“I’ll think of something.” Jimmy cavalierly answered. Kate had joined the duo at the base of the stairs, and spoke up.
“This is Jimmy’s wheelhouse. He’s an award winning investigative journalist. He gets people to open up like a can of sardines. I’ve seen him do it.” Kate defended Jimmy.
Chris looked from Kate, to Jimmy, to Charlie. The Trooper shrugged his shoulders, and said, “What the hell, we have nothing to lose. We can always bring out the rubber hoses if we need to.”
“Rubber hoses? I don’t understand.” Kate was confused.
“Ancient interrogation technique of law enforcement. Beat answers out of a suspect with a two-foot long piece of rubber hose. Flattens on impact, and leaves a bigger welt.”
“You can’t be serious.” Kate was appalled.
“Unfortunately, that’s the way it was done back in the day.” Chris answered. “Not today.” Chris considered his options for a few moments, then said, “OK. Let’s try it. Jimmy and Kate take a shot. We’ll be over by the SUV’s.”
The agent and trooper walked away towards the SUV’s. Kate turned to Jimmy. “How do we do this?”
“To start, you need to lose the jacket, and break the girls out.” Jimmy answered.
“WHAT? Dammit Jimmy, I was just starting to not hate you, and you have to say some crap like that!” Kate wore a scoop necked tank top under a light jacket against the evening chill. She used the jacket to cover herself as much as to ward off the cold.
Jimmy reached out grasping Kate’s upper arms, and pled his case. “Listen, listen, listen. I’ve seen plenty of boobies, it’s not for me. It’s to distract that redneck Cyrus. How many fine All American boobies you think he’s seen up close and personal that didn’t look like a potato in a sweat sock hangin’ from some chic with more eyes than teeth? Work with me on this one, Kate. Pleeeease?” Jimmy begged. “Trust me.”
Kate could see the crafty logic in Jimmy’s plan, but hated his plan as much as she hated Jimmy at this moment. “Crap, OK. But if I see you ogle me one time, Mister, I’ll cut your “B’s” off. You promise me, Jimmy Falcone.”
“Scouts honor!” Jimmy held three fingers aloft with his right hand. They weren’t the correct three fingers for a scout salute.
“Turn around.” Kate commanded. Jimmy performed a classic military about face. Kate removed her jacket, and threw it over Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy quickly reached up and brought the jacket to his chest like he was protecting the crown jewels. Next, she reached under her top to unclasp her bra in back, pulled one elbow into her sleeveless tank to slip the shoulder strap off, then repeated the maneuver with her other arm. She withdrew the bra from under her top, and threw it over Jimmy’s other shoulder. He retrieved it with the speed of a striking cobra, holding it to his chest with the jacket.
“Put them on the stump, and let’s get this over with.” Kate started up the steps. Jimmy draped the garments over a six-inch tree stump at the foot of the stairs that doubled as an anchor point for a 2 x 4 bannister, then jogged up the steps to catch up with Kate. “Wait for me!” he whispered.
Kate had no intention of waiting. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, the cool night air had done its job. She paused, Jimmy almost running into her, pulled the front of her top down revealing much more cleavage, as well as highlighting her now very erect nipples. She opened the screen door, and entered the office, followed by Jimmy.
Inside, the office was brightly lit with a buzzing florescent light hanging cockeyed over the makeshift plywood counter. Behind the counter sat Cyrus, a thin, grizzled 50ish man in filthy coveralls and a T-shirt, thumbing through a Hustler Magazine. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, nor bothered to shampoo his hair…ever. An old rotary dial phone sat on the counter next to an empty pork rind bags. Behind him, the wall was adorned with pinups of naked women. Some were old and faded, and from the hair styles and poses had been on the wall since the 40’s or 50’s. Looks like Jimmy called this one right.
“Hello, are you Cyrus?” Kate asked pleasantly.
Cyrus looked up, and immediately zeroed in on her ample chest. The stub of a cigar fell from his mouth onto his lap. Unfortunately, it wasn’t lit.
“Yeah.” A man of few words.
“Do you mind if my friend and I ask you a few questions?” Kate walked forward, bent over, and rested her forearms on the counter. She smiled revealing a perfect set of pearly white teeth. Cyrus looked ready to pop his cork. Although he had probably not seen that many teeth on a woman over the age of twelve, he merely glanced at Kate’s smile before returning to stare at the ample display through her top.
Jimmy joined Kate at the counter, picked up the receiver of the antique rotary dial phone, and listened for a dial tone. It was dead. He replaced the receiver onto the cradle.
“We’re not cops, but we are looking for a couple fella’s, and I bet you can help. You probably have nothing to do with what these characters are up to, but a smart guy like you maybe knows a thing or two.” Jimmy began his inquiry.
Cyrus was still captivated with the view, but sly enough to have his radar up with Jimmy’s line of questioning.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Cyrus would make no commitment until he knew which way the wind was going to blow.
“Those cops outside said you got a phone call this morning? A customer asking about his boat refinish?” Jimmy probed.
“Yeah. Told him it wasn’t ready.” Cyrus glanced at Jimmy, then back to Kate’s chest. Kate stood up straight, arched her back, and breathed in deeply, thrusting her chest out further. “What’s his name?” She asked innocently.
“Uhhhhh.” Cyrus couldn’t immediately think straight.
“See, I know you didn’t get the call over this piece of crap,” Jimmy flicked the old phone receiver onto the counter, “which means you took the call from a cell phone. Probably the one in your pocket.” Jimmy was warming up. “And, there’s not a single boat in your boatyard that can float, ‘cept that aluminum John boat out back, and that great big yacht.”
“Could I see your cell phone, Cyrus? Pleeese? I promise to give it back.” Kate leaned over the counter once more, the palm of her hand extended for the phone, and her breasts tantalizingly close to Cyrus. He was mesmerized.
“See Cyrus, I don’t believe that call was from a customer. I think that call was from the guy that owns that yacht parked out back. Tell me, Cyrus, you get many yachts tying up to your dock at this shithole?” Jimmy pushed a bit harder.
Cyrus jerked his eyes to Jimmy and away from Kate’s breasts for the first time since she entered his office.
Kate took advantage, stood up straight again, inhaled deeply and said, “I bet your friend will call back, or maybe he’s expecting a call from you. We sure would like to talk to him.” She purred. Cyrus snapped his attention back to Kate.
“Is he going to call you, or you going to call him?” Jimmy pressed. “Which is it?” Cyrus’ attention snapped back to Jimmy.
“There might be a reward.” Kate continued. Cyrus’ attention snapped back to Kate.
“Big one!” Jimmy exclaimed.
“Or there might not.” Kate leaned forward onto the counter again, a pouty little frown on her face. “That would be a shame.” Cyrus’ attention was bouncing between Kate and Jimmy with every word. First an implied threat, then a visual reward. Repeat as necessary.
“Why wouldn’t there be a reward?” Cyrus was interested.
“Because if those Federal cops outside catch him without you, they won’t need you anymore, Silly.” Still leaning over the counter, she continued her pouty face and voice. “Then, they just put you in jail, and throw away the key.” Kate stood straight again, breathed in deeply, and pantomimed locking her mouth with an imaginary key, and tossing it over her shoulder.
“Ain’t no law against docking a yacht for a week. “Jimmy spoke up. ”Tell you what, let’s call him together. Get this party started on a good note instead of a bad one. Good things come to good people, Cyr
us. Early bird gets the worm.” Jimmy encouraged.
“Okay.” Cyrus removed the cell phone from his pocket, and handed it to Kate. Bobby Lee had already paid him in advance. No law against docking a boat for a week, like the man said. Might as well make some more money from the Feds.
Kate smiled her very best come hither smile, as she accepted the phone. “Don’t go anywhere, Cyrus, We’ll be right back.” She murmured.
Jimmy preceded Kate out the door and down the steps, mainly so Kate could watch him to prove he wasn’t looking where he shouldn’t, but in the process, she gave the officers waiting by the SUV’s a full view. Jimmy had already gotten an eyeful during Kate’s performance inside, and now the officers received the same. Jimmy jogged down the stairs, retrieved Kate’s garments, turned and held them out to Kate, his chin up and eyes looking at the sky. Kate donned her jacket, and put her bra in her pocket.
“I hate you, Jimmy Falcone. Again.”
“Yeah, well. It could always be worse, and someday it will be.” Jimmy answered, still looking skyward. “So, hang on to the friends you have, no matter what their faults. Someday, they will have no reason to still like you, other than long standing habit. Stay with me, Kate. You may not like me very much right now, but I will always have your back.”
Kate turned to look at Jimmy, who met her eyes with his. Somehow, she knew he spoke the truth. She nodded curtly, and started towards the officers.
Fifty feet away, Chris, Beth, and Trooper Charlie had witnessed Kate’s wardrobe preparations, and her titillating exit from the office and bounce down the stairs. They stood speechless as Kate and Jimmy rejoined them. Chris and Trooper Charlie looked dumbfounded, their eyes wide and eyebrows raised almost to the line of their matching crewcuts. Beth grinned from ear to ear.
Kate handed the cell phone to Chris, holding her jacket closed with the other hand. ”Here’s Cyrus’ phone. That hill jack agreed to call Swagart along with you to pin his location.”
“Correction, he’s a red neck, not a hill jack.” Jimmy pontificated. There are no mountains or hills in South Florida, that’s why they’re called rednecks. Hill jacks are in the southern mountains. I researched it for a story I was doing on why southern politicians are all inbred.”
The male officers were speechless. Chris took the phone from Kate, staring at it in his hand as if was a foreign object. Beth laughed out loud at her stupefied colleagues, stepped towards Kate, and hooked her arm with hers.
“Come with me girlfriend, I’ll stand guard while you put yourself back together.” Beth walked with Kate to the SUV, chuckling. “That was fucking amazing. How many of your PhD colleagues know how to do THAT?”
“Not many, and the one’s that do are mostly male. That tell you anything?”
“Ha! Kate, I’ll work with you any damn day of the week. You are officially, now, and forever more, on my A list.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Key West, Florida
Shortly after his very brief conversation with the sketchy local who left to retrieve a weapon, Sherrod had displaced to a coffee shop across the street, where he could watch the entrance to the bar. The local thug told Sherrod to wait, while he retrieved a handgun from wherever people like him kept them hidden, but accessible. It was now fully dark, the streets lit by streetlights spaced along the main drag, and ambient light from display windows from the businesses along the avenue and side streets. The coffee shop and bar were both on a side street. Sherrod ordered a meal. Breakfast sounded good. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. As he ate, he took stock of his situation.
Bobby Lee was on the run, as was he. The boatyard was out. Cuba was still a possibility, but the chances of success were quickly slipping away with each passing hour. The Key was swarming with cops and Feds. What he did have in his favor surprised even himself. He was no longer afraid. It was as if he had hit a light switch. Since beginning his run for freedom, he was a puppet on Bobby Lee’s string. Shoved around, insulted, pissed on, and threatened. That was all over. What had Walter White on that TV show Breaking Bad said to his wife? “You act as if I’m in danger. I am the danger.” Now, he thought of himself as dangerous, and therefore he was.
Forty-five minutes passed, then an hour, when the gunrunner named Sam appeared. As Sherrod had suspected, he was accompanied by two large unsavory characters. They had a brief conversation at the head of the side street, then split up. Sam walked towards the bar entrance, and entered. One of his pal’s walked past the bar, and took a position leaning against the wall twenty feet south of the entrance. The second thug took a position across the street, twenty feet to the north of the bar entrance. Their plan looked pretty simple. Complete the transaction in the bar. Sam stays put while Sherrod exits. No matter which way he turns, a thug is waiting to snatch the suitcase. The “gun” would undoubtedly not be operational, as handing a loaded gun to the man you intend to rob wouldn’t be wise. If he resisted in any way, they would kill him.
Sherrod watched a few minutes, rose and made for the rear restrooms of the coffee shop. In a narrow hallway, there were three doors, the men’s room, ladies room, and a rear exit with a sign that claimed to sound an alarm when opened. He knew this was not true. He had watched an employee leave with an arm load of garbage bags bound for the dumpster through this very door. He silently exited the coffee shop into the rear alley.
Sherrod stashed his suitcase full of money behind the dumpster, covering it with a random piece of cardboard, and looked around for something he could use as a weapon. After some rummaging around several dumpsters in the alley, he found an 18” piece of steel pipe with a coupling on one end. He carried the pipe by his right leg away from street traffic, and headed north towards the well-lit main drag. He turned right, and headed towards the side street and waiting thug. Just another tourist strolling the streets.
At the head of the side street, he paused to locate the position of his assailant, spotting him. He slipped around the corner clinging to the wall to close the distance. The thug was twenty feet away, his head turned towards the bar entrance. Sherrod approached quietly, his head down. The thug glanced in his direction, then turned back to watch the bar. He swung the pipe like a little leaguer trying to smack the ball out of the park, catching the thug squarely behind the ear. The would be robber collapsed in a heap. Sherrod quickly dropped the pipe, and ran his hands along the unconscious man’s waistline. There it was. He pulled a 9mm from his belt, checked the magazine, replaced it in the weapon, and slid the gun into his belt under his shirt. He stood, turned back towards the main street. He strolled like any tourist back to the alley to retrieve his suitcase. Transaction complete. Bobby Lee was a good role model for his current circumstances.
Sherrod continued his meandering stroll through the streets of Key West, looking for a place to hole up. Motels were out. Flop houses were likewise out, as he would be a target for whatever anyone presumed was in the suitcase, even a clean pair of underwear or socks. The weather was pleasant, a cool evening breeze brought the smell of the ocean.
Soon, he arrived at a marina, one of Key West’s many. He stopped at the head of the pier, found a bench, and sat. There was little coming and going from the boats and yachts, but some. It was just past 8:00 PM, and the cheerful boat owners and passengers were leaving their craft to head to the bars and nightlife of Key West. He watched and waited. Hours passed. A few boaters returned after enjoying dinner. It was the later crowd he was most interested in. Several more hours passed, and more late night revelers returned in handfuls, staggering onto the pier trying to reach their boat without falling into the water. He waited. At last, a lone boater stumbled towards the pier. Sherrod rose as he approached, and began to stagger and stumble right along his side.
“How ya’ doing, partner?” Sherrod called out in a fake drunken voice.
“Great. How bout chew?” The drunk boater replied.
“I think I was overserved.”
“Ha! Me too! That’s some crazy shit goin’ on up there!�
� the drunk leaned on Sherrod’s shoulder to steady himself.
“I can’t find my boat.” Sherrod remarked. “It was here this morning.”
“Yeah? Mine too.” The drunken boater hiccupped loudly.
“What’s the name of your boat? Maybe I can help you find her?”
“She Got the House.”
Not fully understanding, Sherrod asked again, “What’s the name of your boat?”
“She-Got-the-House! that bitch. That’s my boat’s name, cause that’s what happened. The house, the furniture, the kids and the fucking dog. She got everything, but I got the boat and the Key West condo.” The boater was on a rant.
“Why don’t we head to your condo?” Sherrod asked hopefully. That would be a perfect place to hole up.
“Is too far, an I’m too drunk. Boat’s closer. Here it is.” The drunk staggered in the direction of a 65-foot cabin cruiser, aptly named. They made it to the ladder stairs, but there was no way the boater was going to climb those by himself. Sherrod started him up one rung at a time, standing on the rung just behind him gripping the handrails tightly, as the drunk fell back against him with each step. One rung from the top, Sherrod calculated the drunk’s center of gravity was higher than the railing, and gave his new host a shove. The boater went over head first, did an involuntary flip, and landed on his back. Sherrod ascended the last rung, paused to look at his new host spread eagle on the boat deck. The boater called out with arms raised, “Honey, I’m home!” proving once again the scientific theory that falling drunks rarely injure themselves seriously.
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