hair was gleaming like a mink in heat. She had gone conservative, Halston, I suspected. Same problem as me with the swollen eyes, but minus that, she looked like a dark Giselle Bundchen or a lighter Tyra Banks.
We both knew why we were here. I shut off the phones and we began to plan.
It really wasn’t much. We would stake out the Caribbean Dream and if Bozo and the buffaloes showed up, we’d offer one hot greeting. We went by the local Rent-a-Wreck and picked out the oldest, dirtiest, dinged-up, Taurus on the lot. We looked for tinted windows. Sometimes it’s a good thing to be invisible. Hey, $29.95 could still get you semi-reliable transportation. She started up just fine, still a little life in the old V-6. It was about eleven when we pulled out of the lot.
In thirty minutes we were parked on Garvey Ave. just a few doors down and across the street from the Caribbean Dream. It was too damned quiet. I guessed all of the bad boys were sleeping off a night of hustling drugs and intimidating helpless neighborhood folks. It had cleared up and the Florida sun was scorching us like a couple of TV dinners in an oven on broil. The air conditioning was squealing its complaints. Marginally functional, to say the least. We sweated, cracked the windows, sipped coffee, and waited. A few people were in and out, but I figured the owner had the same problem we did making the rent. Of course, Bijet might be providing some help.
It was 2:30. I began to think our boy had opted for something a little fancier. What the hell, he could afford it. I started the wreck and was ready to pull from the curb when a shiny black Escalade came around the corner and parked right in front of the old store front. Buffalo number one squeezed his bulk from under the wheel. He looked up and down the street, then opened the rear door. I saw the top hat first. His hand thrust through the opening and the silk gleamed in the sun. The white greasepaint was glued to his face. I wondered if he slept in it. Buffalo number two got out on the other side and also did a scan. Then the three of them went into the Dream.
We sat very still. Ev and I both checked our weapons. Give them time to get served. Maybe they’d be preoccupied with lunch when we burst through the door. I won’t lie to you. I had a serious case of the heebie jeebies and from the look on Ev’s face, we shared the same disease. But we both knew it wasn’t about us. It was about Ricky . . . and his killer.
I nodded at her and we exited the car. I had the .38 in my hand and at my side, my index finger already on the trigger. When I opened the door, I smelled the hot pork and rice. Bijet had a side of plantains and a clear milkshake cup of what looked like thick Sangria. The Buffaloes were at a separate table to the left wolfing down huge plates of unidentifiable stuff. They all froze when we bolted in. Ev propped a chair at an angle under the door knob and flipped the open sign to closed. Sorry. The Dream was not accepting customers at this time.
Bijet looked at me and laughed.
“Ahhh, I see yu take my advice. Yu look quite lovely. De hair, de makeup, even de outfit. It suits a lady such as yurself so much better. Would yu like some plantains? I have more dan I can eat.”
Number one started to ease up from his table, but before he was halfway, Ev’s Sig was trained on his chest. He slid back down into the chair, raised his hands in a mock no-offense gesture, and smiled.
I wanted to shoot the sonovabitch right there, but I also wanted him to know it was his time to die. I wanted to watch him squirm, hoped he’d piss his pants just before I put a .38 slug between his eyes. I waited.
“Yu know dat dis means de order of yur safety is no longer valid. We can kill yu at any time and yur partner, of course, beautiful as she is. Such a waste. But perhaps yu sit down. We talk. Bijet is not witout resources. I am truly sorry about Ricky, but when in power, it is sometimes necessary to make an example. Yu want to kill me, but dere are others. Dey are loyal. Don’ think if I am gone dat dis is over.” He pointed at the chair next to him. Ever polite and gracious.
“I don’t doubt you, Bijet. I’ll admit it. I am very much afraid of the Ju Ju’s. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder every time I cross the street in this town. But you are right. Sometimes it is necessary to set an example. The example is you.”
I held the S and W with both hands. I took a couple of steps closer and trained it on his forehead. I was fifteen feet from him. I didn’t think I could miss from this distance. My finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Suddenly I heard someone banging on the door. Ev turned for a moment and, like lightning, number one had her in bear hug from behind. I felt a slug like a lead bat hit the back of my neck. Number two was standing over me. He flexed his knee to drop his massive body onto my chest. I fired off a round into his belly. He looked startled, put his paw on the wound. He drew his palm up to his face and smelled the blood. A thick moment and he dropped. Then the mist came in. I fought the darkness, but it was circling and closing. I struggled, reaching for consciousness like a drowning man, but the dusky water was rising and I could feel the cling of the choking miasma consuming me.
Through the haze I heard the burst of a door exploding. I crawled to my knees. The second Buffalo was motionless on the floor beside the table. Ev’s nine was across the room, far from her reach. Bijet sat astride her, holding her hands above her head. She squirmed and kicked, but his weight held her down. His face was inches from hers and his lips were like the fold s of a leech. The Kiss. The one that had sent Ricky into hell.
Shoot him, I thought . . . but my eyes were dancing like a tortured snake. There were two of everything and I wasn’t sure which was which. If I didn’t fire, she would wither and die with those goddamned tubes hooked up to her and her skin going from yellow to gray. But which one? I raised the .38. My hand was shaking. I had to go for broke.
My ears were slammed by the sharp report of a small caliber pistol. I looked up to see Sterling, a small Ruger in his hand. It was still pointed at Bijet’s collapsing body. S put two more rounds in him as he fell off Evelyn. S offered his hand. She took it and struggled to her feet. The she grabbed the Sig and held it tightly, pointing first at the man sprawled beside her, then checking the two Buffaloes. Neither was moving.
Sterling knelt beside me. He shook me slightly. When my eyes began to focus, he kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“Time to go,” he whispered.
I stopped for moment and stared at Bijet’s corpse. Even through the blood oozing out of his mouth, the bastard was still grinning. I went back to the table and picked up the silk top hat. I dropped it next to the body as we left.
We walked out of the Dream, Ev and I on either arm of the man who had saved our lives. The old bomb purred to life. No blood and no bullet holes. I figured we’d get back the full deposit. The street was quiet and hot, the sun still hammering the innocent . . . and the guilty. Which ones were we?
No pedestrians on the street, and no cops. Captain Sullivan was right.
Chapter 18
Of course, the police investigated. They had to. It was a homicide. The owner of the restaurant h
ad been in the back the whole time. Big surprise . . . he heard nothing, saw nothing. One of the Buffaloes was DOA and the other one was still in intensive care. He was conscious enough to tell the cops that he had just stopped in for lunch and didn’t know “nutin’ ‘bout no shootin.” I knew . . . and that was all that mattered. I didn’t think anyone would miss the Ju Ju D’s too damned much.
When we got back to the office, Ev started shuffling papers and making the partner’s desk her own. She still trembled occasionally, but she hid it quite nicely. I hoped I was doing as well.
I called RASTA LUV. The voice on the line was unfamiliar. I asked for Grace and a lady courteously informed me that she and Henri had left town. She thought they had moved to be closer to relatives in Gifford, a small town north of Vero Beach. Grace apparently had a job up there at MULLIGAN’S on the beach. She didn’t expect them back.
Sterling and I met for dinner at a little Italian place in town. The tables were small and the cloths had red and white checks. It was “bottle of red, bottle of white,” just like the Billy Joel song. S apologized for not contacting me sooner. I told him that was okay. I thanked him for showing up in the right place at the right time. I didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t even sure I wanted the answers. Bijet’s grin was still locked in my mind, but we didn’t talk about that either. I told about my new partner.
“Ev is a tough lady,” he said, “smart, quick, and loyal. I think it will work out just fine. But now it’s time to talk about us.”
I think I probably blushed. I don’t do that very often, but right now it seemed awfully damned appropriate. He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. It was warm and it made me feel safe. It seemed like a long time since I’d had that in my breast.
“So what do you think? Could you be happy in a penthouse on the beach with a busy sports agent who can’t cook or clean and has to hop a plane on short notice sometimes? Maybe I could throw in a housekeeper.”
I laughed and tried to keep the smile from bursting out of me. After all, a girl needs to play hard to get on occasion. But what’s the point? I always liked that old line from “The Godfather.” “Make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse.”